A Doll, a Harem, a Eunuch and a Slap

To me my mother’s house is an Aladdin’s cave where the memories of my entire life can be relived through the vast collection of beautiful objects that both she and my father have accumulated during their many years abroad.

An intricately handmade doll acquired in a harem in the Sindh region of Pakistan is a particular favourite of mine. It’s a magnificent piece of handiwork made entirely by a little girl, about eight or nine years old, who had created an exact replica of her own dress for the doll. But it’s the story that goes with the doll that makes it sensational.

My mother, my younger sister Kiki and I had ended up in the harem thanks to Badruddin, a Pakistani colleague and friend of my father’s, who had organized the trip to this remote rural village a couple of hours drive from Karachi. Tribal enmity in the region was rife and worried about his trigger-happy neighbours the tribal chief, on hearing that we were coming, had insisted we accept an armed escort for our protection.  This came in the form of eight bearded and turbaned men in scruffy baggy trousers and oversized shirts, nonchalantly swinging silver decorated rifles over their shoulders. The village could only be reached by four-wheel drive and at the agreed location where the tarmac turned into a hardened dirt road our armed escort stood waiting for us. My sister Kiki and I didn’t fancy having to share the backseat with one of those rather fierce looking men who never made eye contact with a woman. To our relief they attached themselves to the side of our two Jeeps, holding onto the roof railings and standing on the car’s door ledges. One of them banged his hand on the car roof signaling to my father to start driving. In the other car was Badruddin with a German colleague, Willi, and despite there being room in their car the bodyguards opted for the more uncomfortable option of clamping themselves onto the exterior.

After an exceedingly bumpy and uncomfortable half hour drive with very nervous looking men hanging on for dear life to the outside of the car we arrived at what looked like an enormous mud wall. My father slowed down and one of the men jumped from the car and fired his rifle into the air, twice. At once the towering heavy gates to the village swung open and now all the men jumped off the cars and started shooting bullets of joy. Clearly they were relieved we’d arrived safely!

The first to greet us was the Chief. He was a robust, well fed leader of his people who greeted my father and his colleagues enthusiastically revealing red stained teeth caused from chewing beetle nut, a practice much favoured in Pakistan.

Mama, my sister and I were escorted to the women’s quarters, the haram, to meet the women. A dusty mud walled building with a corrugated iron roof with no windows was where the women and the younger children of the village were waiting to greet us. The haram consisted of one huge room, the hardened mud floor covered sparsely with threadbare carpets and beautifully embroidered cushions. A little girl pushed by her mother came forward and handed Mama a beautifully embroidered little doll. She was bending down to thank the little girl when Kiki and I saw a man with an enormous pot belly wearing nothing but a pair of baggy black trousers walk up to our mother and say something to her. My mother who had clearly not heard him did not respond and so he slapped her, hard, on the head.

‘When I felt the smack I turned to see who or what had hit me and was rather surprised to find a half naked man with an enormous brown belly grinning down at me,’ my mother later recalled.

‘My ear was quite sore but judging by his highly pitched voice I realized this must be the harem overseer, a eunuch, who was demanding my respect, so I quickly obliged and shook his hand!’

Our mother then hastened to introduce Kiki and me to him, certain that we otherwise would also be in for a good thrashing.

to be continued….