November 6, 2011

I heard steps on the staircase, the voices of children and then knocks on my door. By the time I put my robe on and opened the doors, they were flying down the steps and then I recalled what my colleague had said about celebrating Little Eid. It turns out to be a combination of three of our holidays: Tajiks dye eggs as we do for Easter, children are equipped with a gift bag so they can go door-to-door collecting candy as we do for Halloween and then they have a feast at home for which an array of cakes, candy, nuts, fried dishes, soups, plov and tea awaits the numerous friends and relatives that go from house to house to sample them.

I had arranged to meet with one of my students, Zohir, at 10:00am so we could go to his uncle’s house and celebrate the holiday. As I walked through my now favorite alleyway, I saw lots of older men in their ankle-length coats and traditional hats out and about receiving their visitors who were arriving carrying bags with sweets or other presents. This time, the gates were open thus affording me a tantalizing gaze into the private courtyards as children made their way in to collect candy and boiled eggs.

Zohir handed me an egg upon greeting, but was unable to explain the significance of the gesture. I then learned that we were going to another one of my students’ house prior to visiting his uncle. The mini-van we needed kept passing us fully loaded with passengers and I offered to pay for a taxi just so we weren’t wasting time, but he refused. Two mini-van rides later, we arrived at a place far outside the city and closer to the mountains which today were in full display as there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. Bahruz was waiting for us dressed in a running suit, which I found a bit incongruous since Zohir was wearing his regular suit.

                                                    Zohir and Bahruz

We walked through a muddy trail, passing through a cemetery, the first one I've ever seen, and arrived at his family’s compound where I was received like a guest of honor and immediately taken to the room where all the food was on display. His mother is my age, yet looked much older after giving birth to six girls and three boys. I declined the full meal and agreed to have a bowl of soup, a piece of cake and some tea. The father emphasized to me how much he wanted his son to become fluent in English so he can have a better job in the future. Bahruz speaks but a few words of English and understand none of it as of now.

                        Cemetery in what looks like an overgrown and forgotten field

Back on another mini-van and then the trolley to Zohir’s uncle’s house where I learned he lived on the ninth floor of an apartment building without an elevator. The family appeared happy to see me and first took me to an empty room where I sat on the cushion trying to have a conversation with Bahruz and then the women of the house came for me and took me to the room where the uncle sat in front of the food display regally attired in a Nehru jacket, leather pants and even boots as apparently the patriarch is released from the duty of removing his shoes. He refused to have his photo taken shielding his decision behind his religious tenets and let me know through Zohir that he understood English perfectly well. I had to drink two bowls of soup, one of which did not even have salt, another piece of cake and tea.

                                               Food display at Bahruz' house

Zohir’s cousin’s wife has a six-month baby and she showed the beautiful cradle where he lay and then uncovered the poor thing who was completely rigid swathed by different pieces of fabric as if in a straight jacket. She explained this was done to prevent the baby from scratching himself. More amazing yet was the wooden contraption covering his penis which she explained allowed his urine to flow into a basin underneath the cradle and thus keeping the baby from necessitating diapers, cloth or otherwise. It seemed very ingenious, but I am not sure how comfortable the baby was.

Another ride in a mini-van through parts of the city I had never seen, lots of people trying to get to their destinations and then Zohir was lost. I kept reminder him that I needed to be home by 5:00 so I could prepare to go to Yoomie’s house, but he stubbornly kept saying we needed to make this one last visit as the family had been told of my impending arrival. Another ride in the opposite direction and many phone calls to the student until she arrived in a taxi, took us to another intersection and we got into yet another mini-van. By this time, I was beginning to get angry for I had been up since 5:00am and was just too tired to care for another visit. One more taxi ride into some very rough streets and we arrived at Glaso’s house where her mother and siblings were waiting. Her father works in Russia and she’s one of my students who was granted a scholarship to become an English teacher even thought she has never taken English classes in her village.

There was one more round of soup, cake and tea while Zohir proceeded to do his ablutions and mandatory prayers. I got the feeling he’s sweet on this student as he asked me to take their photograph before the mother returned from the kitchen. I insisted on paying for a taxi so I could go home quickly and I was quoted 70.00 somonis. When Zohir inquired, the price dropped to 20.00.

I made rice and beans for Yoomie’s dinner and was really too tired to enjoy the gathering. Some of those presents seemed to be engaged in a game of upmanship to see who had been where, for how long and how expensive it had been. At least I met Nona, who is working here for a private university, and is interested in my work at the PedInst.

                                          Having dinner at Yoomie's new place