Between Realms

Between Realms

The moonlight hung over Karachi. The air was devoured by spices. Saris were glistening, music was playing, people were laughing, and that’s when I saw them. At the corner table sat a small group of American men in blue and gray suits with luscious red and black ties. As they sipped their cold chai, they marveled at the extravagance of the wedding, talking quietly amongst themselves. I remember wondering what they were saying. Then, the music intensified and the young women began to twirl and gracefully lift their decorated hands toward the sky. They danced as though in a scene from a fairy tale. The beat of the drums moved faster than ever, and the sweet sound of flutes and sitars sharpened. The women had beautiful golden mendhi flower decorations imprinted upon their gentle hands, from their finger tips down their palms, each lotus blossoming out of another. My focus shifted towards them, but only temporarily. I glanced back at the Americans and saw one of them drop his jaw the same way a hawk catches its prey: quickly. I couldn’t believe it. Why was he shocked? Before that very moment, I had never realized what little familiarity the West had with the East.

When I look back at this event, I see myself as a prisoner enduring life within a dark cell. I had been warped into believing that everyone knew what I knew, and that everyone learned pretty much the same things. I was wrong. The moment I saw that American’s ghostly expression, I felt embarrassed. Why hadn’t I realized that each household held within it its own world? I was the ignorant one.

When I returned to the United States, I flipped through my history textbook searching for answers, looking for a clear sign of the East. Unfortunately, all I found was a small chapter on India’s Mughal rule. Hinduism wasn’t even mentioned, nor was there anything about India’s culture. The words just sat there: They meant nothing. No longer embarrassed, I was now immensely