The darker side of the Pakistani family

Some well known though less documented facts

A story is told of a Pakistani woman accompanying her son along a village dirt-road. The boy is displaying an adventurous disposition that is quite natural for a five-years-old, but which is irking the mother no end. Every time he fails to conform to his mother’s exacting standards of behavior, she curses his close relatives on the father’s side. (The words she uses to describe the aforementioned can’t be reproduced here.) An old man, who is witness to the spectacle, can’t help asking: ‘How come you have never once mentioned his maternal relatives?’ The story is silent regarding the mother’s response. The old man is either too foolish for his years (which explains his asking such a stupid question), or else, is a sage (the question may have been a rhetorical one) – we will never know which, as the story doesn’t settle this issue.

The story captures an important facet of the otherwise celebrated Pakistani family system. It is often claimed that the support-structure it offers makes this system the envy of the West. What is not usually acknowledged is the fact that the Pakistani family – great as it undoubtedly is – is a complex organism, and there is a darker side to it as well. It is this side that is being documented here for the benefit of the uninitiated.

A general law governing all Pakistani family disputes is this: In every conflict, ‘we’ happen to be in the right, and ‘they’ are inevitably wrong; and God be praised for this wonderful coincidence. But the ‘we’ and the ‘they’ keep on changing – it is my father and brothers against my uncles and cousins; my uncles and cousins against distant relatives; and so on. If, God forbid, it’s a dispute between the parents themselves, the mother and her folks are bound to be is in the right. These are time-tested truths, any attempt to analyze which can lead to loss of faith, or worse. There are no permanent friends or enemies – blood-sisters for example, who in former times were famous for hunting in pairs, are often seen baying for each other’s blood once they find themselves in opposing camps because of changing ‘realities’. The only certainty is that one’s children can do no wrong, unless they are fighting among themselves. In which case, it’s probably black magic.

It must be acknowledged here that the whole truth is far too complex to be explained by this (‘we vs. them’) alone. Enter the shareeka – the complex relationship with those relations who share one’s social status. It is found everywhere, but the Punjabis have made a fine-art of it. Here the ‘we vs. them’ is turned on its head, because one is often secretly rooting for a stranger against, say a first-cousin – though of course one would be going through all the right motions. Schadenfreude is never more delicious than when it is at the cost of a shareek. Similarly, a son (whom one has marked for a career in medicine) not making medical school is a tragedy, but an infinitely more bearable one provided the shareek’s son failed even badly.

Coming to matters of matrimony, sisters are always very eager to find a ‘lovely’ bride for the brother. Many a best friend (sister’s that is) has consequently been elevated to the rank of the bhaabi. The brother’s wedding itself is often a scene of great displays of affection, such as a sister presenting the sister-in-law with her ‘main’ jewelry-set. Best friend or not, this most enthusiastic sister is usually the first person to be declared persona non grata by the ‘lovely’ bhaabi.

Three decades ago, Ian Botham had famously spoken for the world-wide son-in-law community with his, ‘Pakistan is a good place to send your mother-in-law for a vacation – all expenses paid,’ Suffice it to say that the Pakistani mothers-in-law evoke the exact same sentiment from their sons-in-law, provided the destination is changed to any Sub-Saharan African nation. Daughters-in-law have similar feelings for their mothers-in-law, although the ferocious, fierce mother-in-law and the meek, submissive daughter-in-law have for the most part been consigned to the dustbin of history, the result being a much more even contest.

In most Pakistani families, the khaala gets off to a very promising start. She has a number of things going for her, the chief among which is the fact that children spend most amount of time with their mothers. On the other hand, the official bugaboo of the family is the phupo, with the worst press reserved for her – that she tries to control her brother; that she is the interfering type; that she begrudges the success of her nieces; and worse, that for her daughter she has her eyes set squarely on her nephew, and only firm measures can prevent that catastrophe. She has a number of things going against her, the chief among which is the fact that children spend most amount of time with their mothers. However, the situation changes after a few years – not because the phupo ceases to be public enemy number one; but because the khaala too loses her exalted status on account of the changing realities and resulting realignments.

The Pakistani family system takes an especially heavy toll on the man. A good son-in-law is one who dotes on his wife, while a good son is one who keeps his wife strictly in her place (ditto, for a good husband and a good brother). That is why men become bad brothers overnight (if you ask their sisters), and never really come out of the evil effects of their early associations (as the frustrated wife would gladly tell you). Any wonder men are always nostalgic about their bachelor days – the only time in their life when they were uncontroversial?

P.S. Some readers must be thinking that the above isn’t true of their families at all. If you are one such reader, please know that your household constitutes what is referred to in the social-studies circles as an exception. Furthermore, the writer is much obliged to you, because one can hardly overemphasize the importance of exceptions when it comes to proving rules.