I like describing Lahori culture as a thick, velvety cake which oozes rich frosting as you plunge your knife into it, trying to dissect it…possibly because I really like cake.
More importantly, however, I do think it would be a similar process. The intricate meshwork of our myths, our beliefs, and our superstitions is virtually impossible to trace and unearth. Perhaps it is another one of the magical secrets of the Indian subcontinent, which scores of colonialists and historians have failed to comprehend.
I remember the first time I was exposed to the peculiarity of our local myths, which I later discovered were not alien at all but stemming from the experiences and beliefs of our ancestors. I was five years old, getting ready for a friend’s birthday party. I combed my hair till it gleamed like spun glass and smoothed the folds of my shimmery pastel frock. I smiled at myself in the mirror, with the supreme vanity of a pampered, proud little kindergartner. Exclamations of delight met me as I descended the stairs, inflating my already gargantuan ego. I did not, however, miss the frown on my grandmother’s face. I was even more puzzled when she led me into the kitchen and swirled a fistful of angry, gangling red chilies around my head before tossing them onto a flame. Hurt, confused, and at an utter loss for words, I watched as the chilies sparked in retaliation, and then suffused into smoke and embers. With a dramatic, Sherlock Holmes air about her she gasped, “You see! Just as I had suspected. No odor, no smell at all! It means someone has looked at you with the Evil Eye, but the kind chilies have warded off the Evils. Congratulations, my beautiful princess!” With that astonishing speech, she walked off to continue watching her favorite soap opera, content and smiling.
The Evil Eye, or nazar as it is called, is a common belief in our culture. It is believed that people who look upon others with jealousy or envy in their gaze are capable of causing harm to that person, because they (even unknowingly) create negative forces with sinister motives. Thus my grandmother’s odd ritual was exactly what my grandmother’s grandmother, her grandmother before her, and all our ancestors before that had done every time someone looked especially handsome or lovely, or had gotten into a good university, or had gotten married. The possibilities are endless. It is considered vital to carry out these rituals to protect harmless (but enviable) people from the “dark forces.”
Despite my scoffs and much eye-rolling, my grandparents and parents do not hesitate to demonstrate the importance of myths in our culture. These are the chords which tie us to our ancestors; to our roots. They are the portals to our past, and our identities.
I can’t help wondering, though. Why didn’t the chilies release their usual acrid smell of burning before I headed to Sara’s birthday?
