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Sughra felt like she had been on the patio for an eternity, sweating and feeling bile rise into her throat. She knew there was nothing left in her stomach. For the last five minutes, she had just been spitting sour tasting saliva on the floor. Had it been five minutes? Hours? She had lost track of time.

She was too weak and tired to immediately get up after rinsing her mouth. Slowly, as the sky outside was still dark and littered with stars, she cleaned the patio floor and showered. She thanked the heavens for the faucet on the patio had miraculously started working at all hours of the day. There were no more trips downstairs to lug garhas full of water so she would have enough water to cook and clean with.

She dragged herself to the bedroom where Ahmad was still snoring softly. She nudged him and pulled the covers off his face.
“Wake up. It’s time to pray,” she said.
He said something incoherent and turned over on his stomach. She made an impatient noise and nudged him again, a little more forcefully this time.
“Wake up, I tell you. You are going to be late for the namaz. It’s almost dawn!”

This time he turned over one more time and crawled under the covers.
“Stop being a child! I am going to pray in the front room. You better wake up and go to the mosque at the darbar. I shall pray and read the Koran and you are a grown man, after all, and I am not your mother, God forbid,” she half yelled, half cried, and stormed out of the room.
Sughra followed her daily ritual of offering the Morning Prayer and reciting the Koran in a loud, clear voice until the sun streaked the sky in shades of red and orange. Birds started cackling relentlessly outside the many windows of her house and the rooster had long since announced the arrival of dawn.

She closed her copy of the Koran and put it on a high ledge in the front room before walking into her tiny kitchen and taking some grains out of a large canister. She climbed the small staircase to the rooftop and put the grains in the small bird feeder that she had crafted herself. As she had expected, there was still enough water in it. She sat on a broken chair by the bird feeder and fretted over her husband’s laziness.
“Now, they say he is the gaddi-nasheen. They say he is a miracle worker, do they not? They send me rolls of fabrics, and bags of the best sweet-tasting walnuts. Now, they say if he prays for them, they will be healed because he is the descendent of the Prophet. Now, then! They are just feeble-minded, I say! They cannot reason, for he stays in bed and cannot give up the comfort of warmth and sleep to even offer his prayers. Now then, how can he be divine? Feeble-minded, feeble-minded people, I tell you!” She fiercely wiped the tears in the corners of her eyes with the edge of her dopatta and began to walk downstairs.
“Now I must cook breakfast for the divine one. Hmph!” she muttered angrily as she opened the door. She could hear Ahmad showering on the patio. She had already laid out his clothes the night before, so she walked silently into the kitchen.

She cooked eggs in butter because the smell of ghee still bothered her, and she had asked Ahmad weeks ago to switch to white bread for the duration of her pregnancy. She could not bear to cook parathas in desi ghee everyday. He complained, but agreed when she snapped, “So then you want me to vomit all over your parathas every morning?”

She brought the breakfast outside. Eggs, buttered bread, yogurt and fresh lassi, and she had just put a kettleful of water to boil for tea. Ahmad was already sitting on the small rug where they usually ate.
“Hmm. I am hungry and I must leave early today. The annual festival of the darbar is only two weeks away. There is still so much to do. There are so many vendors who want to set up their stalls outside the darbar for this year’s Urs. There will be all kinds of food and flower stands, and you would never believe, Sughi! People are coming all the way from Karachi and Hyderabad to bring their offerings. I say, make room in your trunks. You are the wife of the gaddi-nasheen. They will give you clothes and food, and God only knows what else. And then, just you wait until word gets around about the baby,” he chuckled to himself.
“What about the baby?” she asked seriously.
“He will be the next gaddi-nasheen, now won’t he? People will bring all kinds of gifts so they can be blessed,” he said.
“What did you say? They think they will be blessed because they bring gifts for an unborn child?” she asked, a hint of anger seeping into her voice.
“Well, then! He is not just a child! He is the next gaddi-nasheen! He is the gaddi-nasheen’s son, mad girl!” he said and smiled at her.
“Who said my son will follow this custom?” she spat the words at him.
“What do you mean? There is no question of following the custom, Sughi. This is our family’s legacy. You know it. And I will warn you to address this custom, which puts food in your belly, and feeds the life growing inside you, more respectfully. I am a patient man, but my patience has its limits,” said Ahmad seriously.
“Well, then! These people, your followers, your mureeds, as you like to call them, they spend their money, and bring you gifts because your prayers will be answered more readily than theirs?” she asked quietly.
“Now, they are not all descendents of the Prophet, are they? They don’t have Syed blood running in their veins, do they?” he said and went back to his breakfast.
“So you are telling me that a man who really prays five times a day all year, raises a family by actually working hard, doing manual labor for example, is less likely to have his prayers answered, as opposed to the mighty gaddi-nasheen sitting in front of me, who misses his morning prayer three or four times a week just because he is that lazy, and who is eating eggs right now that are actually paid by some poor man who is too dim-witted to know that the gaddi-nasheen is really not all that spiritual at all?” she said angrily.

Ahmad stared at his eggs for a long moment. He looked up with his eyes wildly angry, and slammed the piece of bread that he was holding in his hand on the plate.
“You are my wife. You don’t get to question me, ever. Do you understand that? You are not my friend. Stay out of these matters. This is my heritage you are talking about. My father did this, as did his father before him. What do you know about tradition? You, with a home and a history that is probably already destroyed by people in India. You, who doesn’t have any written proof of the past of your family. Do you realize what you have insulted right now? You have insulted my life, as I know it. You have insulted my forefathers. You have insulted my heritage! Don’t you dare, don’t you ever dare to speak to me like that about my history.” Ahmad was shaking with an uncontrollable anger.
“Will you open your ears to what you are saying?” asked Sughra in anger and desperation.
“Be quiet, woman!”
“Why, because I am telling you that this tradition is not religious? This tradition, this so-called heritage of yours is a money making scheme!”

“Sughra, don’t make me do what I might regret later,” said Ahmad very quietly.
“What will you do? You will hit me. Isn’t that another one of your mighty man-made traditions?”

“Shut up!”

“Why, because I tell you the truth? Listen to me. I will not let my son get involved in this convoluted, feudal system, do you understand me? Allah created every man equal. We don’t need gaddi-nahseens to get our prayers answered. What have you done to be religious?”

“I think you should stop talking now, Sughi! Now!” yelled Ahmad. But Sughra did not seem to hear him. Her eyes were shining with some indescribable emotion. Her words were full of pain and anger.
“Have you ever gone out and worked hard with your two hands? You get money, food, everything because people think that you are divine, and if you pray for them, their prayers will be answered. You don’t even offer your own prayers, how are you going to pray for them? I will not let my son be this person who feeds off of others. He will earn an honest living like my brothers do, like my father did until the day he died!”

Ahmad slammed the plates on the floor.
“Shut up now, or we will both regret this. My son will be the son of Ahmad Shah, who is the gaddi-nasheen of the darbar of Shah-Abu-ul-Muwali, the Great One, the miracle worker, the religious scholar. And you are my wife, a woman of my house. Get a hold of your tongue before it is too late,” said Ahmad.
“I will not! This is wrong. You are feeding off of others, and I will not accept these clothes and food offerings. What have I done to deserve them after all? And you keep talking about your son. What if it is a girl, I ask you? Are you going to bury her alive like the Arabs did before Islam? After all, you are following a very primitive, tribal sort of custom here, aren’t you, my mighty gaddi-nasheen?”

Ahmad got up and whirled a clay garha on the floor breaking it into many sharp pieces. Sughra kept sitting on the floor, her mouth set in a grim frown.
“I am a strong woman, gaddi-nasheen! My parents raised me well. I worked in fields with my father in India. I will not be scared by the sound of a breaking garha! Hit me, if you want, and I shall stand my ground!”
Ahmad walked over to the door.
“I am not a weak man, Sughi,” he said quietly. “I would never dream of hitting you. But I would not have you disrespect my heritage. Never say those words to me again or I might choose my rage over reason.”

He opened the door and hesitated. “And if we have a daughter, I will raise her to be a strong woman like her mother. And I will find a good home for her. I am not a weak man, Sughi, and it pains me to know that this is how you think of me after all this time,” said Ahmad sadly and stepped out.

Sughra stared at the broken garha, the water seeping into her rug, the eggs overturned on the floor, and she burst into tears.
Ahmad walked sullenly to the darbar. Many people greeted him reverently as he made his way through the narrow street. He saw the old, toothless florist at the entrance of the darbar with his son and grandson. He smiled at Ahamd and whispered something to his grandson. The little boy ran towards him with a string of roses. He touched Ahmad’s knees as a symbol of respect.
“Here are some flowers for you, Murshad,” he said respectfully. He had used Ahmad’s title, Murshad, which meant that he was a religious scholar who guided people in their spiritual quest. Sughra’s words hit him again like a storm. What had he done to be given this respect and honor? He had slept until the day was young, and this boy had probably been at the stand with his father and grandfather trying to make an honest living. These people would make many offerings to him in the coming weeks as the day of the Urs came closer, and in that moment, Ahmad couldn’t bear that thought.
He walked into the darbar feeling like a common thief. Why did she say all those terrible things? Was he a criminal for following in the footsteps of his forefathers? For preserving the rich history of his family? For protecting the honor of his name? His thoughts were interrupted as many men greeted him. There was a group of travelers sitting on the floor of the inner court. He made his way to this group.

As soon as he entered the court the travelers stood up and greeted him respectfully, touching his knees. They had many gifts bundled up in beautiful cloth hampers.
“Here are some fresh apples, Murshad. I just picked them from an orchard I am working in,” said one and handed a bundle to him.
“Here is a carpet that my wife and daughters made themselves,” said another.
“Please pray that I am blessed with a son, Murshad. I am under the burden of five daughters. The eldest is of marrying age, but I do not have enough money to have a wedding for her,” said an old one.

Ahmad was overwhelmed with all of these requests and offerings. Ordinarily, he had no trouble with the travelers. They came, offered their respects, and he prayed for all of them at the end of the early afternoon prayer. But today he was out of sorts. Sughra’s words kept haunting him. “She is right. What have I done to deserve this honor, this respect?” he kept thinking.

The travelers were gathered around his feet. One man who was old enough to be his father was massaging Ahmad’s feet, insisting that it was an honor to touch the gaddi-nasheen’s feet. Another man was weeping as he held Ahmad’s hand, because his wife was dying, and he had left her bedside to beg the gaddi-nasheen to pray for her health.
“Please stop, all of you,” said Ahmad quietly.
“We did not mean to offend you, Murshad. Forgive us,” said one man, bowing his head.
“No, no, please I cannot accept these offerings. You are all men of God. Pray for your homes yourself, and God will listen,” said Ahmad.
“No, Murshad. Forgive us, forgive us! Our offerings are modest. We will bring more. Please pray for us. We are poor men. We have made a long journey. Forgive us, please,” begged one of the travelers.

Ahmad felt a deep disgust for himself. He did not deserve these pleas. He did not deserve this respect. He stood up.
“Listen to me, travelers! You are pious men. And I respect you. Keep your offerings or distribute them to the poor who can make use of them. Let’s walk to the outer courtyard and pray to Allah so He may bless us all,” he said.
“God bless you, Murshad. God bless you!” they said together and walked out into the sun to pray.

“Have you gone mad, Brother?” asked Maratab Shah with a disturbed expression on his face.

Ahmad was sitting with his brothers in the dera as the sky was getting streaked with red and orange and birds were chirping incessantly. He wished he could be done with this conversation and go home to his wife. She would at least appreciate, if not applaud his decision that his brothers were showing a stubborn resistance to.

It had been a week of turmoil for Ahmad since the fight. Everyday he went to the darbar, thinking and rethinking the meaning of his life, the teachings that had been descended to him from the Elders. He did not speak to Sughra without necessity. They maintained a cordial dialogue with each other, partly out of habit and partly out of the need to talk to each other.
“Here is your breakfast,” she would say, and he would grunt in response.
“I am leaving then,” he would call out from the door, and she would grunt in response. It was their dance of sorts, each stepping carefully around the other’s feet so as not to disturb the peace of the house, and more importantly to not cause anymore pain by stepping over a foot that may already be hurting.

Some nights he heard her soft sniffles muffled by the pillow and he became angry and sad at the same time. Here was this woman who had everything she could ever need, and a husband who let her talk to him the way no woman in his home had ever talked to a man. Yet she cried over something that was deemed to be his destiny even before he was born. Being the gaddi-nasheen was something he was born to do. Or was he?

Doubt had started to creep into his formerly clear conscience. Every day he returned gifts upon gifts that travelers brought from far away places. Just two days ago, a man had come all the way from Hyderabad whose wife was with child. He wanted Ahmad to pray for a son. He brought him beautiful rolls of Kathaan silk and small gold earrings for Sughra. Ahmad felt a sharp whip of guilt upon seeing the things that he was being presented with. Here was a man who had probably worked hard all year round and saved enough money to come to the Urs. And rather than eating a good meal everyday, he probably survived on daal for many months so that he could bring presents for the gaddi-nasheen. “A money making scheme” Sughra had called it. Was she so wrong?

Day after day he felt an aversion to the respect and humility with which the visitors and locals greeted him. He felt guilty for being ascribed with honors that he had done absolutely nothing to earn. For the first time in his life, Ahmad began to realize that he did not hold the license to go to heaven just because of his family name. With this realization came the beginning of a resolve, which morphed into the decision that he was now reporting to his two brothers. As he had expected, they were treating it as The Calamity itself, God forbid.
“I have given it a lot of thought,” said Ahmad.
“How much thought exactly?” asked Asghar Shah, Ahmad’s youngest brother.
“Well, I started thinking about it some days ago. A week or two perhaps,” said Ahmad.
“You have lost your mind,” said Maratab Shah.
“Are you hungry? Maybe we should talk over dinner,” said Asghar.
“No, I have made up my mind. After the Urs, I will find a job. I will not be a gaddi-nasheen anymore. I will still look after the Great One’s tomb, but I will not accept any offerings,” said Ahmad.
“Do you hear yourself, brother? This is our family tradition you are talking about? Who put these ideas into your head?” said Maratab getting angry.
“I have made up my mind, and this is my decision. I will not continue this tradition. This Urs will be my last as gaddi-nahseen,” said Ahmad with finality in his words.
“You do not have the right to give up our history like this,” said Asghar.
“There will be no giving up. If you will not be the gaddi-nasheen, then I will carry on the family tradition,” said Maratab.
“That is your wish. But I have made up my mind,” said Ahmad.
“Think about it, Brother! This is all we know. This is what you were raised to become,” said Maratab.
“And I am saying that it is wrong! Neither I nor my son will be involved in this tradition. You can continue it if you wish, but do not push me, Maratab. This is my final word!” said Ahmad.
“Have a care, gaddi-nasheen,” said Maratab almost ominously.
“I am not the gaddi-nasheen anymore, Syed Maratab Shah,” said Ahmad and walked away from his brothers to his home. He had never felt this misunderstood in his life. Then again, he had never felt so right in his life either. There were miles and eons separating him from his brothers. But he now had something more to think about, and he owed someone very important in his life, a very big apology.

Ahmad walked into the front room and took off his shoes. He smelled the thick aroma of desi ghee. Dinner was already laid on the rug, and as far as he could tell, it was all made with ghee. Sughra emerged from the kitchen carrying a small bowl of yogurt and looking a little green. Her eyes were bloodshot and looked too big for her face.

Ahmad sat down on the rug across from Sughra. He touched her hand tentatively. “You didn’t have to do this, you know,” he said.
“Do what? What are you talking about?” she asked not looking at him.
“You didn’t have to cook with ghee,” he said.
“I didn’t do you any favors,” she said.
“I want to say something,” he said.
“Since when do you need permission?” she asked sullenly.
“I will not be gaddi-nasheen after the Urs,” he said without pre-empts.
“What did you say?” asked Sughra staring at him.
“I talked to my brothers. You are right. I am sorry. I did not understand what you were trying to tell me. I still do not understand completely, but enough to know right from wrong. I will not be able to give up everything completely. I cannot be a different person from who I was raised to be. But, my hand to God, I will try. For you, for our son or our daughter, for the little person soon to be born, I will try,” said Ahmad.
Sughra was weeping silently.
“Maratab and Asghar do not understand. They think something is wrong with me. Maratab will probably take over all the responsibilities after me, and I will try to look for a job. I will become a manual laborer if that makes you happy, and I think it will make me happy too,” he said.
“I am sorry,” said Sughra.
“Don’t be. You were right. I will try to learn and change,” he said.
“No, I am happy about that. I am very happy. But, I am sorry I have to leave,” said Sughra, crying even more.
“Why? Where? What are you saying?” he asked, his voice quivering with panic.
“I have to go throw up. This ghee is making me sick,” she said and rushed to the patio.