“Sabeeha Baji, let me ask you. . .. ,” Uzma Jafri said. “I cannot address you as Sabeeha or my lips will burn.”
Uzma and Zaiba had me as a guest on their podcast ‘Mommying While Muslim.’
Uzma is in her early forties.
I happen to be in my late sixties—very late sixties.
So why can’t she call me by my name? Why add Baji?
If you or your parents are from the subcontinent—India/Pakistan/Bangladesh—you know exactly what I am talking about. But don’t stop reading.
Baji is an Urdu word for ‘elder sister.’ You know what Urdu is, right? If not, ask Ms. Google. I am in too much of a rush to explain.
I am not Uzma’s elder sister. In fact, the first time we met was this week, and that too in virtual space for the podcast recording.
So why is she calling me Baji? She is the product of the culture her parents brought with them when they migrated from the subcontinent.
Growing up in Pakistan, I never addressed an elder by their name. Elder being defined as: anyone born before you were born. Even if she was just one year older than me, I called her Baji. So how did I know that she was older? If she was a grade ahead of me in school (or more). It was the culture of respect for the elder. It was considered rude to call any elder by their name. If he or she was a contemporary, it was Baji for girls and Bhai Jan (dear brother) for boys. When I protested and cried discrimination—why is the term ‘dear’ reserved only for boys—my grandmother instructed all my siblings and younger cousins to call me ‘Baji Jan.’ To this day, that honorific endures. I am their Baji Jan.
Anyone who was our parents’ age, we addressed them as auntie and uncle. It could be the cashier at the store, the mailman, or a cop on the street; if he or she was old enough to be your father or mother, you called them auntie or uncle. In their absence, we referred to them as Mr. Kareem or Mrs. Kareen and that too to identify which uncle or auntie we were talking about. We never knew the first names of the aunties. We didn’t have to. They were either auntie or Mrs. whoever.
Our grandparents’ contemporaries were called Naana and Naani.
Teachers were called Miss Saadia or Sir Omar (knighted or not).
Bosses were referred to as Sir, or Mr., or Mrs.
Never ever call an elder by their name.
And then I end up in the United States of America.
I first encountered my change of status when my husband’s friends–male friends—addressed me as Bhabi. i.e. ‘my brother’s wife.’ Some Urdu speaking men when meeting me for the first time, or even second time, will call me Sabeeha Bayhen. Translated: ‘Sister Sabeeha’. Not as in ‘nun’, but as in: ‘you are like a sister to me’, re-affirming the boundaries of male/female social interaction.
The first time my five-year old son’s friend called me ‘Sabeeha’, I was mortified. When our neighbor’s son said to my husband, “What is your name?”, he said, “Call me uncle.”
“But what’s your name?”
“Just call me uncle.”
“Why can’t I call you by your name?”
Khalid couldn’t bring himself to allow that. He walked in and said to me: “You know, Matthew wanted to call me by my name! I understand that this is the culture, but I can’t have a child calling me Khalid.”
It didn’t end there.
At work, he always referred to his boss as Dr. Bloomfield. Everyone else called him Dennis.
“You can call me Dennis,” he once said to Khalid.
“I can’t,” and then went on to explain why.
He understood. He had noticed that pattern among the doctors of Pakistani/Indian descent. Khalid is now in his seventies. Last year he met Dr. Bloomfield at my book reading in Staten Island for the first time in a decade.
“Hello Dr. Bloomfield.” He smiled. He didn’t say, ‘Call me Dennis.’
I had the same problem at work. One day my boss walked into my office, sat down, and said to me, “What is this Mr. Jamison thing. Just call me Ted.”
“O.K. Mr. Jamison.”
I never could call him Ted. If I did, my lips would burn. So, I’d skirt it, skip addressing him, and get right to: ‘hello, how are you.’
Like Uzma, our children were born and raised here, in the U.S. They inherited the Pakistani values and traditions—like Uzma—so all the first-generation Pakistani/Indian men and women—now in their forties—call me auntie or Baji. The irony is that I have evolved. After all, it’s been almost fifty years.
Last year I was attending an op-ed writing class given by the renowned Wajahat Ali. I raised my hand to ask a question.
“Auntie,” he acknowledged me. I gasped. My teacher calling me auntie!
Another time I was listening to a lecture by an imam. I asked a question.
“Thank you, auntie, for the question . . . “
Gasp!
P.S.: When the moderator of our Writing Circle listened to the podcast, he kept wondering why Uzma kept calling me Sabeeha Baji; and why was I not correcting her and telling her that my last name is not Baji, it’s Rehman. Now he knows.
For the podcast Mommying While Muslim: Muslim American Immigrant Identity
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