A Suitable Girl

The dress code in rural Pakistan was strict and suffocating. Yards of fabric draped over every inch of me and wound tight. Veils, shawls, headscarves, all in the broiling summer heat. On one trip I sat in a hostel and picked out the stitches of my hemmed trousers--they weren't long enough to hide my ankles, and the extra half-inch of ragged former hem might save me from offending.

All day long sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging them, and the layers of clothes clung to my sweating skin. Trying to take photos with a backpack and camera strap tugging at my shoulders constantly entailed readjusting the shawls and scarves.

A young, friendly Pakistani woman was with me all one day. In the evening, as I looked forward to shedding many skins in the privacy of the hostel, she asked me to dinner at her family's home.

I wanted to go but was hesitant, thinking they'd have to cook something for a guest at the last minute. "Are you really sure?" I asked. "Will it be OK with your parents?" The cooking, the cleaning, the guest tablecloth...

"Oh yes," she assured me. "They are very broad-minded."