By Zulfiqar Rashid

There you are, standing in front of a six-foot frying pan. You are in Peshawar, in front of an authentic chappal kabob vendor, and someone has just ordered a six-pack of chappal kabobs. Maybe you should turn around, but you can’t. The creation process you are about to witness is too fascinating to avert your eyes. The mystery of one of the unique tastes of Pakistani cuisine is about to be revealed to you, and you are not going to miss it.

The chef is told to use one and a half ‘pao’ meat in each kabob, and as an after-thought, to add eggs to the kabobs. This makes them ‘special’ chappal kabobs. He takes a handful of meat from a container, and holds it in the air. You wonder what he is up to, then realize he is weighing it. The process is repeated six times. In a rhythmic fashion, various herbs and spices are added to each future kabob. He places them on the frying pan, but very close to himself. The kabobs are not yet ready to be put into the dark liquid bubbling at the other end of the frying pan. You ask yourself if that is the cooking oil, afraid of the only possible answer. You wonder if you could borrow some of it from the chef if your car ran low on motor oil. You notice the kabobs have moved a few inches closer to the chef. Hmmm.

The chef takes out four eggs from somewhere under his seat. They are chicken eggs. In two swift motions that almost appear as one, he breaks the eggs. The eggshells drop their cargo, white and yellow, onto the frying pan. Immediately they begin to cook. The chef pulls out a long, metal spatula and slowly moves the still dazzlingly white eggs towards to other end of the frying pan. You watch as the eggs hesitantly move towards their dark destination, their whiteness gradually overwhelmed by the blackness of the oil. Now, they are black eggs. The chef pulls them back. They eagerly move towards him, or maybe away from the oil, which runs out of the eggs in numerous small rivulets, exposing their real color. You are not prepared for the chef’s next move. He squeezes the rest of the oil out of the eggs with his hands, literally and figuratively, leaving them almost as white as when they came out of the shell. He distributes the eggs to each kabob evenly, and prepares for the last step. Using the spatula, he moves the kabobs, in sets of three, to the other end of the pan. The kabobs have accepted their fate, and slide effortlessly into the dark embrace of the hot liquid. You lose interest, along with the chef, since the kabobs are almost done. You look the brave man who ordered the kabobs in the eye, wish him all the best, and point out to him the plumber shop on the other side of the road.

You move on to the next store to avoid the glare of the chef. What’s this? A ‘sehra’ shop. You stroll in, and stop in your tracks. This can’t be for real. You have seen a ‘sehra’ before. You have seen some with flowers. You have seen some with rupee notes. Maybe even with ten or fifty rupee notes. But this, you haven’t seen this before. This ‘sehra’ has a wall clock in it. An actual wall clock. The thing you use to tell time, except that there is always a wall attached to it.

The ‘sehra’ is amazing. The whole thing is over five feet long and over three feet wide at the bottom. And it is heavy. This would put serious limitations on the size of the ‘dulha’ who could actually sport this little fashion item. Honestly, the only thing a ‘dulha’ could wish for after wearing this thing for a few hours is a good night’s sleep. But he sure would know exactly when he went to sleep and when he got up. You try to find out the motivation behind it. No one is telling. You threaten, or motivate, the shopkeeper with a pint of chappal kabob oil, and he is ready to talk. Apparently the ladies were getting fed up with the gentlemen being late on their weddings. Wristwatches and pocket-watches were obviously not working. So the next logical choice was a wall-clock. But how to remove the wall from the clock? Aha, why not replace the wall with the ‘sehra’. Not only will the men be able to always tell the time, but as an added benefit, they will be too tired to go anywhere but the wedding.

And in case of trouble, just a dash of water at the appropriate place would provide the necessary electrical motivation to keep them in line.

You are amazed at the sophistication of the plan. You go back to the kabob vendor, buy a pint of the oil, and hand it over to the ‘sehra’ vendor. He is happy. It’s time to go home, you think. Maybe you’ll visit some of the ‘latest’ antique shops tomorrow.