British-Pakistani poet Moniza Alvi’s “Presents From My Aunts in Pakistan” is an autobiographical poem about growing up caught between cultures. The poem’s speaker looks back on herself as a teenaged girl whose family emigrated from Pakistan to England when she was only a baby. Herself “half-English” (with one English parent and one Pakistani), the speaker doesn’t quite know what to do with the beautiful salwar kameez (traditional South Asian outfits) that her loving aunts send her. To the speaker, these gorgeous garments are at once alluring and alien. They remind her that she doesn’t really remember or understand the country where she was born, but that she’s nonetheless deeply connected to this faraway place and to an extended family that loves her. Alvi first published this poem in her 1993 collection The Country at My Shoulder.
The poem's speaker remembers the salwar kameez (traditional Pakistani garments) her aunts sent her from abroad: one was blue as peacock feathers, and another twinkled like a juicy halved orange. They sent her slippers embroidered in gold and black with pointy curled toes, and striped candy-colored glass bracelets that broke and scratched her. The styles of these clothes, she remembers, changed, just as fashions at her British school changed. First, the trousers were wide and stiff, then they got narrower. When the speaker became a teenager, her aunts honored the occasion by sending her a vibrant green sari with silver hems.
The speaker remembers trying on every silky, satiny top, and feeling out of place in her suburban British living room. She felt that she could never be as beautiful as these clothes, and only wanted to wear everyday British jeans and cords. The elegant clothes clung to her body, and she felt as if she were on fire. She couldn't handle that feeling: she was all too aware that, unlike her Aunt Jamila who sent these presents, she was half-English.
She wanted her parents to give her their camel-skin lamp. When they let her have it and she switched it on in her bedroom, she pondered the cruelty of skinning a camel and the magic that transformed the skin into a lampshade decorated in glowing colors like stained glass.
Her mother, she remembers, treasured her delicate golden Indian jewelry, but it got stolen from their car. Meanwhile, the clothing from the speaker's aunts gleamed in her closet. Her aunts asked her family to send them sweaters from a British department store.
The speaker's salwar kameez didn't impress a schoolfriend who came over one day and asked to see what she wore on the weekends (when she didn't have to wear a school uniform). But the speaker herself often sat and admired the little mirrors sewn into the fabric, trying to catch a peek of herself reflecting in them. While she looked in the mirrors, she would remember the story of how her little family—just her infant self and her parents—emigrated from Pakistan to England. She had heat rash on the way, and screamed with discomfort. She ended up in a crib in her English grandmother's dining room, all alone, playing with a toy boat.
She could only imagine the country where she was born by looking at photographs taken in the 1950s. When she got older, she knew that Pakistan was going through political turmoil, and felt as if she could feel the country's pain through the pages of the newspaper. Sometimes, she pictured Lahore, the city she came from, where her aunts might be sitting in shady rooms, carefully separated from any men who happened to visit, wrapping up presents for her in tissue paper.
Or she might imagine impoverished girls who worked as street sweepers—and she might imagine being among them, without any solid cultural identity, peeking through decorative holes in the elegant walls of a beautiful park.
In “Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan,” Moniza Alvi reflects on the bittersweetness of her Pakistani immigrant experience. Looking back on her teenage years in England (where she and her family emigrated from Pakistan when she was only a baby), Alvi remembers feeling uncomfortably disconnected from her Pakistani heritage, especially when her aunts sent her presents of beautiful traditional clothing.
These “salwar kameez” (outfits consisting of a tunic and trousers, often beautifully embroidered) and “sari[s]” (dresses made from a long, elaborately draped piece of fabric) stun her teenage self with their “satin-silken” beauty. But they also make her feel awkward. As a teenager with no memory of her birthplace, she “long[s] / for denim and corduroy,” the ordinary clothes her English school friends are wearing.
Part of that longing comes from a wish to feel at ease in the only country she’s ever known. Part of it comes from a feeling that she “could never be as lovely” as the clothes her aunts send her. “Half-English” herself, with one English parent and one Pakistani, she feels like she can’t comfortably inhabit the Pakistani side of her identity.
For that matter, her Pakistani extended family itself feels as distant as the version of her who might feel at ease in a salwar kameez. When she tries to imagine the loving aunts who send her these gifts, she can only construct a shadowy impression based on “fifties’ photographs,” pictures from when she was a baby.
Symbolically, then, those lovely clothes suggest a whole Pakistani cultural context, one that the speaker feels as both alluring and “alien.” Being an immigrant of mixed heritage, this poem suggests, can feel like standing on the border of a whole different world, unable to comfortably step into it. The speaker’s Pakistani heritage feels, to her, at once meaningful, beautiful, faraway, and ungraspable.
They sent me ...
... snapped, drew blood.
As “Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan” begins, the poem’s speaker looks back on some of those titular presents. Her aunts sent her, she remembers, some “salwar kameez”—a traditional kind of South Asian outfit consisting of a long tunic top and trousers. These were truly beautiful, vibrant garments: one, she remembers, was “peacock-blue,” and the other “glisten[ed] like an orange split open.” That imagery suggests that these salwar kameez were lustrous, iridescent, and sparkling, embroidered all over. Perhaps the simile of the “orange split open” even suggests their colors and luster felt almost delicious: fragrant, bright, so lovely you could eat them.
The shape of these lines lets readers feel the speaker holding up each of these garments to admire it, as if shaking them loose from their tissue paper:
They sent me a salwar kameez
peacock-blue,
and another
glistening like an orange split open,
The line breaks here give each of those brilliant colors its own space to shine.
To go with these gorgeous clothes, the speaker remembers, her aunts sent her “embossed slippers, gold and black” and “candy-striped glass bangles.” Again, these don’t feel like everyday garments: they’re regal, elegant, bright, and delectable.
But there’s a hint of trouble here in those “candy-striped glass bangles.” They were so fragile, the speaker recalls, that they “snapped, drew blood.” These gorgeous garments have the power to hurt.
The mingled pain and pleasure of these fabulous presents will become symbols of the speaker’s complex relationship with the Pakistani side of her heritage. This autobiographical poem recounts Moniza Alvi’s own memories of growing up in England after her family emigrated from Pakistan when she was only a baby. Being a teenage immigrant of mixed heritage, the poem will suggest, can be a confusing, poignant, and difficult experience.
The speaker will remember her youth over the course of seven irregular stanzas of free verse. Without a rhyme scheme or a regular meter, the poem will sound like the speaker’s own meandering train of thought as memory carries her into her past.
Like at ...
... for my teens.
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Get LitCharts A+I tried each ...
... unlike Aunt Jamila.
I wanted my ...
... like stained glass.
My mother cherished ...
... Marks and Spencers.
My salwar kameez ...
... recall the story
how the ...
... a tin boat.
I pictured my ...
... them in tissue.
Or there were ...
... the Shalimar Gardens.
Throughout the poem, clothes symbolize heritage and identity.
The salwar kameez (traditional South Asian trouser/tunic outfits) and saris that the speaker’s aunts send her, for instance, symbolize her Pakistani cultural background. Growing up in England, with no conscious memories of the country where she was born, the speaker feels at once fascinated and discomfited by these beautiful garments. They feel “alien” to her, representing a part of her history she only feels remotely connected to. She’s more at home in “denim and corduroy,” fabrics that speak of British and North American culture.
But she also loves the salwar kameez’s brilliant colors, yearns to “be as lovely” as they are, and “trie[s] to glimpse [her]self” in the tiny mirrors that adorn them. That last reflective image in particular suggests that the speaker longs to feel more securely connected to the world from which these clothes came: she wants to be able to see herself in them in more ways than one!
Her Pakistani aunts, meanwhile, request that her family send them “cardigans from Marks and Spencers”—that is, English department-store sweaters, the clothes that to a Western reader might seem like the most boring ones possible. To the aunts, though, these clothes might have their own foreign glamor! This moment reminds readers that what’s everyday and what’s exotic depends a lot on where one's sitting.
The camel-skin lamp that fascinates the young speaker can be read as another symbol of her Pakistani heritage.
The lamp is clearly something that the speaker’s family brought to England from Pakistan, and the speaker spends a lot of time staring at it, finding it beautiful and macabre. While its gorgeous multicolored decorations make her think of “stained glass,” the use of the camel’s skin (the removal of which was not an outpatient procedure for the camel) strikes her as “cruel.”
The speaker's simultaneous fascination and alienation here mirrors her sense of what Pakistan itself is like. Her naïve, half-informed teenage visions of the country are romantic and a little exoticized. In her mind, her native country combines ornate beauty with danger—just like the lamp.
The “transformation” from camel to lamp might also reflect her own sense that she was transformed when her family emigrated. Born Pakistani, she now feels more English; like the skinned camel, she was turned into something new before she even knew it.
The moment in which the speaker’s mother’s jewelry gets stolen from the family car symbolically suggests the way that immigration can seem to steal parts of a person’s identity and history.
The mother's jewelry clearly came from Pakistan with her: it’s made from “filigree” (delicate scrollwork) of “Indian gold,” as beautiful as the clothes the speaker’s aunts send. The speaker’s mother treasures these ornaments—and it must thus be very painful for her when they gets stolen right out of her car.
There’s a clear parallel here with the speaker’s own wistful feelings about how distant and unfamiliar her Pakistani heritage seems. For both of these women, mother and daughter, being in England means having something distinctly Pakistani taken from them.
Perhaps this moment also reminds readers that immigrants aren’t always welcomed warmly by their new countries. The theft of the jewelry could be read as racist aggression, not just plain old petty crime.
The luscious imagery with which the speaker describes the titular presents from her Pakistani aunts captures her sense that the Pakistani side of her heritage feels at once beautiful and foreign to her.
When she was a teenager, the speaker remembers, her aunts used to send her salwar kameez and saris, traditional South Asian outfits. “Peacock blue,” “apple-green,” “glistening like an orange split open,” spangled with “mirror-work” (or tiny round mirrors sewn into the fabric), these clothes were brilliant, sparkling, and delicious to the touch, with a luxurious “satin-silken” rustle. Along with them came “embossed slippers, gold and black / points curling,” and fragile “candy-striped glass bangles,” a whole lavish wardrobe of clothes that the speaker didn’t quite know what to do with.
The speaker’s lush evocation of these clothes underscores her big point: “I could never be as lovely / as those clothes,” she says. Against a suburban English backdrop so muted that the speaker doesn’t even mention its colors (beyond a hint of faded blue or muddy brown in the “denim and corduroy” she more usually wears), the aunts’ presents blaze out like "fire," lovely and unmanageable for a teenage girl who feels painfully aware she's "half-English."
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A kind of traditional South Asian garment consisting of long trousers and a tunic top, often beautifully embroidered. "Salwar kameez" can be both singular and plural.
“Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan” is a free verse poem (that is, a poem without a regular meter or rhyme scheme). Its 69 lines are divided into seven irregular stanzas. This flexible form makes the speaker sound thoughtful and informal as she recounts her teenage memories; it’s as if each new stanza marks a bend in the free-flowing river of her thoughts.
The poem’s lines often split in surprising places, giving the speaker’s voice a halting pace, as if she’s chewing her thoughts over carefully. For instance, listen to the enjambment in lines 18-19:
I could never be as lovely
as those clothes
That mid-sentence break slows this line right down. In the big pause, readers might imagine the teenage speaker taking a long look down at her bright salwar kameez, both awed and embarrassed by its beauty.
This poem is written in free verse, so it doesn’t use a regular meter. Instead, Alvi paces her poem through groupings of short lines, timed through careful breaks. For instance, mid-sentence line breaks slow down the first passage of the poem, in which the speaker describes the salwar kameez her Pakistani aunts sent her:
They sent me a salwar kameez
peacock-blue,
and another
glistening like an orange split open,
The shape of these lines gives the brilliant color of each lovely garment its own space, as if the speaker and her parents are holding up the gifts one by one to admire them.
Written in free verse, “Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan” doesn’t use a rhyme scheme. That choice helps to make the speaker’s voice sound informal, as if readers are listening in while she muses on her teenage years.
The poem does, however, make music in other ways—for instance, in the rich onomatopoeia of “each satin-silken top," words whose sibilant /s/ sounds allow readers to hear those rich fabrics rustling softly as the speaker tries them on.
The speaker is a woman remembering her teenage years as the daughter of Pakistani immigrants to the UK. Like Alvi herself, this speaker was born in Lahore to an English and a Pakistani parent and left for the UK when she was just a baby; in fact, the speaker's story is so close to Alvi’s that readers can imagine she's a voice for the poet.
Looking back on her teens, the speaker remembers feeling caught between worlds. While her teenage self relishes the splendid colors and delicate “mirror-work” (tiny sewn-in mirrors) of the beautiful traditional outfits her aunts send her from Pakistan, she also doesn’t quite feel at home in them. With no memory of her life before England, “half-English” herself, she feels more comfortable in “denim and corduroy” than in a gorgeous salwar kameez (a traditional South Asian outfit consisting of long trousers and a tunic, all richly embroidered). At the same time, she's sure (with teenaged awkwardness) that she can never live up to the sheer beauty of these clothes, and quietly longs to feel as if she could wear them easily and proudly.
The clothes her aunts send her thus come to symbolize her relationship with the country where she was born: part wistful, part fascinated, part alienated.
“Presents From My Aunts in Pakistan” is set in the UK, far away from the “aunts in Pakistan” who send the teenage speaker presents of traditional Pakistani clothing. The poem’s speaker is growing up in a very English world of “sitting room[s]” and “cardigans / from Marks and Spencers,” a place so far from her extended family’s life in Pakistan that she feels cut off from that part of her history. Though she can imagine her aunts in Lahore sitting in “shaded rooms / screened from male visitors,” her mental picture is a hazy one, drawn entirely from “fifties' photographs.”
By drawing a sharp contrast between the speaker’s suburban English life and her extended family’s life in Pakistan, the poem suggests that the speaker feels cut off from part of her background, fascinated by her Pakistani origins but also aware that she doesn’t have a clear understanding of them.
Moniza Alvi (1954-present) is a Pakistani-British poet. Alvi was born in Lahore, Pakistan to a Pakistani mother and British father; her family moved to England when she was only a baby. This move had a major impact on Alvi's writing, particularly her earlier work. Many of her poems, this one included, examine what it feels like to feel connected to two countries at once. She characterizes her own work as focusing on a kind of "split, a split I try to mend, it could be between England and Pakistan, body and soul, or husband and wife."
This poem appears in Alvi's first collection, The Country at My Shoulder, which was shortlisted for the prestigious T. S. Eliot Prize. Much of the book investigates questions around culture, nationhood, identity, and otherness.
Alvi wrote the poems in this collection before she had visited Pakistan as an adult, and she has spoken of the role that the "fantasy" of Pakistan—rather than its reality—played in her early poetry. Her romantic vision of the country, mediated through the brilliant colors of the salwar kameez and dim memories in "fifties' photographs," is on display here.
Alvi was selected as one of 20 New Generation poets in 1994, a group that also included writers like Simon Armitage, John Burnside, and Carol Ann Duffy.
Alvi's work is framed by her family connection to Pakistan—and thus by the 1947 partition of British India. This division of the country into an independent India and a newly created Pakistan marked the end of British colonialism in India, and the beginning of a fraught and dangerous time in both of the split countries. Partition displaced roughly 15 million people who suddenly found themselves on the wrong side of religious borders. People fled their ancestral homes as massacres broke out; more than a million people died.
When Alvi was born, seven years after Partition, India and Pakistan were still reeling from the violence and chaos of that epochal event. Alvi's was only one of countless families who emigrated from the continent in its wake. "Presents from My Aunts in Pakistan" doesn't refer to these events directly, but it's founded on a complex history of British-Pakistani relations.
An Interview with Alzi — Watch an interview with Moniza Alzi in which she discusses her poetic inspiration and reads some of her poems aloud.
Alzi's Recent Work — Visit Alzi's personal website to learn more about her writing.
A Brief Biography — Learn more about Alzi's live and work via Poetry International.
Salwar Kameez — Learn more about the beautiful, vibrantly colored traditional clothing that Alzi describes in this poem.
Pakistani Immigration — Learn more about the history of Pakistani immigrants in the UK.