I can only imagine how hard it is to leave the life that you know behind. And it must have really been hard after living almost 28 years in a place where all your family resides and there is emotional support and someone to turn to.
My mother left everything and everyone behind after one year of marriage to come to Canada. From what I know, she was against the idea but her family insisted that it was the best move. Being offered the chance to move to the 'land of opportunity' was something people in Pakistan did not take lightly. Even after visiting Pakistan last year, I felt the energy around me--the energy of people who looked at you with stars in there eyes the minute they knew you were from abroad. Everyone wanted to get out and move to the West and my father was no exception. With his brother already studying in Canada, he was ready to take his bride with him.
My mother's family had to do some pretty hefty convincing. She was adamant about not wanting to go but now that she was married, the traditional expectation was that her place was with her husband. There would be none of her own family in Canada to support her and the existing Pakistani community was quite small although growing.
This was her first sacrifice.
By now, my parents had moved out of the attic in the house to an apartment. I can only imagine the lonely days she spent at home, caring for a colicky baby, staring out to the city below her, covered in snow. She was too timid to venture out alone with me. I was unpredictable and many times I had thrown a crying fit in the cab on route to the pediatrician's office.
Our thumb-knawing sessions not only soothed me but her as well.
But she later told me when she felt desolate, empty and homesick, she would turn to me for solace.
Little did I know, when I wailed due to whatever was ailing me at the time, she muffled her cries for the life she had left behind.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Hand me some love
He walked through the door after a long day of working when she presented me to him. I was half-dangling from her arm thus prompting my father to quickly drop his bags.
"Take her. I have slept only a few hours during the night and she did not let me nap today," my exhausted mother remarked as my father removed his overcoat and reluctantly took me in his arms. She had dark circles around her eyes, and as she slumped back into the kitchen to make rotis, he noticed her holding her back.
Although they never verbalized it, I assumed I was the baby from hell. Awake all night and barely sleeping during the day. The doctor told them I had colic but they were sure I was possessed. What baby hardly slept in the first three months of life?
My father took me to the sparsely furnished living room over to the rocking chair that creaked. Back and forth we swayed with the hope that the motion would soothe me and intoxicate me enough to slumber. But I clawed at his shoulder and rubbed my nose onto his cheek. I was irritated and his five o'clock shadow irritated me more.
"Has she been like this all day," he shouted to my mother in the kitchen. She was tired, aggravated and nodded slightly in response. He put me in his lap and looked at me with a glare. "You will sleep the whole night. I have to work and put food on the table. We all need our sleep, you know." I glared back and stuck my fist in my mouth to chew on my imaginary food. No use, Father. I am a nocturnal creature who will unfold my wings and haunt you by spreading my colic everywhere. Your few short hours with me will resonate with you into the night; so much so that you will never forget the day I entered into this world...
My father told me that while my mother desparately needed to sleep, he could not watch me at night. He had to work the next day therefore since she was home with me, she would and should find the time to sleep when I was put down. In essence, a logical piece of advice but the trouble was, I did not allow her that luxury. The minute I was asleep and put down in the crib, I would wake up five minutes later, screaming like a banshee. According to my father, this went on all night and all day to the point where my mother's dark circles would precipitate a call to the pediatrician's office from my father on a daily basis.
Diaper clean? Check. Finished 4 ounces of milk? Check. No inexplicable rashes on the body? Check. Burped after feeding? Check. Gaining weight? Check. Alert and aware? Check, but a little too much...No, that seems normal--alertness is good. No need to bring her in. NO NEED TO BRING HER IN....She is fine. Not much known on the topic but colic seems to be one of those diseases that has no rhyme or reason. Bear with us, sir. She will grow out of it....No sir, you cannot return her...
For many years, since early childhood, I had a re-occuring dream. Well at least I thought it was a dream but soon found out it was a distant memory that my mother could not believe. I was sitting in her lap, with her hand in my hands. I was facing away from her but nevertheless, I remembered the soothing feeling of holding her.
My mother had beautiful white, large hands. Nothing about her was petite. My bone structure has been inherited from my father's side of the family. When people see my wrists, they wrap their hands around it in amazement--so small, bony and petite you are, they comment. Then I get the side-long glance and further analysis of my hands and wrists resulting in the feeling that I am extra-terrestrial.
My mother's hands were an enigma to me, however as the years went by, I realized they represented so much more. They were my protectors, my sustenance, my ultimate connection to her. While my memories of her face sometimes eludes me, her hands seem to occupy my thoughts.
I asked my mother when I was around 17 years of age if I sat on her lap as a baby and sucked her thumb. She turned to me in amazement.
"Did your father tell you this story?"
"No," I replied puzzled at her reaction. "I seem to remember sitting in your lap with the side of your thumb in my mouth."
"How do you remember this? You were only a few months old!"
I paused, trying to remember whether she had told me the story but I was pretty sure she hadn't. She put her knitting down and smiled while shaking her head.
"Your father would be sleeping in the bedroom and I would take you out to the living room and sit in the rocker with the small lamp on so not to disturb him. You would sit in my lap and somehow find my thumb and knaw on it for hours. It was the only thing that soothed you. You would not fall asleep but you were very quiet and focused and needed complete silence. Every night for four months, we went through the same routine, without your father knowing. He thought you and I were asleep in the living room. Oddly enough, you only did this with me; you never attempted to bite your father."
"Maybe you tasted better," I laughed. She continued to stare at me in disbelief. "I do not understand how you could remember so far back. I have no pictures and I never told anyone this story."
"Why?"
"Because your father wanted his firstborn to be a son. I couldn't ruin your reputation and let him know you had me up ALL NIGHT, now could I?" My heart swelled up like a balloon. I wanted to run and hug her on the spot. She smiled sweetly at me but soon her disposition changed.
She picked up her knitting without dropping her gaze. "One day soon, I will die. And when I do, protect your children the same way I protected you," she said quite non-chalantly. No one expects their 46 year old mother to make such a blanket statement.
I felt my heart skip a beat. Did I hear her right? I looked up at her but she had returned to her knitting quietly and refused to look back at me, even after I implored her to repeat herself. She did not respond. I sat for a very long time and stared at her hands while she furiously knitted one line after another. "One day soon" came too fast. There was a storm outside while I watched the pathetic fallacy unfold. My heart thundered in my chest in response to her forewarning.
Even after 17 years, while I watched her knit, her hands were still large, white and beautiful.
And they are a constant reminder to the nightly hardship she endured that got me through my infancy...
"Take her. I have slept only a few hours during the night and she did not let me nap today," my exhausted mother remarked as my father removed his overcoat and reluctantly took me in his arms. She had dark circles around her eyes, and as she slumped back into the kitchen to make rotis, he noticed her holding her back.
Although they never verbalized it, I assumed I was the baby from hell. Awake all night and barely sleeping during the day. The doctor told them I had colic but they were sure I was possessed. What baby hardly slept in the first three months of life?
My father took me to the sparsely furnished living room over to the rocking chair that creaked. Back and forth we swayed with the hope that the motion would soothe me and intoxicate me enough to slumber. But I clawed at his shoulder and rubbed my nose onto his cheek. I was irritated and his five o'clock shadow irritated me more.
"Has she been like this all day," he shouted to my mother in the kitchen. She was tired, aggravated and nodded slightly in response. He put me in his lap and looked at me with a glare. "You will sleep the whole night. I have to work and put food on the table. We all need our sleep, you know." I glared back and stuck my fist in my mouth to chew on my imaginary food. No use, Father. I am a nocturnal creature who will unfold my wings and haunt you by spreading my colic everywhere. Your few short hours with me will resonate with you into the night; so much so that you will never forget the day I entered into this world...
My father told me that while my mother desparately needed to sleep, he could not watch me at night. He had to work the next day therefore since she was home with me, she would and should find the time to sleep when I was put down. In essence, a logical piece of advice but the trouble was, I did not allow her that luxury. The minute I was asleep and put down in the crib, I would wake up five minutes later, screaming like a banshee. According to my father, this went on all night and all day to the point where my mother's dark circles would precipitate a call to the pediatrician's office from my father on a daily basis.
Diaper clean? Check. Finished 4 ounces of milk? Check. No inexplicable rashes on the body? Check. Burped after feeding? Check. Gaining weight? Check. Alert and aware? Check, but a little too much...No, that seems normal--alertness is good. No need to bring her in. NO NEED TO BRING HER IN....She is fine. Not much known on the topic but colic seems to be one of those diseases that has no rhyme or reason. Bear with us, sir. She will grow out of it....No sir, you cannot return her...
For many years, since early childhood, I had a re-occuring dream. Well at least I thought it was a dream but soon found out it was a distant memory that my mother could not believe. I was sitting in her lap, with her hand in my hands. I was facing away from her but nevertheless, I remembered the soothing feeling of holding her.
My mother had beautiful white, large hands. Nothing about her was petite. My bone structure has been inherited from my father's side of the family. When people see my wrists, they wrap their hands around it in amazement--so small, bony and petite you are, they comment. Then I get the side-long glance and further analysis of my hands and wrists resulting in the feeling that I am extra-terrestrial.
My mother's hands were an enigma to me, however as the years went by, I realized they represented so much more. They were my protectors, my sustenance, my ultimate connection to her. While my memories of her face sometimes eludes me, her hands seem to occupy my thoughts.
I asked my mother when I was around 17 years of age if I sat on her lap as a baby and sucked her thumb. She turned to me in amazement.
"Did your father tell you this story?"
"No," I replied puzzled at her reaction. "I seem to remember sitting in your lap with the side of your thumb in my mouth."
"How do you remember this? You were only a few months old!"
I paused, trying to remember whether she had told me the story but I was pretty sure she hadn't. She put her knitting down and smiled while shaking her head.
"Your father would be sleeping in the bedroom and I would take you out to the living room and sit in the rocker with the small lamp on so not to disturb him. You would sit in my lap and somehow find my thumb and knaw on it for hours. It was the only thing that soothed you. You would not fall asleep but you were very quiet and focused and needed complete silence. Every night for four months, we went through the same routine, without your father knowing. He thought you and I were asleep in the living room. Oddly enough, you only did this with me; you never attempted to bite your father."
"Maybe you tasted better," I laughed. She continued to stare at me in disbelief. "I do not understand how you could remember so far back. I have no pictures and I never told anyone this story."
"Why?"
"Because your father wanted his firstborn to be a son. I couldn't ruin your reputation and let him know you had me up ALL NIGHT, now could I?" My heart swelled up like a balloon. I wanted to run and hug her on the spot. She smiled sweetly at me but soon her disposition changed.
She picked up her knitting without dropping her gaze. "One day soon, I will die. And when I do, protect your children the same way I protected you," she said quite non-chalantly. No one expects their 46 year old mother to make such a blanket statement.
I felt my heart skip a beat. Did I hear her right? I looked up at her but she had returned to her knitting quietly and refused to look back at me, even after I implored her to repeat herself. She did not respond. I sat for a very long time and stared at her hands while she furiously knitted one line after another. "One day soon" came too fast. There was a storm outside while I watched the pathetic fallacy unfold. My heart thundered in my chest in response to her forewarning.
Even after 17 years, while I watched her knit, her hands were still large, white and beautiful.
And they are a constant reminder to the nightly hardship she endured that got me through my infancy...
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Light of a Candle
I was born on Wednesday, October 14, 1970. My parents married in December of 1969 and technically, I was conceived on January 21, 1970--also on a Wednesday.
Of course, I don't remember my birth. I have yet to meet someone who has. But I have built a vision, after piecing together the events told to me secondhand, thereby creating a visual I carry around for myself today.
My parents did not own a car. When my father moved to Toronto with my pregnant mother, they found a house owned by an elder Chinese couple who were renting out the attic portion. My father was eager to start working (as he would soon be supporting three) and embarked on foot to many job opportunities. My mother made that attic their new home and prepared it for my birth.
When she could no longer take the pangs of labour, my parents took a cab to the nearest hospital. After many, many hours, I was born. I learned years later that my father took it upon himself to name all three children. I was born on a Wednesday and stayed exactly one week in the hospital.
The day my parents left to take me home, my father was holding me in his arms as they stepped out into the parking lot and approached the stationed taxi. It was snowing lightly. When he looked down at me, I was breathing as to blow away the flurries on my face. This delighted him. The skies were darker with the snow but this baby, in a pure white blanket with ivory skin and jet black hair seemed to illuminate his heart.
When he walked in the door after they arrived home, he turned to my mother and exclaimed that he knew what he would name me. My namesake was an original, old Hindu name from pre-colonial India. It struck me as odd since we celebrated our independance as Pakistanis and there was a staunch stand differentiating both cultures. However, in the end, he chose the name for its meaning.
Light of a Candle.
And trust me--from that day on, my parents had been trying to blow that candle out from the minute I was born. According to my zodiac sign, Libra, I am the following:
No ordinary person, full imagination and originality, shy and reserved, ambitious, proud, self-respect, hungers for new experiences, sometimes nervous, many complexes, good memory, learns easily, complicated love life, wants to impress.
You are about to learn how these attributes were shaped and formed from the time I was introduced to the world on that autumn yet snowy day...a precursor for nothing ordinary...as my father coined it.
Of course, I don't remember my birth. I have yet to meet someone who has. But I have built a vision, after piecing together the events told to me secondhand, thereby creating a visual I carry around for myself today.
My parents did not own a car. When my father moved to Toronto with my pregnant mother, they found a house owned by an elder Chinese couple who were renting out the attic portion. My father was eager to start working (as he would soon be supporting three) and embarked on foot to many job opportunities. My mother made that attic their new home and prepared it for my birth.
When she could no longer take the pangs of labour, my parents took a cab to the nearest hospital. After many, many hours, I was born. I learned years later that my father took it upon himself to name all three children. I was born on a Wednesday and stayed exactly one week in the hospital.
The day my parents left to take me home, my father was holding me in his arms as they stepped out into the parking lot and approached the stationed taxi. It was snowing lightly. When he looked down at me, I was breathing as to blow away the flurries on my face. This delighted him. The skies were darker with the snow but this baby, in a pure white blanket with ivory skin and jet black hair seemed to illuminate his heart.
When he walked in the door after they arrived home, he turned to my mother and exclaimed that he knew what he would name me. My namesake was an original, old Hindu name from pre-colonial India. It struck me as odd since we celebrated our independance as Pakistanis and there was a staunch stand differentiating both cultures. However, in the end, he chose the name for its meaning.
Light of a Candle.
And trust me--from that day on, my parents had been trying to blow that candle out from the minute I was born. According to my zodiac sign, Libra, I am the following:
No ordinary person, full imagination and originality, shy and reserved, ambitious, proud, self-respect, hungers for new experiences, sometimes nervous, many complexes, good memory, learns easily, complicated love life, wants to impress.
You are about to learn how these attributes were shaped and formed from the time I was introduced to the world on that autumn yet snowy day...a precursor for nothing ordinary...as my father coined it.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Blue Eyes
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. ~Kahlil Gibran
I wrote him a letter, that in the end, I could not send.
The selfish me wanted to buy time, wanted to extend the illusion of him being around, waiting for me.
He would not see me and this made me cry. And it took me awhile to understand the reason why.
Love me for me and remember the past, for the future holds too many truths.
My chest was heavy with the burden of inheriting a loss beyond reason.
The words flew onto paper without heed or focus - the unleashing of pent up emotions trying to find a place to escape to.
Only to find incomplete solace in the darkness of the night.
I wanted to envelope his pain, blanket his suffering and vacuum away the C. But they beat me in the race to the blue ocean.
And I cried and cried -- and my tears created such enormous waves, that for one split second, I lost sight of him.
But he surfaced and then I saw him - just his eyes, with that familiar crinkle around the corners that told me he was smiling. And just as suddenly as they appeared, his blue eyes disappeared and melted into the blue ocean. And a calm swept over me like never before. And the heaviness was released from my chest.
I waded my feet in the water, but many times, without hesitation, he jumped into the ocean without fear. And how I admired and watched him from afar. He made it so easy, made it so desirable, made it his priority. And I watched, while standing on the unmoving earth and was mesmerized by it all.
The waves have settled, the water is shallow and I wade in the sea, waiting to meet you. Don't venture too far out, but if you must, I understand. For I am not alone. The memories have washed ashore and there are many shells strewn everywhere.
I pick up one seashell and hold it close to my ear. Love me for me, he whispers.
I do, Blue Eyes, as I run and jump into the ocean...
I wrote him a letter, that in the end, I could not send.
The selfish me wanted to buy time, wanted to extend the illusion of him being around, waiting for me.
He would not see me and this made me cry. And it took me awhile to understand the reason why.
Love me for me and remember the past, for the future holds too many truths.
My chest was heavy with the burden of inheriting a loss beyond reason.
The words flew onto paper without heed or focus - the unleashing of pent up emotions trying to find a place to escape to.
Only to find incomplete solace in the darkness of the night.
I wanted to envelope his pain, blanket his suffering and vacuum away the C. But they beat me in the race to the blue ocean.
And I cried and cried -- and my tears created such enormous waves, that for one split second, I lost sight of him.
But he surfaced and then I saw him - just his eyes, with that familiar crinkle around the corners that told me he was smiling. And just as suddenly as they appeared, his blue eyes disappeared and melted into the blue ocean. And a calm swept over me like never before. And the heaviness was released from my chest.
I waded my feet in the water, but many times, without hesitation, he jumped into the ocean without fear. And how I admired and watched him from afar. He made it so easy, made it so desirable, made it his priority. And I watched, while standing on the unmoving earth and was mesmerized by it all.
The waves have settled, the water is shallow and I wade in the sea, waiting to meet you. Don't venture too far out, but if you must, I understand. For I am not alone. The memories have washed ashore and there are many shells strewn everywhere.
I pick up one seashell and hold it close to my ear. Love me for me, he whispers.
I do, Blue Eyes, as I run and jump into the ocean...
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Its the journey--not the destination
Growing up, I was often confounded with the idea whether or not the grass was greener on the other side.
As youth, we do not have enough skills to understand things beyond face value. We grow mostly with inner reflection and a selfish right to not look beyond what we feel. And it presents a facade--something that we are not willing to dissect until many, many years later.
I would not trade my formulative years for anything; it was a journey I had to take to reach a semi-destination today. Ultimately, what is the true destination? Is it a goal we make in life? Does it continue beyond that goal onto another? Or does it end with death? Or go beyond this inevitable state, to a place that the mind cannot even imagine?
The cliched remark, "Hindsight is 20/20" does allude to the fact that in everyone's case a journey must be embarked on to learn the truths today.
And as with the Romantic Elliptical, I will take you along another journey....back to my childhood.
As youth, we do not have enough skills to understand things beyond face value. We grow mostly with inner reflection and a selfish right to not look beyond what we feel. And it presents a facade--something that we are not willing to dissect until many, many years later.
I would not trade my formulative years for anything; it was a journey I had to take to reach a semi-destination today. Ultimately, what is the true destination? Is it a goal we make in life? Does it continue beyond that goal onto another? Or does it end with death? Or go beyond this inevitable state, to a place that the mind cannot even imagine?
The cliched remark, "Hindsight is 20/20" does allude to the fact that in everyone's case a journey must be embarked on to learn the truths today.
And as with the Romantic Elliptical, I will take you along another journey....back to my childhood.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Does romance=heart?
For those of you who were following all seventy chapters of my last saga, "The Romantic Elliptical" the discovery that I was not a romantic shook a few of my readers and I wanted to share some interesting feedback.
The one comment that stood out was based on my experience. The question posed was: "Had you not had an arranged marriage and did the dating scene, you would learn to be romantic when thrown into rituals of courtship." I had to think about this one.
My experience in dating was close to nil. However, does it entail a physical element? With my first fiancee, we communicated without physical dating through letter-writing where we were sharing our innermost thoughts, ambitions, opinions and emotions. I felt this to be a deep relationship although it lacked the physical relationship. Juxtapose this will any physical relationship I "may or may not" have had--minus the emotions. Is romance at play in either situation?
Ironically, in either situation, there was no romance on my part. Even if the other party felt that he was romancing me.
Squeeze me?
Yes, I know the above sounds convuluded. So let me break it down:
Emotional relationships on a mental and spiritual level does not need romance to substantiate it.
A purely physical relationship that is not contingent on a emotional attachment does not need romance to warrant it either.
Therefore, I can emphatically say, even if my marriage was not arranged, I do not think I would be the romantic others think I should be!
The other comment was about my romantic influences. I read 18th century novels, Victorian novels and many other works from the Romantic period. I watch chick flicks that are romantic, I include romantic quotes in my blog posts...OK... I get the point! However, just because I have romantic tendencies, does not mean I am a true romantic.
Is not being a romantic allude to the fact that I am missing a sensitivity chip? Can one just be practical and have a normal relationship? Or am I abnormal due to the lack of romance right from the beginning?
Does romance=heart?
We are our own worst critics but I do think I am:
empathetic
kind
giving
warm
sympathetic
helpful
The above comes from the 'heart' but romance is missing from the list. Is my heart any less significant?
Does no romance=mind?
The one comment that stood out was based on my experience. The question posed was: "Had you not had an arranged marriage and did the dating scene, you would learn to be romantic when thrown into rituals of courtship." I had to think about this one.
My experience in dating was close to nil. However, does it entail a physical element? With my first fiancee, we communicated without physical dating through letter-writing where we were sharing our innermost thoughts, ambitions, opinions and emotions. I felt this to be a deep relationship although it lacked the physical relationship. Juxtapose this will any physical relationship I "may or may not" have had--minus the emotions. Is romance at play in either situation?
Ironically, in either situation, there was no romance on my part. Even if the other party felt that he was romancing me.
Squeeze me?
Yes, I know the above sounds convuluded. So let me break it down:
Emotional relationships on a mental and spiritual level does not need romance to substantiate it.
A purely physical relationship that is not contingent on a emotional attachment does not need romance to warrant it either.
Therefore, I can emphatically say, even if my marriage was not arranged, I do not think I would be the romantic others think I should be!
The other comment was about my romantic influences. I read 18th century novels, Victorian novels and many other works from the Romantic period. I watch chick flicks that are romantic, I include romantic quotes in my blog posts...OK... I get the point! However, just because I have romantic tendencies, does not mean I am a true romantic.
Is not being a romantic allude to the fact that I am missing a sensitivity chip? Can one just be practical and have a normal relationship? Or am I abnormal due to the lack of romance right from the beginning?
Does romance=heart?
We are our own worst critics but I do think I am:
empathetic
kind
giving
warm
sympathetic
helpful
The above comes from the 'heart' but romance is missing from the list. Is my heart any less significant?
Does no romance=mind?
Monday, September 26, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 70, Conclusion: Oiling the Elliptical
I was astounded at the date of my last post. August 7th. It has been over a month and a half and I was experiencing a dry spell--a complete and utter case of writer's block. It happens to the best of us, but quite honestly, never to me.
I have been writing most of my life. It started in Grade Five. I started writing in my diary. Recording my thoughts, ideas and perceptions of life. Then I graduated to writing short stories and poems. Writing has always been my outlet. When I was mad, I wrote angry letters to the people who caused my anger. When I was sad, I wrote. When I was brimming with happiness, I wrote. And from that day on, I really have not stopped. In some shape or form, I needed to 'put things down on paper'. So when I was rounding to my conclusion of "The Romantic Elliptical" saga, I lost track of where I was going with this; unsure how I would end it. With the hurdles of life and juggling work, family and my own needs, I got lost in an abyss and it took everything I had in me to get out and finish it.
There is always a time for firsts.
So after 70 blog posts or chapters (as some readers have recognized these insights to be) we come full circle. Or perhaps I get off the elliptical now. Its been a long, arduous ride, with ups and downs, increased heart rates, taking it slow and riding it out until reaching that consistent, regulated heartbeat. The heartbeat that started with absolutely no romance or courtship.
Squeeze me?
"An elliptical trainer or cross-trainer is a stationary exercise machine used to simulate stair climbing, walking, or running without causing excessive pressure to the joints, hence decreasing the risk of impact injuries. For this reason, people with some injuries are able to use an elliptical to stay fit, as the low impact affects them little."
Maybe I got the short end of the stick by means of an arranged marriage. Low impact romance. No fireworks, no chasing, no pursuit, no wooing.
Perhaps you get on the elliptical and like any marriage, you have to work hard at it. Keep the machine oiled, send it for maintenance but keep on it for your own health.
Let me tell you, there was many times I wanted to get off and chuck it to the curb!! But like any marriage, it entails hard to work to keep going. I married a pragmatic, practical man who deep down knew what made me tick all these years. Sure I got strange stares when I would tell people I got an elliptical on my anniversary or running shoes for my birthday instead of a romantic getaway for two to Paris or a diamond anniversary band.
And inevitably, I would gush, oooh and awe about stories of their romantic proposals, awesome getaways and specially planned surprises evoking the most emotional responses from friends, family and what the media churned out in most chick flicks. Thinking I was missing out on something. I read about it, heard about it and watched it over the years but as I learned more about my husband, I realized I was learning equally about myself.
I did not have an earth-shattering epiphany that awoke me in the middle of the night. My thoughts about having an unconventional marriage embarressed me at first. But trying to fit the status quo in the society instead gave me more grief. And it was a slow learning process as I evolved over the years to understand that it wasn't them--it was me. Even though romance surrounded me in many forms, when encountering it at any point, it was surreal to me and I didn't know how to react to it.
And slowly, I came to the ultimate realization...that I am not a romantic. It infiltrated my life in many ways but not enough to make me think I missed out on it. Romanticism for us was a thing that was artificially produced and awkward. Sad for some but true -- and no matter how much we tried, it came out too fabricated and cheesy. Our love is practical and by no means any less in value just because the romance factor is missing.
Love comes in differents forms, shapes and sizes. One size does not fit all. And surely, we made our own elliptical mould.
You could know each other for ten minutes or live together for ten years or enter an arranged marriage like I did. No matter how you look at it, it is a risk you take. Across the board, in any culture, religion or mindset you possess. And in the end, it is what you make of it or don't.
The romantic elliptical is an lollapalooza. You either have it or you don't. Of course, an elliptical is not romantic. But I do love my elliptical because it does what it is supposed to do. But romance is subjective for me. I may hear that a couple has a romantic date night each week--but do they communicate? Someone may say that they went for a romantic vacation but are their interests so different that they did not see the sites together? There is always something they are not telling you.
And for the those who solemnly swear they have it all, with romance intact, I salute you and bid you both the very best. No sarcasm here or ill intent. Really, I admire the life long love affairs. But don't tell me its not hard work or there are no bumps, falls or hiccups along the way. Coz then, you are a walking chick flick.
I leave you with this quote. And here comes the subjectivity. To some, it is very romantic and to others, a lesson in practicality. I remember reading it in my first year of high school and it has stuck with me all these years because I have always been a communicator, to a fault--be it verbal or in written word. For better or for worse.
Even on that damned elliptical, you cannot shut me up ;)
Never close your lips to those whom you have opened your heart. -- Charles Dickens
I have been writing most of my life. It started in Grade Five. I started writing in my diary. Recording my thoughts, ideas and perceptions of life. Then I graduated to writing short stories and poems. Writing has always been my outlet. When I was mad, I wrote angry letters to the people who caused my anger. When I was sad, I wrote. When I was brimming with happiness, I wrote. And from that day on, I really have not stopped. In some shape or form, I needed to 'put things down on paper'. So when I was rounding to my conclusion of "The Romantic Elliptical" saga, I lost track of where I was going with this; unsure how I would end it. With the hurdles of life and juggling work, family and my own needs, I got lost in an abyss and it took everything I had in me to get out and finish it.
There is always a time for firsts.
So after 70 blog posts or chapters (as some readers have recognized these insights to be) we come full circle. Or perhaps I get off the elliptical now. Its been a long, arduous ride, with ups and downs, increased heart rates, taking it slow and riding it out until reaching that consistent, regulated heartbeat. The heartbeat that started with absolutely no romance or courtship.
Squeeze me?
"An elliptical trainer or cross-trainer is a stationary exercise machine used to simulate stair climbing, walking, or running without causing excessive pressure to the joints, hence decreasing the risk of impact injuries. For this reason, people with some injuries are able to use an elliptical to stay fit, as the low impact affects them little."
Maybe I got the short end of the stick by means of an arranged marriage. Low impact romance. No fireworks, no chasing, no pursuit, no wooing.
Perhaps you get on the elliptical and like any marriage, you have to work hard at it. Keep the machine oiled, send it for maintenance but keep on it for your own health.
Let me tell you, there was many times I wanted to get off and chuck it to the curb!! But like any marriage, it entails hard to work to keep going. I married a pragmatic, practical man who deep down knew what made me tick all these years. Sure I got strange stares when I would tell people I got an elliptical on my anniversary or running shoes for my birthday instead of a romantic getaway for two to Paris or a diamond anniversary band.
And inevitably, I would gush, oooh and awe about stories of their romantic proposals, awesome getaways and specially planned surprises evoking the most emotional responses from friends, family and what the media churned out in most chick flicks. Thinking I was missing out on something. I read about it, heard about it and watched it over the years but as I learned more about my husband, I realized I was learning equally about myself.
I did not have an earth-shattering epiphany that awoke me in the middle of the night. My thoughts about having an unconventional marriage embarressed me at first. But trying to fit the status quo in the society instead gave me more grief. And it was a slow learning process as I evolved over the years to understand that it wasn't them--it was me. Even though romance surrounded me in many forms, when encountering it at any point, it was surreal to me and I didn't know how to react to it.
And slowly, I came to the ultimate realization...that I am not a romantic. It infiltrated my life in many ways but not enough to make me think I missed out on it. Romanticism for us was a thing that was artificially produced and awkward. Sad for some but true -- and no matter how much we tried, it came out too fabricated and cheesy. Our love is practical and by no means any less in value just because the romance factor is missing.
Love comes in differents forms, shapes and sizes. One size does not fit all. And surely, we made our own elliptical mould.
You could know each other for ten minutes or live together for ten years or enter an arranged marriage like I did. No matter how you look at it, it is a risk you take. Across the board, in any culture, religion or mindset you possess. And in the end, it is what you make of it or don't.
The romantic elliptical is an lollapalooza. You either have it or you don't. Of course, an elliptical is not romantic. But I do love my elliptical because it does what it is supposed to do. But romance is subjective for me. I may hear that a couple has a romantic date night each week--but do they communicate? Someone may say that they went for a romantic vacation but are their interests so different that they did not see the sites together? There is always something they are not telling you.
And for the those who solemnly swear they have it all, with romance intact, I salute you and bid you both the very best. No sarcasm here or ill intent. Really, I admire the life long love affairs. But don't tell me its not hard work or there are no bumps, falls or hiccups along the way. Coz then, you are a walking chick flick.
I leave you with this quote. And here comes the subjectivity. To some, it is very romantic and to others, a lesson in practicality. I remember reading it in my first year of high school and it has stuck with me all these years because I have always been a communicator, to a fault--be it verbal or in written word. For better or for worse.
Even on that damned elliptical, you cannot shut me up ;)
Never close your lips to those whom you have opened your heart. -- Charles Dickens
Sunday, August 7, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 69: Dating, the new fashioned way ;)
And that is all it took. For him to concur that he felt like he was in the same boat: same insecurities, same apprehensions, same genuine uncertainty. When I looked into his eyes and saw the sincerity, I let the air out of the balloon. Why get pent up with a thousand emotions about the "What Ifs?" We had to live in the moment and just let things be as they may.
Ok, so I seem to have things backwards.
First you meet, fall in love and then get married. Right? Sounds pretty normal and cliche.
Of course, leave it to me to find meaning in things against the status quo.
We did not have a wedding song. We did not slow dance to our pick of music that would spring us into married life. If there was a song, it would be "What's Love Got to do with it" by Tina Turner. Because quite plainly, neither of us were in love with each other.
I do believe there needs to be some chemistry, a strong physical attraction. This is essential otherwise I would be banking solely on personality--of which I had no taste of. The mutual attraction was there from Day 1 but I still believe today we were fated to be together. There was an unexplained energy force (no, not lust) whereby the circumstances aligned us together. You have read all about that.
Now begins the Love Story. Aww shucks...is it about to get all cheesy now?
My honeymoon was like watching the Discovery Channel for me. A whole new world.
And then, only then, did I fall in love.
Squeeze me?
Who the hell falls in love after they get married? People in arranged marriages.
And that is what I liken the first beginnings of our relationship together. As we discovered the country of Spain, we also discovered each other.
Like any relationship, we had to earn each other's trust. And it was slow to begin with because we knew very little about the other.
As we explored new terrain of the country, its people, the food and what each city had to offer, we slowly learned about each other in the same way. And we wanted to learn more and more as the days passed.
We actually dated. Finally, as husband and wife. And we made up the rules along the way. And (gasp), it was out in the open! This was a novelty...it was foreign for us to show public affection, feeling that someone was going to turn the corner and report us. But it was liberating in that we appreciated the freedom far more than the average couple who were used to dating and being very open about it.
By Day 4, he was already ordering food for me, knowing exactly what I liked. Many of the Spaniards stopped us on the street after noticing the henna on my hands and feet. In broken English, they asked if we were just married although one elderly woman commented that she could see that we had been together for so many years and there was so much love between us.
I laughed out loud and withheld the truth in order not to disappoint her. But it was a very surprising assessment of us as a couple.
And it was no act. Within a week, I was very comfortable with him and he with I. I could be myself around him, express my opinion and joke freely. And as we got to know more about our likes, dislikes, tastes, ideologies, viewpoints and preferences, it was as if we had known each other for most of our lives. Strange...but completely true.
Although there was no courtship involved, no wooing, no chasing, no impressions to be made, I opened my heart, my eyes and my soul to fall in love--in two weeks...
Can Pakistanis fall in love?
Yes: It can be arranged...
-Unknown Author
Ok, so I seem to have things backwards.
First you meet, fall in love and then get married. Right? Sounds pretty normal and cliche.
Of course, leave it to me to find meaning in things against the status quo.
We did not have a wedding song. We did not slow dance to our pick of music that would spring us into married life. If there was a song, it would be "What's Love Got to do with it" by Tina Turner. Because quite plainly, neither of us were in love with each other.
I do believe there needs to be some chemistry, a strong physical attraction. This is essential otherwise I would be banking solely on personality--of which I had no taste of. The mutual attraction was there from Day 1 but I still believe today we were fated to be together. There was an unexplained energy force (no, not lust) whereby the circumstances aligned us together. You have read all about that.
Now begins the Love Story. Aww shucks...is it about to get all cheesy now?
My honeymoon was like watching the Discovery Channel for me. A whole new world.
And then, only then, did I fall in love.
Squeeze me?
Who the hell falls in love after they get married? People in arranged marriages.
And that is what I liken the first beginnings of our relationship together. As we discovered the country of Spain, we also discovered each other.
Like any relationship, we had to earn each other's trust. And it was slow to begin with because we knew very little about the other.
As we explored new terrain of the country, its people, the food and what each city had to offer, we slowly learned about each other in the same way. And we wanted to learn more and more as the days passed.
We actually dated. Finally, as husband and wife. And we made up the rules along the way. And (gasp), it was out in the open! This was a novelty...it was foreign for us to show public affection, feeling that someone was going to turn the corner and report us. But it was liberating in that we appreciated the freedom far more than the average couple who were used to dating and being very open about it.
By Day 4, he was already ordering food for me, knowing exactly what I liked. Many of the Spaniards stopped us on the street after noticing the henna on my hands and feet. In broken English, they asked if we were just married although one elderly woman commented that she could see that we had been together for so many years and there was so much love between us.
I laughed out loud and withheld the truth in order not to disappoint her. But it was a very surprising assessment of us as a couple.
And it was no act. Within a week, I was very comfortable with him and he with I. I could be myself around him, express my opinion and joke freely. And as we got to know more about our likes, dislikes, tastes, ideologies, viewpoints and preferences, it was as if we had known each other for most of our lives. Strange...but completely true.
Although there was no courtship involved, no wooing, no chasing, no impressions to be made, I opened my heart, my eyes and my soul to fall in love--in two weeks...
Can Pakistanis fall in love?
Yes: It can be arranged...
-Unknown Author
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 68: Careful what you wish for
Many of you have read these posts and wondered the same thing:
"What on Earth was she thinking?"
I know, and I accept your skepticism, outrage, sympathy, bewilderment and curiosity.
Its not the norm. Especially in North America. But at the time I married, over twenty years ago, full knowing how my peers were meeting, socializing, dating, courting, fooling around, or whatever you want to call it, I was entrenched in another realm of courtship, or lack thereof.
Ask me today. Would I do it all over again? I am not sure. Not all arranged marriages have worked out for everyone. Each has a story of its own.
The way I see it...there is no formula that leads to marriage. At the end, its a risk.
Whether you know the person for one minute or ten years before marrying them, things change when you sign that dotted line. People change over the years. Situations change, circumstances present challenges. But I do know there is a hell of alot of compromise and sacrifice by both parties in order to make the relationship work.
Only you define that line in the sand.
Monday, the day after my reception, we went to his home, now my home, to meet both sides of the family. It is customary for the girl's side to come and visit to see how the bride is doing and offer 'moral support'. We spent the evening eating dinner and opening up all the wedding gifts. This became a laborious task as you will remember that there were over 400 guests to my wedding (70% of whom I did not know).
I had to pack that night since we were flying off to Spain the next day. Initially, for me it was a relief to be leaving the family behind and venturing off somewhere where no one could bother us. We were told what to do, what to wear, how to act and what not to say for the next 24 hours and it became quite stifling.
Careful what you wish for.
At the airport, both our families came to bid us goodbye. We hugged everyone, with suitcases in tow, and made our way to the security gate. I looked back and saw my family standing there waving me goodbye. I suddenly felt odd.
While going through security, my mind became occupied with the same thought. I was walking away from those that have loved me all my life, unconditionally. The ones who I could confide in, and seek solace and support. And here I was, leaving them behind to venture forward into uncertainty.
Who was he....really? This man who now was my husband? He stood next to me as we watched our items go through the screening machine and I looked at his profile.
I was alone with him. About to travel across the Atlantic to a foreign country...with a 'foreign' man. I swallowed back the lump in my throat. Suddenly, I missed the commotion back at his house with my extended family and his family teasing, pestering and forcing us to eat this or that. I missed being in a comfort zone of people around us. I missed being single.
Yes, I said it. Single. And here I was, about to fly off with this man I called my husband. I stared at him as we sat at the gate waiting to board our flight. I was quiet--he mistook it for tiredness and claimed he was tired too. Was he really tired or in the same predicament as me? Who was this girl he called his wife?
We stared at each other for a good ten minutes without talking. Any onlooker would not have known we just got married. I sat across from him and pretended to read my fashion magazine. I looked at the models and wondered if any of them were married. They looked so normal and happy. I felt abnormal and perturbed. How did married people act?
We boarded the flight and sat next to each other on the plane. There was a buzz around us. People seemed excited. A couple next across the aisle from us were laughing about something. I furrowed my brow and concentrated too hard on how to buckle my belt. Stop analyzing the situation, I told myself. The left side of my brain was too busy trying to figure out my situation and the next step while my right brain argued back on what the hell I was doing. While this battle continued for five minutes before takeoff, I was brought back to the idea of living in the moment.
He reached over and grabbed my hand and whispered in my ear. It was as if he read my mind.
"We have our whole life to figure this out. For now, you're with me, ok?"
I looked into his eyes, nodded and finally....exhaled.
"What on Earth was she thinking?"
I know, and I accept your skepticism, outrage, sympathy, bewilderment and curiosity.
Its not the norm. Especially in North America. But at the time I married, over twenty years ago, full knowing how my peers were meeting, socializing, dating, courting, fooling around, or whatever you want to call it, I was entrenched in another realm of courtship, or lack thereof.
Ask me today. Would I do it all over again? I am not sure. Not all arranged marriages have worked out for everyone. Each has a story of its own.
The way I see it...there is no formula that leads to marriage. At the end, its a risk.
Whether you know the person for one minute or ten years before marrying them, things change when you sign that dotted line. People change over the years. Situations change, circumstances present challenges. But I do know there is a hell of alot of compromise and sacrifice by both parties in order to make the relationship work.
Only you define that line in the sand.
Monday, the day after my reception, we went to his home, now my home, to meet both sides of the family. It is customary for the girl's side to come and visit to see how the bride is doing and offer 'moral support'. We spent the evening eating dinner and opening up all the wedding gifts. This became a laborious task as you will remember that there were over 400 guests to my wedding (70% of whom I did not know).
I had to pack that night since we were flying off to Spain the next day. Initially, for me it was a relief to be leaving the family behind and venturing off somewhere where no one could bother us. We were told what to do, what to wear, how to act and what not to say for the next 24 hours and it became quite stifling.
Careful what you wish for.
At the airport, both our families came to bid us goodbye. We hugged everyone, with suitcases in tow, and made our way to the security gate. I looked back and saw my family standing there waving me goodbye. I suddenly felt odd.
While going through security, my mind became occupied with the same thought. I was walking away from those that have loved me all my life, unconditionally. The ones who I could confide in, and seek solace and support. And here I was, leaving them behind to venture forward into uncertainty.
Who was he....really? This man who now was my husband? He stood next to me as we watched our items go through the screening machine and I looked at his profile.
I was alone with him. About to travel across the Atlantic to a foreign country...with a 'foreign' man. I swallowed back the lump in my throat. Suddenly, I missed the commotion back at his house with my extended family and his family teasing, pestering and forcing us to eat this or that. I missed being in a comfort zone of people around us. I missed being single.
Yes, I said it. Single. And here I was, about to fly off with this man I called my husband. I stared at him as we sat at the gate waiting to board our flight. I was quiet--he mistook it for tiredness and claimed he was tired too. Was he really tired or in the same predicament as me? Who was this girl he called his wife?
We stared at each other for a good ten minutes without talking. Any onlooker would not have known we just got married. I sat across from him and pretended to read my fashion magazine. I looked at the models and wondered if any of them were married. They looked so normal and happy. I felt abnormal and perturbed. How did married people act?
We boarded the flight and sat next to each other on the plane. There was a buzz around us. People seemed excited. A couple next across the aisle from us were laughing about something. I furrowed my brow and concentrated too hard on how to buckle my belt. Stop analyzing the situation, I told myself. The left side of my brain was too busy trying to figure out my situation and the next step while my right brain argued back on what the hell I was doing. While this battle continued for five minutes before takeoff, I was brought back to the idea of living in the moment.
He reached over and grabbed my hand and whispered in my ear. It was as if he read my mind.
"We have our whole life to figure this out. For now, you're with me, ok?"
I looked into his eyes, nodded and finally....exhaled.
Monday, August 1, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 67: The Wedding Night
Squeeze me?
This is probably my shortest post. Enjoy ;)
Remember that happiness is a way of travel, not a destination.
Roy Goodman
This is probably my shortest post. Enjoy ;)
Remember that happiness is a way of travel, not a destination.
Roy Goodman
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 66: The Leap of Faith
We sat together in the limo but this was not us alone. Six more people would accompany us to the hotel. My inlaws, my brother-in-law, and three teens of their close family friends. It was a family affair, my wedding night. And I wondered if I would ever be alone with him.
I stopped crying halfway through the ride to downtown. My new husband passed me a tissue and held my hand. The oldest of the three teens, herself only 17, smiled shyly and looked embaressed. It was quiet and only a few spoke in whispers until my mother-in-law saw the SkyDome and asked whether this was our hotel. Everyone, including me, broke out in laughter and this somewhat eased the tension in the limo.
When we arrived, their family friends, who had followed the limo downtown, escorted us into the hotel. Our wedding suite was their gift to us. I was followed by at least ten people and the throngs of people in the lobby stopped and stared. It was not everyday a Pakistani bride, dressed to the nines with jewellery and a sequined dress enters a hotel with her own procession.
I looked up at times to find old people smiling at me and checking out my attire. As we walked into the elevator, I saw our reflection in the glass doors. We looked so young--me only at the ripe old age of 20 and him at 26. Two kids being guided up the hotel and shown to their room as if we were at home with our parents. That is how I felt--passed on from one set of parents to another.
The room was beautiful--a separate bedroom, a living suite, balcony and solarium. I was 'placed' on the sofa and my mother-in-law stood in front of me.
"Remove your jewellery and put it all in the safe," she said. I nodded obediently as I learned quickly that I could not speak. And as my father-in-law sat down to make himself comfortable, their family friend pulled him up and commanded everyone to leave. They all hugged me and were ushered to the door by my husband. I sat alone on the sofa and waited, not knowing quite sure what to do next. I could feel the weight of my heavily embroidered veil and jewellery weighing down my neck and shoulders. I sat back and looked out through the window at the lake and the rest of the skyline. It was a beautiful summer night, with clear skies and the lights of boats on the water.
I wanted to be on one of those boats, moving away toward the vast, dark unknown of the lake.
For now, I settled for the unknown of that night as my husband rounded the corner towards me after seeing his family off. We were finally alone. The two of us. No family member sitting in the same room, breathing heavily into a phone or watching us from the corner of their eyes.
Alone.
For a second, I would have rather been on stage in front of millions of people than experience the fear of being alone with a stranger in a room.
Alone.
It was time to take that leap of faith...I guess...
I stopped crying halfway through the ride to downtown. My new husband passed me a tissue and held my hand. The oldest of the three teens, herself only 17, smiled shyly and looked embaressed. It was quiet and only a few spoke in whispers until my mother-in-law saw the SkyDome and asked whether this was our hotel. Everyone, including me, broke out in laughter and this somewhat eased the tension in the limo.
When we arrived, their family friends, who had followed the limo downtown, escorted us into the hotel. Our wedding suite was their gift to us. I was followed by at least ten people and the throngs of people in the lobby stopped and stared. It was not everyday a Pakistani bride, dressed to the nines with jewellery and a sequined dress enters a hotel with her own procession.
I looked up at times to find old people smiling at me and checking out my attire. As we walked into the elevator, I saw our reflection in the glass doors. We looked so young--me only at the ripe old age of 20 and him at 26. Two kids being guided up the hotel and shown to their room as if we were at home with our parents. That is how I felt--passed on from one set of parents to another.
The room was beautiful--a separate bedroom, a living suite, balcony and solarium. I was 'placed' on the sofa and my mother-in-law stood in front of me.
"Remove your jewellery and put it all in the safe," she said. I nodded obediently as I learned quickly that I could not speak. And as my father-in-law sat down to make himself comfortable, their family friend pulled him up and commanded everyone to leave. They all hugged me and were ushered to the door by my husband. I sat alone on the sofa and waited, not knowing quite sure what to do next. I could feel the weight of my heavily embroidered veil and jewellery weighing down my neck and shoulders. I sat back and looked out through the window at the lake and the rest of the skyline. It was a beautiful summer night, with clear skies and the lights of boats on the water.
I wanted to be on one of those boats, moving away toward the vast, dark unknown of the lake.
For now, I settled for the unknown of that night as my husband rounded the corner towards me after seeing his family off. We were finally alone. The two of us. No family member sitting in the same room, breathing heavily into a phone or watching us from the corner of their eyes.
Alone.
For a second, I would have rather been on stage in front of millions of people than experience the fear of being alone with a stranger in a room.
Alone.
It was time to take that leap of faith...I guess...
Sunday, July 31, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 65: Does milk really make you strong?
There were multiple flashes and I suddenly zoned out and taken to a time when I was a young girl.
"Where is Papa?" I inquired. She sat there on the sofa, knitting and watching tv at the same time.
"I told you, he has gone to get the groceries. You are so impatient. He will be back anytime.
I turned away from my mother and pressed my nose against the window pane. It was a cold winter day and my nose left an imprint.
Suddenly I saw the headlights of his car come onto the driveway. Hurriedly, I ran over to the stairs and made my way down in my pink nightie. It ravelled in between my legs and I had to hike it up over my knees to get down the stairs. He came through the door with paper bags.
"Go call your mother to help me," he said. I grabbed one of the bags to find it was quite heavy.
"No my dear. The milk is too heavy. Go call your mother. You take up the bread."
I shook my head and grabbed the jug of milk. "Papa, I am a strong girl! I can help you and take the milk," I said stubbornly as he and I played tug-of-war with the plastic milk jug. With bags in his other arm, he had no choice but to let go of the milk. I hauled it up the flight of stairs and panted upon reaching the top step. I beamed proudly and held it up as high as I could (which was close to my chin). But because the milk was cold and upon being in room temperature, a thin film of condensation had formed on the outside, rendering it slippery. I lost my grip and it fell from my hands, bouncing along each step of the stairs until it reached the bottom, where it cracked and splattered everywhere. There was milk on the floor, on the door and all over my father's dress pants.
I shuddered in fear and fell to my knees in pure and utter horror. I continued to stare at the floor where the jug lay in pieces and milk formed several puddles. I heard my mother come up behind me and gasp. I wanted to show him what a strong girl I was--to make him proud that I was his helper. Instead, I let him down and was about to suffer the consequences. My mother ran into the kitchen to grab a towel but I remain frozen at the top of the stairs. I could not look at him. Oddly, I did not hear him speak one word. And then slowly, I heard him climb the stairs, one footstep at a time. My heartbeat thundered in my chest and I thought that this was it.
He reached the top and sat down beside me and sighed. He lifted my chin with his hand and I stared up at him while large teardrops rolled down my face. He looked at me and smiled.
"Sometimes your dreams are too big and you want too much too fast. Slow down and grow up first," he said quietly.
"I am sorry Papa! I thought I could do it," I exclaimed and buried my head into his chest. My mother walked past us down the stairs while I cried in my father's arms. He stroked my hair to soothe me and then picked me up and put me into my bed.
I remember him waiting by my door and watching me as I dozed off to sleep. He may have been a strict father when I was growing up but I knew deep down inside that I would always be his favorite little girl, always trying to impress him and make him proud of me.
The flash from the camera continued and I came back to the hall. My husband looked over to see where I was looking and then immediately understood my pained expression. He took my veil and pulled it across my front as a way to protect me. It was no use. To see my father overcome with such emotion was the signal to release my floodgate. The whole night was surreal until this moment. Now I realized my life would change when I left the hall and moved in with my new family. No matter how hard I tried to push it back in the recesses of my mind, I suddenly became cognisant of the fact that my situation had become immensely real.
The photographer continued to click away but my tears propelled the end of the evening. My mother-in-law gave hand signals to her family and friends to wrap it up and start the procession outside. With a group of about thirty people left, I was told by my aunt to say goodbye to my family. The ceremony of the bride leaving her family is called Rukhsati and is almost always symbolized with the entire bridal party bidding the bride a final farewell and handing over to the groom's side. The Holy Quran is held over the couple as they leave--to leave in God's name and start a new life with Him in rememberance. From that point to the limo, everything was a blur. I only remember the last person I hugged. And that was my father.
"You grew up too fast. I brought you home from the hospital yesterday and tonight you are leaving me. It was only a blink of an eye," he cried in my ear. I pushed him back gently and smiled back wearily.
"Remember what you said, Dad. Don't cry over spilt milk," I winked, trying desperately to lighten the mood. He smiled sadly and kissed my forehead.
I got into the limo and looked out of the window.
I did not feel like a young woman. I did not feel like a bride. I was still that little girl, in the pink nightie, trying to convince her father she could be that strong girl who would do anything for her Papa....
"Where is Papa?" I inquired. She sat there on the sofa, knitting and watching tv at the same time.
"I told you, he has gone to get the groceries. You are so impatient. He will be back anytime.
I turned away from my mother and pressed my nose against the window pane. It was a cold winter day and my nose left an imprint.
Suddenly I saw the headlights of his car come onto the driveway. Hurriedly, I ran over to the stairs and made my way down in my pink nightie. It ravelled in between my legs and I had to hike it up over my knees to get down the stairs. He came through the door with paper bags.
"Go call your mother to help me," he said. I grabbed one of the bags to find it was quite heavy.
"No my dear. The milk is too heavy. Go call your mother. You take up the bread."
I shook my head and grabbed the jug of milk. "Papa, I am a strong girl! I can help you and take the milk," I said stubbornly as he and I played tug-of-war with the plastic milk jug. With bags in his other arm, he had no choice but to let go of the milk. I hauled it up the flight of stairs and panted upon reaching the top step. I beamed proudly and held it up as high as I could (which was close to my chin). But because the milk was cold and upon being in room temperature, a thin film of condensation had formed on the outside, rendering it slippery. I lost my grip and it fell from my hands, bouncing along each step of the stairs until it reached the bottom, where it cracked and splattered everywhere. There was milk on the floor, on the door and all over my father's dress pants.
I shuddered in fear and fell to my knees in pure and utter horror. I continued to stare at the floor where the jug lay in pieces and milk formed several puddles. I heard my mother come up behind me and gasp. I wanted to show him what a strong girl I was--to make him proud that I was his helper. Instead, I let him down and was about to suffer the consequences. My mother ran into the kitchen to grab a towel but I remain frozen at the top of the stairs. I could not look at him. Oddly, I did not hear him speak one word. And then slowly, I heard him climb the stairs, one footstep at a time. My heartbeat thundered in my chest and I thought that this was it.
He reached the top and sat down beside me and sighed. He lifted my chin with his hand and I stared up at him while large teardrops rolled down my face. He looked at me and smiled.
"Sometimes your dreams are too big and you want too much too fast. Slow down and grow up first," he said quietly.
"I am sorry Papa! I thought I could do it," I exclaimed and buried my head into his chest. My mother walked past us down the stairs while I cried in my father's arms. He stroked my hair to soothe me and then picked me up and put me into my bed.
I remember him waiting by my door and watching me as I dozed off to sleep. He may have been a strict father when I was growing up but I knew deep down inside that I would always be his favorite little girl, always trying to impress him and make him proud of me.
The flash from the camera continued and I came back to the hall. My husband looked over to see where I was looking and then immediately understood my pained expression. He took my veil and pulled it across my front as a way to protect me. It was no use. To see my father overcome with such emotion was the signal to release my floodgate. The whole night was surreal until this moment. Now I realized my life would change when I left the hall and moved in with my new family. No matter how hard I tried to push it back in the recesses of my mind, I suddenly became cognisant of the fact that my situation had become immensely real.
The photographer continued to click away but my tears propelled the end of the evening. My mother-in-law gave hand signals to her family and friends to wrap it up and start the procession outside. With a group of about thirty people left, I was told by my aunt to say goodbye to my family. The ceremony of the bride leaving her family is called Rukhsati and is almost always symbolized with the entire bridal party bidding the bride a final farewell and handing over to the groom's side. The Holy Quran is held over the couple as they leave--to leave in God's name and start a new life with Him in rememberance. From that point to the limo, everything was a blur. I only remember the last person I hugged. And that was my father.
"You grew up too fast. I brought you home from the hospital yesterday and tonight you are leaving me. It was only a blink of an eye," he cried in my ear. I pushed him back gently and smiled back wearily.
"Remember what you said, Dad. Don't cry over spilt milk," I winked, trying desperately to lighten the mood. He smiled sadly and kissed my forehead.
I got into the limo and looked out of the window.
I did not feel like a young woman. I did not feel like a bride. I was still that little girl, in the pink nightie, trying to convince her father she could be that strong girl who would do anything for her Papa....
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 64: Losing It
The women in my family walked me to the head table and sat me down next to my husband. I remember looking through my veil to the left where my side of family and guests were seated in the hall. The tables closest to the front were reserved for our extended family and my close friends. They were looking at me adoringly and whispering amongst themselves. I was more concerned that they did not have any gastric issues eating the spicy food for dinner.
My father's friend was MC for the evening and of course my father-in-law had requested his own MC to do the introductions on their side. I dreaded that there would be two head tables but that idea was scrapped just in time. My husband's school friend agreed to bring his equipment to play background music and set up in the corner of the hall.
The evening started with the bagpipers playing two songs. The entire congregration was flabbergasted. The Pakistani community watched and listened, not sure how to react as this was a novelty. Everyone applauded politely and the band departed. The speeches began with three of my closest childhood friends sharing embaressing moments and fond memories. What struck me most was that each them bawled their eyes out at the end of their speech as they stepped off the stage. They were really going to miss me. With all of us barely at the age of 19 and 20, I was being taken away too soon and at such a young age. We all had so many plans for the future--all to be thwarted by my marriage.
Dinner had begun and I begged my sister to go over to my friends from work and university to help them select their food from the buffet. My aunt brought food over for me and my husband but I only picked at my food. One of my aunt's closest friends came over and started teasing me in front of him.
"You are not eating those kabobs. Don't you want kabob tonite?" she winked at me and then nudged my aunt, who joined in the lewd humour.
I was mortified. My husband laughed it off but he became uncomfortable just like me. And to make matters worse, these two women continued their banter and antics for a good ten minutes while I pretended to be distracted by people who came to the head table to congratulate us. It was all captured on my wedding video but thank God the audio was dubbed over with Indian music!
When they left, I leaned over to him and apologized profusely. He was more accustomed to my father's side of the family who were a lot more anal and conservative in their demeanor--this was another wild side of the family I wasn't sure he would approve of. But he laughed it off and thought they were both fun. And then in the most serious manner, turned to me and asked if I was really going to eat the kabob. I laughed out loud and covered my mouth when I saw my father's sister shot me a stern look.
Yes, I was still a kid in their eyes and forever making mistakes that needed immediate correction.
Traditionally, towards the end of the reception, the photographer would take pictures and the families would get ready to leave. Of course, my wedding would defy all tradition and standards that everyone expected. My husband's friend, who was responsible for the music, announced that everyone should take to the dance floor and "Get down and boogie!" I looked over at my stunned father and back at my husband who shrugged his shoulders. His friend was not Muslim and proceeded to call out to the other Indian friends on my husband's side to come and party on the dance floor. All of a sudden, there was a light show and loud music. No Pakistani wedding in the early 90s had any form of dancing. Except mine.
Well this did not bode well with the religious elders in my community. They all stood up, came over to the head table, and bid us farewell with long faces. My father was talking to my father-in-law who shook his head and held up his hands. There was no way either of them could stop the 50 odd people on the dance floor from shaking their booties. I was too busy saying goodbye to a multitude of people who after making sure they had dinner and dessert, were ready to depart.
To my utter surprise, all of my conservative Pakistani friends, family friends and majority of my husband's side, got up and joined all the crazy Indian dancers and my work and university crowd. I smiled and waved at them politely when they asked us to get up. Typically, the groom and bride do NOT get up to dance. My aunt made sure that I did not get up. Instead she grabbed the photographer to take our pictures in the corner of the hall.
As the crowd dispersed and only family and close family friends remained around 12am, we took the last of many family pictures. When I did not see my father, my friend pointed him out to me at the far end of the hall.
He was hunched over, his shoulders moving up and down, with his hand over his eyes. There were three men consoling him. And then I realized that he was crying.
I averted my eyes and tried to smile in the camera.
Too bad. So sad. And in that moment, I turned and lost it too.
My father's friend was MC for the evening and of course my father-in-law had requested his own MC to do the introductions on their side. I dreaded that there would be two head tables but that idea was scrapped just in time. My husband's school friend agreed to bring his equipment to play background music and set up in the corner of the hall.
The evening started with the bagpipers playing two songs. The entire congregration was flabbergasted. The Pakistani community watched and listened, not sure how to react as this was a novelty. Everyone applauded politely and the band departed. The speeches began with three of my closest childhood friends sharing embaressing moments and fond memories. What struck me most was that each them bawled their eyes out at the end of their speech as they stepped off the stage. They were really going to miss me. With all of us barely at the age of 19 and 20, I was being taken away too soon and at such a young age. We all had so many plans for the future--all to be thwarted by my marriage.
Dinner had begun and I begged my sister to go over to my friends from work and university to help them select their food from the buffet. My aunt brought food over for me and my husband but I only picked at my food. One of my aunt's closest friends came over and started teasing me in front of him.
"You are not eating those kabobs. Don't you want kabob tonite?" she winked at me and then nudged my aunt, who joined in the lewd humour.
I was mortified. My husband laughed it off but he became uncomfortable just like me. And to make matters worse, these two women continued their banter and antics for a good ten minutes while I pretended to be distracted by people who came to the head table to congratulate us. It was all captured on my wedding video but thank God the audio was dubbed over with Indian music!
When they left, I leaned over to him and apologized profusely. He was more accustomed to my father's side of the family who were a lot more anal and conservative in their demeanor--this was another wild side of the family I wasn't sure he would approve of. But he laughed it off and thought they were both fun. And then in the most serious manner, turned to me and asked if I was really going to eat the kabob. I laughed out loud and covered my mouth when I saw my father's sister shot me a stern look.
Yes, I was still a kid in their eyes and forever making mistakes that needed immediate correction.
Traditionally, towards the end of the reception, the photographer would take pictures and the families would get ready to leave. Of course, my wedding would defy all tradition and standards that everyone expected. My husband's friend, who was responsible for the music, announced that everyone should take to the dance floor and "Get down and boogie!" I looked over at my stunned father and back at my husband who shrugged his shoulders. His friend was not Muslim and proceeded to call out to the other Indian friends on my husband's side to come and party on the dance floor. All of a sudden, there was a light show and loud music. No Pakistani wedding in the early 90s had any form of dancing. Except mine.
Well this did not bode well with the religious elders in my community. They all stood up, came over to the head table, and bid us farewell with long faces. My father was talking to my father-in-law who shook his head and held up his hands. There was no way either of them could stop the 50 odd people on the dance floor from shaking their booties. I was too busy saying goodbye to a multitude of people who after making sure they had dinner and dessert, were ready to depart.
To my utter surprise, all of my conservative Pakistani friends, family friends and majority of my husband's side, got up and joined all the crazy Indian dancers and my work and university crowd. I smiled and waved at them politely when they asked us to get up. Typically, the groom and bride do NOT get up to dance. My aunt made sure that I did not get up. Instead she grabbed the photographer to take our pictures in the corner of the hall.
As the crowd dispersed and only family and close family friends remained around 12am, we took the last of many family pictures. When I did not see my father, my friend pointed him out to me at the far end of the hall.
He was hunched over, his shoulders moving up and down, with his hand over his eyes. There were three men consoling him. And then I realized that he was crying.
I averted my eyes and tried to smile in the camera.
Too bad. So sad. And in that moment, I turned and lost it too.
Friday, July 22, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 63: Amazing Grace
My family led me downstairs into the living room for pre-reception pictures. I was so nervous that I knocked over a potted plant. My five year old cousin got a big kick out of that. At least someone laughed. Everyone else was tense and preoccupied.
We took many pictures and then the clock struck five. It was time to leave. As we walked out to the decorated cars, many drove by slowly to watch. Many people had not seen a Pakistani wedding party in our neighborhood - with most of them being Causcasian, it was a sight for sore eyes.
When we were in Pakistan the year before, I insisted on buying a white Pakistani wedding dress. My relatives balked at the idea but I was not about to wear red like the Hindu Indian brides. I wanted a mix of both cultures and it only seemed fitting for me to wear white. My father finally compromised on a cream coloured long dress with Pakistani silk embroidery and sequins with shocking pink and green hand-sewn beads. It was an original and I insisted on buying it. I had made a scene at the Karachi high-end shop which led to my father finally relenting so not to embaress the family friend who accompanied us as an advisor. I could tell she loved the dress too because she did not protest the purchase and helped bargain down the price!
We drove to the banquet hall where the reception was being held. Custom dictates that the bride arrives before the groom and is separated from him until his party arrives. I was placed in a room to await the arrival of my husband's party and his guests. My sister, two aunts, two cousins and three close friends kept me company, smoothing out my dress and fixing my hair and makeup. Everyone was excited.
And I was unexplicably an example of extreme calm. Over 400 people were to attend our wedding reception. 80% of them I would not know, including the groom's entire wedding party.
I finally got it and I think that's why I was so calm. I was ready for the excitement of the unknown. Ready to live within the moment.
Ready for the bagpipers.
Squeeze me?
That was the first sound I heard, even before the incessant chatter of the guests. My father-in-law was retired from working in a police office and requested the police band to accompany the groom's party. Back home, the tradition was that the groom arrived by horseback and was preceded by a band that beat traditional drums along with trumpet players. The men on the groom's side would dance upon entering the hall as a gesture that the groom had arrived. Instead I heard Amazing Grace blown through bagpipes. I sat frozen wondering if I had arrived at the wrong wedding!
You tell Pakistani people to arrive at six o'clock? They arrive at eight o'clock. The only filled and complete table were my friends from university and childhood. They read the invitation card correctly and made sure to be there on time despite my advice that everything would run late. My family took turns sitting with them while the other guests arrived.
After my husband and his family were seated at the head table (ONE head table), my aunts came back to fetch me. I stood up and four girls grabbed my arms and hands.
"I am not an invalid! I can walk to the head table myself," I exclaimed. My father's sister came over to me with a look that could kill.
"It is customary for the bride's side to bring her in. To hold her up and present her to the groom. We know you can walk and we know you can certainly talk but my dear, this is part of our cultural traditions. Would you oblige us?"
At that point I wanted to stick a fork through my eye. Was I that insensitive? Was it nerves? I was calm but maybe I wanted to get everything over and done with. I felt extremely embaressed as I looked at all the women in my family who had worked so hard to make sure that my wedding ran smoothly. I stopped and released myself unto their care.
"Take me to him," I smiled and hugged them all. My cousin started to cry and my heart jumped into my throat. This was it. They were giving me away much like how a father walks his daughter down the aisle and relinquishes his rights over her to her husband.
I remember bright lights and loud applause. Again, what I thought I would do and what I actually did where two different things. I wanted to hold my head up high and look him in the eye. When I came out into the hall and was confronted with 400 guests and an adoring husband standing up waiting for my arrival, I lowered my head and kept it that way for the next two hours...
So much for living in the moment.
We took many pictures and then the clock struck five. It was time to leave. As we walked out to the decorated cars, many drove by slowly to watch. Many people had not seen a Pakistani wedding party in our neighborhood - with most of them being Causcasian, it was a sight for sore eyes.
When we were in Pakistan the year before, I insisted on buying a white Pakistani wedding dress. My relatives balked at the idea but I was not about to wear red like the Hindu Indian brides. I wanted a mix of both cultures and it only seemed fitting for me to wear white. My father finally compromised on a cream coloured long dress with Pakistani silk embroidery and sequins with shocking pink and green hand-sewn beads. It was an original and I insisted on buying it. I had made a scene at the Karachi high-end shop which led to my father finally relenting so not to embaress the family friend who accompanied us as an advisor. I could tell she loved the dress too because she did not protest the purchase and helped bargain down the price!
We drove to the banquet hall where the reception was being held. Custom dictates that the bride arrives before the groom and is separated from him until his party arrives. I was placed in a room to await the arrival of my husband's party and his guests. My sister, two aunts, two cousins and three close friends kept me company, smoothing out my dress and fixing my hair and makeup. Everyone was excited.
And I was unexplicably an example of extreme calm. Over 400 people were to attend our wedding reception. 80% of them I would not know, including the groom's entire wedding party.
I finally got it and I think that's why I was so calm. I was ready for the excitement of the unknown. Ready to live within the moment.
Ready for the bagpipers.
Squeeze me?
That was the first sound I heard, even before the incessant chatter of the guests. My father-in-law was retired from working in a police office and requested the police band to accompany the groom's party. Back home, the tradition was that the groom arrived by horseback and was preceded by a band that beat traditional drums along with trumpet players. The men on the groom's side would dance upon entering the hall as a gesture that the groom had arrived. Instead I heard Amazing Grace blown through bagpipes. I sat frozen wondering if I had arrived at the wrong wedding!
You tell Pakistani people to arrive at six o'clock? They arrive at eight o'clock. The only filled and complete table were my friends from university and childhood. They read the invitation card correctly and made sure to be there on time despite my advice that everything would run late. My family took turns sitting with them while the other guests arrived.
After my husband and his family were seated at the head table (ONE head table), my aunts came back to fetch me. I stood up and four girls grabbed my arms and hands.
"I am not an invalid! I can walk to the head table myself," I exclaimed. My father's sister came over to me with a look that could kill.
"It is customary for the bride's side to bring her in. To hold her up and present her to the groom. We know you can walk and we know you can certainly talk but my dear, this is part of our cultural traditions. Would you oblige us?"
At that point I wanted to stick a fork through my eye. Was I that insensitive? Was it nerves? I was calm but maybe I wanted to get everything over and done with. I felt extremely embaressed as I looked at all the women in my family who had worked so hard to make sure that my wedding ran smoothly. I stopped and released myself unto their care.
"Take me to him," I smiled and hugged them all. My cousin started to cry and my heart jumped into my throat. This was it. They were giving me away much like how a father walks his daughter down the aisle and relinquishes his rights over her to her husband.
I remember bright lights and loud applause. Again, what I thought I would do and what I actually did where two different things. I wanted to hold my head up high and look him in the eye. When I came out into the hall and was confronted with 400 guests and an adoring husband standing up waiting for my arrival, I lowered my head and kept it that way for the next two hours...
So much for living in the moment.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 62: Last Day of the Life as I knew it
I didn't sleep that night. My two friends slept in my double bed with me that night. You got it. All three of us. I was stuck on the edge and rolled off the side a couple of times during the middle of the night.
And it was the strangest thing to be sleeping with my two best friends and sharing the bed with two women before my wedding night. You would think I was have a "Kumbaya" session with my own family. But to honestly say, they were so busy and had their minds wrapped around the logistics of the weddding reception that everyone was just too tired to sit and spend the evening with me.
Squeeze me?
Yes, they all went to bed at 3am Sunday morning and my friends stayed with me in my room. I told them there were enough rooms for them to bunk in on a proper bed, but they insisted to stay with me. There were bouts of laughter and then some teary-eyed memory sharing but for the most part, I didn't sleep from the snoring and heavy breathing.
I think I did catch about two hours of sleep, which were fitful and interrupted with thoughts of fear, worry, elation and confusion.
How did I get here? Even despite signing the papers the day before, I was still unsure if I could do this. A part of me was ready -- that was the boisterous, risk-taking, impetous side of me that governed my personality most of the time. However, there was the buried pensive, calculating and apprehensive part that seemed to anchor my elation. Maybe it was true -- that most Librans were always executing a balance act - hence the symbolism of the scales. Before my mother passed away, that wild, uninhibited, crazy side dominated my life. And she knew it existed but never tried to bottle it up like my father. She knew I had to fall and learn from my own mistakes and never judged me for it. Instead, she instilled positive reinforcement, delicately nudged me in the right direction and fed my spirtuality...only after her death.
And it was unadulterated irony, that to open my eyes, she had to close hers.
In a few hours, I would be leaving the life as I knew it.
And as her friends prepared the Canadian-Pakistani bride to finally meet her husband, the person propelled to her by unforeseen forces, she breathed deeply and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
"I don't recognize you," I said to the reflection.
"It is because you need to accept me. You must grow into my skin," she said. Her hair was coiffed in an elegant updo and her features were enhanced by a multitude of colours.
"But how do I do that?" I asked. The reflection looked back at me with a blank stare.
"Why do you ask so many questions? Why do you ask 'How do I do this' or 'How do I do that'? Do you think I have all the answers upfront?"
This question was remnicient of the times when I was about to try something new. I had to know all the answers before embarking on a new experience whereas many just went ahead and did it. The apprehensive, pensive side would kick in and make me question everything.
"Maybe you need to stop asking questions and just dive into it. Worry about it later. Ask questions later. Live in the moment and enjoy," the reflection responded.
I zoned back in when my friends chatter became increasingly noisy.
And when I looked back in the mirror, I did not recognize myself. But at this point, my reflection helped me not to care.
And it was the strangest thing to be sleeping with my two best friends and sharing the bed with two women before my wedding night. You would think I was have a "Kumbaya" session with my own family. But to honestly say, they were so busy and had their minds wrapped around the logistics of the weddding reception that everyone was just too tired to sit and spend the evening with me.
Squeeze me?
Yes, they all went to bed at 3am Sunday morning and my friends stayed with me in my room. I told them there were enough rooms for them to bunk in on a proper bed, but they insisted to stay with me. There were bouts of laughter and then some teary-eyed memory sharing but for the most part, I didn't sleep from the snoring and heavy breathing.
I think I did catch about two hours of sleep, which were fitful and interrupted with thoughts of fear, worry, elation and confusion.
How did I get here? Even despite signing the papers the day before, I was still unsure if I could do this. A part of me was ready -- that was the boisterous, risk-taking, impetous side of me that governed my personality most of the time. However, there was the buried pensive, calculating and apprehensive part that seemed to anchor my elation. Maybe it was true -- that most Librans were always executing a balance act - hence the symbolism of the scales. Before my mother passed away, that wild, uninhibited, crazy side dominated my life. And she knew it existed but never tried to bottle it up like my father. She knew I had to fall and learn from my own mistakes and never judged me for it. Instead, she instilled positive reinforcement, delicately nudged me in the right direction and fed my spirtuality...only after her death.
And it was unadulterated irony, that to open my eyes, she had to close hers.
In a few hours, I would be leaving the life as I knew it.
And as her friends prepared the Canadian-Pakistani bride to finally meet her husband, the person propelled to her by unforeseen forces, she breathed deeply and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
"I don't recognize you," I said to the reflection.
"It is because you need to accept me. You must grow into my skin," she said. Her hair was coiffed in an elegant updo and her features were enhanced by a multitude of colours.
"But how do I do that?" I asked. The reflection looked back at me with a blank stare.
"Why do you ask so many questions? Why do you ask 'How do I do this' or 'How do I do that'? Do you think I have all the answers upfront?"
This question was remnicient of the times when I was about to try something new. I had to know all the answers before embarking on a new experience whereas many just went ahead and did it. The apprehensive, pensive side would kick in and make me question everything.
"Maybe you need to stop asking questions and just dive into it. Worry about it later. Ask questions later. Live in the moment and enjoy," the reflection responded.
I zoned back in when my friends chatter became increasingly noisy.
And when I looked back in the mirror, I did not recognize myself. But at this point, my reflection helped me not to care.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 61: Party of the Century
My uncle came back upstairs after twenty minutes. The girls were fixing my veil to reveal my face to sit higher on top of my head. He was allowed to see me now since I was officially betrothed to him. And as the all-female procession left the bedroom, my youngest cousin who was five years old at the time, spread eagle at the top of stairs, barring all of us from going downstairs.
With tears in her eyes, she exclaimed, "I don't want you to leave me. Why is he taking you away?!"
I stood teetering on the first step as she put her arms across, preventing me from passing. Her mother yelled from behind me to move, but she would not relent.
"She is my Bhaji (my big sister) and I cannot let her go!' she cried. We were all embaressed because we knew she was in earshot of the entire male congregation in the living room.
I bent down, veil, jewellery and all so that I was at eye level with her.
"I am not leaving the family. We are inviting him to join OUR family. Now lets go downstairs so you can introduce me to him and I promise you can sit between us."
She thought for a minute and then nodded excitedly. I knew if I did not sway her with my promise, my aunt would have come around me, grab her and make her cry. I did not want that memory etched in my mind of a hysterical five year old crying while I entered holy matrimony!
As promised, she led me to him and he stood up from the living room sofa to let me sit beside him. And without hesitation, my little cousin sat in between us. He looked incredibly handsome and I became very shy. He wore a traditional shyarwani (tunic-styled black jacket with a white tight pant and kusay (Alladin typed shoes with a curl at the end). My cousin slid off the sofa and ended up sitting on the end of the shoe and eliminating the curl. Everyone laughed and commented on her cuteness. I was more cognisant of the fact that the man who sat to my left was now my husband.
We sat opposite from the Imam and felt constrained where I could look. I rarely looked up, only when someone was taking our picture. My aunts ran around feeding everyone while we sat on the loveseat with my friends and cousins. Everyone was teasing him about being married and he laughed easily. Everytime I opened my mouth, nothing came out. And for everyone who knew me, this was an anomaly. For some strange reason, I knew not what to talk about nor how to contribute to the conversation. Instead I was in awe, that after months of uncertainty and apprehension, I was finally sitting here at the end result. A married woman.
His father came to us and said they had to leave. Only one hour had elapsed and now my husband was leaving me. They had to head back to his home for his mehndi. Over 100 guests were coming over and that was why his mother did not show up for our nikkah ceremony--she was preparing for the second henna ceremony that night. Everyone from my side also needed to get ready--for my husband's mehndi was a mixed affair. Men and women, girls and boys were invited. They had decorated their basement to prepare for the event a week before. I was to stay home with my five year old cousin. Some things never changed. After everyone left, she insisted that we play hairdresser that night. I had to clean up after the nikkah ceremony. There was food and dishes everywhere and while she helped me place the dishes in the dishwasher, she kept asking me why I got married.
"Well one day you will too," I said as she passed me the cutlery.
"Ewww. No way. Mama says you are going to live with his family. Are you going to visit us still?"
"Of course I will silly!"
"Don't bring bhai (big brother)," she said, scrunching her nose.
"Why not? He is my husband now. I cannot leave him at home. He wants to see you too. See how nice he was even after you crushed his shoe today?" I said.
She paused, searching for another excuse not to accept him into the family. "We are all girls. No boys allowed!" She was getting mad and at this point refused to help me clean up and folded her arms across her chest. I sat down and put her on my lap.
"My brother is a boy and your cousin and you accept him. Now your new Bhai is here. If you ignore him, he might cry. Is that how your mother taught you to behave? There comes a time when you have to let new people into your life no matter how weird it feels. You never know how much you will love them." She finally smiled and then told me to braid her hair. As I was doing so, the phone rang.
"Hello, Mrs. _____" he said. I could hear girls in the background. It was him. My new husband.
I smiled into the phone. I had to balance it between my ear and my shoulder so not to disturb the braidmaking for my bossy cousin. "Hello, Mr. _____. Why is there so much noise?"
Again, I could hear girls giggling in the background and I grew jealous. Jealous of what, I dont know.
"I came upstairs to my room to call you. And a bunch of your friends followed me up wondering where I was going," he replied and I could hear my good friend saying hi to me. "I wish you here. It was hard to sign a paper and then leave you behind. I just wanted to let you know that I am thinking about you even though there is a huge party going on here."
It was true. I could hear loud music, girls screaming, guys yelling and all sorts of noises. And with all of this going on, he remembered that I was home alone, cleaning up the mess they left behind.
"I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. I will be thinking about you until then," he said shyly and I could hear the girls sighing in the background. He was trying to shoo them from the room. I did not want to continue the conversation if they were listening on his side.
"I will see you tomorrow, inshallah (God willing)," I smiled and hung up the phone. I stared off in space until my cousin slapped me in the arm.
"Stop dreaming and finish my braid," she barked.
He remembered me. My family came back from his mehndi at 3am that morning. My aunt had the old styled camera that was equipped with a VHS tape. They all were raving about the party and she stuck the tape into the VCR to show me. My jaw hit the ground for most of the two hours of video footage. Our side consisted of 50 women from our city. The older women sat around the walls of the basement while the girls had a dance-off with the girls on his side. Major competition. But what I had not seen in most mehdnis that I had attended were the guys dancing with the girls!
My husband was only 26 and majority of his friends were single, twenty-something guys dressed up in suits dancing with the girls from my side. This was certainly not the norm. My two friends did not shut up as I listened to their stories and who they fell in love with that night. All I knew was that I had a wedding reception to prepare for the next day and I fell asleep while my friends continued raving about the party of the century...
With tears in her eyes, she exclaimed, "I don't want you to leave me. Why is he taking you away?!"
I stood teetering on the first step as she put her arms across, preventing me from passing. Her mother yelled from behind me to move, but she would not relent.
"She is my Bhaji (my big sister) and I cannot let her go!' she cried. We were all embaressed because we knew she was in earshot of the entire male congregation in the living room.
I bent down, veil, jewellery and all so that I was at eye level with her.
"I am not leaving the family. We are inviting him to join OUR family. Now lets go downstairs so you can introduce me to him and I promise you can sit between us."
She thought for a minute and then nodded excitedly. I knew if I did not sway her with my promise, my aunt would have come around me, grab her and make her cry. I did not want that memory etched in my mind of a hysterical five year old crying while I entered holy matrimony!
As promised, she led me to him and he stood up from the living room sofa to let me sit beside him. And without hesitation, my little cousin sat in between us. He looked incredibly handsome and I became very shy. He wore a traditional shyarwani (tunic-styled black jacket with a white tight pant and kusay (Alladin typed shoes with a curl at the end). My cousin slid off the sofa and ended up sitting on the end of the shoe and eliminating the curl. Everyone laughed and commented on her cuteness. I was more cognisant of the fact that the man who sat to my left was now my husband.
We sat opposite from the Imam and felt constrained where I could look. I rarely looked up, only when someone was taking our picture. My aunts ran around feeding everyone while we sat on the loveseat with my friends and cousins. Everyone was teasing him about being married and he laughed easily. Everytime I opened my mouth, nothing came out. And for everyone who knew me, this was an anomaly. For some strange reason, I knew not what to talk about nor how to contribute to the conversation. Instead I was in awe, that after months of uncertainty and apprehension, I was finally sitting here at the end result. A married woman.
His father came to us and said they had to leave. Only one hour had elapsed and now my husband was leaving me. They had to head back to his home for his mehndi. Over 100 guests were coming over and that was why his mother did not show up for our nikkah ceremony--she was preparing for the second henna ceremony that night. Everyone from my side also needed to get ready--for my husband's mehndi was a mixed affair. Men and women, girls and boys were invited. They had decorated their basement to prepare for the event a week before. I was to stay home with my five year old cousin. Some things never changed. After everyone left, she insisted that we play hairdresser that night. I had to clean up after the nikkah ceremony. There was food and dishes everywhere and while she helped me place the dishes in the dishwasher, she kept asking me why I got married.
"Well one day you will too," I said as she passed me the cutlery.
"Ewww. No way. Mama says you are going to live with his family. Are you going to visit us still?"
"Of course I will silly!"
"Don't bring bhai (big brother)," she said, scrunching her nose.
"Why not? He is my husband now. I cannot leave him at home. He wants to see you too. See how nice he was even after you crushed his shoe today?" I said.
She paused, searching for another excuse not to accept him into the family. "We are all girls. No boys allowed!" She was getting mad and at this point refused to help me clean up and folded her arms across her chest. I sat down and put her on my lap.
"My brother is a boy and your cousin and you accept him. Now your new Bhai is here. If you ignore him, he might cry. Is that how your mother taught you to behave? There comes a time when you have to let new people into your life no matter how weird it feels. You never know how much you will love them." She finally smiled and then told me to braid her hair. As I was doing so, the phone rang.
"Hello, Mrs. _____" he said. I could hear girls in the background. It was him. My new husband.
I smiled into the phone. I had to balance it between my ear and my shoulder so not to disturb the braidmaking for my bossy cousin. "Hello, Mr. _____. Why is there so much noise?"
Again, I could hear girls giggling in the background and I grew jealous. Jealous of what, I dont know.
"I came upstairs to my room to call you. And a bunch of your friends followed me up wondering where I was going," he replied and I could hear my good friend saying hi to me. "I wish you here. It was hard to sign a paper and then leave you behind. I just wanted to let you know that I am thinking about you even though there is a huge party going on here."
It was true. I could hear loud music, girls screaming, guys yelling and all sorts of noises. And with all of this going on, he remembered that I was home alone, cleaning up the mess they left behind.
"I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. I will be thinking about you until then," he said shyly and I could hear the girls sighing in the background. He was trying to shoo them from the room. I did not want to continue the conversation if they were listening on his side.
"I will see you tomorrow, inshallah (God willing)," I smiled and hung up the phone. I stared off in space until my cousin slapped me in the arm.
"Stop dreaming and finish my braid," she barked.
He remembered me. My family came back from his mehndi at 3am that morning. My aunt had the old styled camera that was equipped with a VHS tape. They all were raving about the party and she stuck the tape into the VCR to show me. My jaw hit the ground for most of the two hours of video footage. Our side consisted of 50 women from our city. The older women sat around the walls of the basement while the girls had a dance-off with the girls on his side. Major competition. But what I had not seen in most mehdnis that I had attended were the guys dancing with the girls!
My husband was only 26 and majority of his friends were single, twenty-something guys dressed up in suits dancing with the girls from my side. This was certainly not the norm. My two friends did not shut up as I listened to their stories and who they fell in love with that night. All I knew was that I had a wedding reception to prepare for the next day and I fell asleep while my friends continued raving about the party of the century...
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 60: The Calligraphy Pen
Our wedding was only partially traditional. Take for instance the order of events. Typically the Pakistani wedding follows this order:
-Girls Mehndi (Henna ceremony)
-Boys Mehndi (Henna ceremony)
-Nikkah (Legal Ceremony)
-Baraat (Reception thrown by girls family)
-Walima (Reception thrown by boys family)
Ironically, out of all these events, the only truly Islamic functions are the Nikkah and Walima. Everything else has been inherited from Hindu culture. And since every Pakistani has Indian forefathers, many of the traditions have been passed down and over to our country. But again, there is a hazy divide from what is cultural and religious. Both are intertwined and viewed by many as inseparable.
My mehndi started off the festivities but it veered off the traditional course after that. And it was all because the events were planned around dates of bookings. During the tumultuous weeks leading up to my wedding when both families were having it out with each other, the events got mixed up. And it went like this:
-Friday night (my mehndi)
-Saturday morning (our nikkah)
-Saturday night (his mehndi)
-Sunday night (combined Baraat and Walima)
Basically, most decisions were cemented over economics. Cheaper for both sides to party out of a Church basement and his basement, have a wedding ceremony in the living room of my house and end with a combined event. My wedding had very little tradition in it due to all the shortcuts. Marry me in Pakistan and I am sure my father would tell me he was broke for the next ten years--weddings back home were a GRAND event, with no expense spared and the pomp and ceremony conducted in the atmosphere of competition where the groom and bride's family try to outdo the other.
Saturday morning arrived and I got up before everyone else did. It was 6am and my eyes flew open to the realization that I was to be married that day at the ripe old age of 20.
I looked at the chair tucked under my desk. My wedding ensemble was pressed and laid delicately over the chair. Tradition dictates that the groom's side provide the clothes to the bride on her wedding day. My outfit was reddish-orange. Not my first choice of colour however I accepted it graciously so not to offend my pending mother in law. The colour was very close to what my own mother wore on her wedding day so I did not make much of a fuss. I went downstairs, careful not to wake a sleeping house full of people including my relatives, grabbed a mop and bucket and began cleaning all the floors in the house.
Squeeze me?
It was surreal to be cleaning my house for the last time. Most people my age would abhor the thought of even picking up a broom on their wedding day but my mind was racing and to settle my nervousness, I had to keep myself physically busy. The satisfaction of seeing the floor shine, soothed me as I continued the back and forth movement--like being rocked. Little did I know, my father was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching me.
"I thought I heard someone up," he remarked quietly. Startled, I stopped and faced him but when I saw the expression on his face, I dumped the mop in the bucket and continued. He was wiping his brow; a sign that meant he did not know what to do or say next.
With my back to him, I replied. "The men left their shoes all over the place and the floor was a mess from last night. Everyone is coming soon for the nikkah ceremony. We can't have them enter to dirty floors!" I could not look at him because I knew I would lose it. Who would take care of him like this after I was gone? Boys were boys and my sister and I were like day and night--not on the same page. And still, here I was, going through the motions with the only intent to preserve what I knew, scared to make it different from any other day.
When I turned around, he was gone. I finished up the floors and then went to shower. I had no appetite and once the rest of the family awoke, the hustle and bustle of the day began. Back in the day, the beauty parlours for Pakistani hair and makeup did not exist. I ended up doing my own hair and makeup. I felt like I was preparing for a party--like I always did. But this time, I was preparing for my own wedding.
Two of my best Pakistani friends came over and were planning to sleep at my house that Saturday night. Their jaws dropped when I appeared from my bedroom. My childhood friend grabbed me by the arm and marched me to the picture that hung in our main hallway that was in the middle of four bedrooms. There, she took a picture of me next to my parent's wedding picture that hung on the wall. The resemblance was uncanny.
My mother and I were almost mirror images. Same hair, same makeup, same clothes. All unintentional. When I saw the picture later while putting it in my wedding albums, it really made me feel she was there with me that day.
I was ushered into my parent's bedroom and made to sit on the bed. Here my friends spread out my veil and sat next to me. The groom's side had just arrived along with the Imam (our religious priest). They were brought into the living room of our split level house. The partition was significant. Our vows would be conducted separately where three witnesses would be present to watch the proceedings.
In Islam, no bride should be coerced to be married. While I waited on the bed in my parents room, my father's brother came upstairs. He told me that the Imam and two male witnesses were coming upstairs to ask me for verbal and written consent for marriage. At that point my mind went completely blank. He left the room and I looked at my two aunts, my sister, my two female cousins and two best friends. A hush fell across the room and I saw my aunt dab her eyes. She came over and pulled my veil down and all I could see were my own hands in my lap. They were trembling.
The men filed in after the Imam who pulled up a chair by the side of the bed with a stack of long, legal-sized papers. He held a beautiful, calligraphy styled pen that entranced me and also helped me focus to prevent myself from flipping out.
He introduced himself and then began immediately with the first question.
"Are you here against your will?"
"No," I whispered.
He then asked me three times if I wished to take his (my fiancee's ) hand in marriage. Each time he asked the question, he paused to hear my answer as did the two men who accompanied him (these two men were friends of my father). They all had to lean in each time I answered because I could barely deliver an answer. Each yes was weaker than the one before and said with a hoarse voice. It was an automated response and delivered without emotion or thought. I was going through the motions all while staring at the pen that rested on the official wedding papers.
I felt like that pen. I would be picked up and moved by unseen forces to begin the unwritten story of my life. He would also use the same pen to help create the chapters that would weave into mine. And despite my fear, the risk factor was so exhilarating that I embraced it all in that moment and signed my signature with such care and beauty that even the Imam commented on my penmanship. He left explaining that now he would conduct the same procedure downstairs.
Everyone rushed over to me and pulled back my veil to see my reaction. They were all in tears and trying to soothe me. What they found instead was someone beaming a brilliant smile, ready to meet her new husband...
-Girls Mehndi (Henna ceremony)
-Boys Mehndi (Henna ceremony)
-Nikkah (Legal Ceremony)
-Baraat (Reception thrown by girls family)
-Walima (Reception thrown by boys family)
Ironically, out of all these events, the only truly Islamic functions are the Nikkah and Walima. Everything else has been inherited from Hindu culture. And since every Pakistani has Indian forefathers, many of the traditions have been passed down and over to our country. But again, there is a hazy divide from what is cultural and religious. Both are intertwined and viewed by many as inseparable.
My mehndi started off the festivities but it veered off the traditional course after that. And it was all because the events were planned around dates of bookings. During the tumultuous weeks leading up to my wedding when both families were having it out with each other, the events got mixed up. And it went like this:
-Friday night (my mehndi)
-Saturday morning (our nikkah)
-Saturday night (his mehndi)
-Sunday night (combined Baraat and Walima)
Basically, most decisions were cemented over economics. Cheaper for both sides to party out of a Church basement and his basement, have a wedding ceremony in the living room of my house and end with a combined event. My wedding had very little tradition in it due to all the shortcuts. Marry me in Pakistan and I am sure my father would tell me he was broke for the next ten years--weddings back home were a GRAND event, with no expense spared and the pomp and ceremony conducted in the atmosphere of competition where the groom and bride's family try to outdo the other.
Saturday morning arrived and I got up before everyone else did. It was 6am and my eyes flew open to the realization that I was to be married that day at the ripe old age of 20.
I looked at the chair tucked under my desk. My wedding ensemble was pressed and laid delicately over the chair. Tradition dictates that the groom's side provide the clothes to the bride on her wedding day. My outfit was reddish-orange. Not my first choice of colour however I accepted it graciously so not to offend my pending mother in law. The colour was very close to what my own mother wore on her wedding day so I did not make much of a fuss. I went downstairs, careful not to wake a sleeping house full of people including my relatives, grabbed a mop and bucket and began cleaning all the floors in the house.
Squeeze me?
It was surreal to be cleaning my house for the last time. Most people my age would abhor the thought of even picking up a broom on their wedding day but my mind was racing and to settle my nervousness, I had to keep myself physically busy. The satisfaction of seeing the floor shine, soothed me as I continued the back and forth movement--like being rocked. Little did I know, my father was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching me.
"I thought I heard someone up," he remarked quietly. Startled, I stopped and faced him but when I saw the expression on his face, I dumped the mop in the bucket and continued. He was wiping his brow; a sign that meant he did not know what to do or say next.
With my back to him, I replied. "The men left their shoes all over the place and the floor was a mess from last night. Everyone is coming soon for the nikkah ceremony. We can't have them enter to dirty floors!" I could not look at him because I knew I would lose it. Who would take care of him like this after I was gone? Boys were boys and my sister and I were like day and night--not on the same page. And still, here I was, going through the motions with the only intent to preserve what I knew, scared to make it different from any other day.
When I turned around, he was gone. I finished up the floors and then went to shower. I had no appetite and once the rest of the family awoke, the hustle and bustle of the day began. Back in the day, the beauty parlours for Pakistani hair and makeup did not exist. I ended up doing my own hair and makeup. I felt like I was preparing for a party--like I always did. But this time, I was preparing for my own wedding.
Two of my best Pakistani friends came over and were planning to sleep at my house that Saturday night. Their jaws dropped when I appeared from my bedroom. My childhood friend grabbed me by the arm and marched me to the picture that hung in our main hallway that was in the middle of four bedrooms. There, she took a picture of me next to my parent's wedding picture that hung on the wall. The resemblance was uncanny.
My mother and I were almost mirror images. Same hair, same makeup, same clothes. All unintentional. When I saw the picture later while putting it in my wedding albums, it really made me feel she was there with me that day.
I was ushered into my parent's bedroom and made to sit on the bed. Here my friends spread out my veil and sat next to me. The groom's side had just arrived along with the Imam (our religious priest). They were brought into the living room of our split level house. The partition was significant. Our vows would be conducted separately where three witnesses would be present to watch the proceedings.
In Islam, no bride should be coerced to be married. While I waited on the bed in my parents room, my father's brother came upstairs. He told me that the Imam and two male witnesses were coming upstairs to ask me for verbal and written consent for marriage. At that point my mind went completely blank. He left the room and I looked at my two aunts, my sister, my two female cousins and two best friends. A hush fell across the room and I saw my aunt dab her eyes. She came over and pulled my veil down and all I could see were my own hands in my lap. They were trembling.
The men filed in after the Imam who pulled up a chair by the side of the bed with a stack of long, legal-sized papers. He held a beautiful, calligraphy styled pen that entranced me and also helped me focus to prevent myself from flipping out.
He introduced himself and then began immediately with the first question.
"Are you here against your will?"
"No," I whispered.
He then asked me three times if I wished to take his (my fiancee's ) hand in marriage. Each time he asked the question, he paused to hear my answer as did the two men who accompanied him (these two men were friends of my father). They all had to lean in each time I answered because I could barely deliver an answer. Each yes was weaker than the one before and said with a hoarse voice. It was an automated response and delivered without emotion or thought. I was going through the motions all while staring at the pen that rested on the official wedding papers.
I felt like that pen. I would be picked up and moved by unseen forces to begin the unwritten story of my life. He would also use the same pen to help create the chapters that would weave into mine. And despite my fear, the risk factor was so exhilarating that I embraced it all in that moment and signed my signature with such care and beauty that even the Imam commented on my penmanship. He left explaining that now he would conduct the same procedure downstairs.
Everyone rushed over to me and pulled back my veil to see my reaction. They were all in tears and trying to soothe me. What they found instead was someone beaming a brilliant smile, ready to meet her new husband...
Monday, July 4, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 59: It's hard to be demure...
"It's garbage night." I sat across from my father, staring off into space, not blinking or taking note that he was addressing me.
Four more days until my mehndi. And life continued in the most normal way. Someone still had to take out the garbage.
"Everytime I talk to you, it seems you are in another land," my father noted while getting up from the kitchen table to put his dinner dishes away. My brother smirked from his seat while my sister looked from me to my father.
"She is in la-la land. She will be married soon and forget about all of us. I guess I will have to take the garbage out when she leaves," my sister said emphatically.
I reflected on those words. When she leaves. There was such a final tone to it that I wondered how it would actually feel--not to be in my family home, taking out the garbage, talking on the phone with my friends, changing universities and jobs. All for one man. I was sure giving up a whole lot. Would it be worth it in the end?
"She is dreaming about Spain," my brother suspected. "Make sure you go see a bullfight in Madrid.
The honeymoon. We were supposed to leave two days after the wedding reception. The tickets were booked, the itinerary set and the luggage packed. I sat dumbfounded--packing for two departures--one for the trip and the other...for the rest of my life.
"All I know is that its a very delicate time in her life so you two should cherish the last couple of days we are here together as a family and reflect over the years that you have shared as brother and sister." My father looked at all of us, teared up and then left the room. My brother stared at me intently while my sister non-chalantly read the newspaper. I had always been closer to him and I knew he was thinking what I was thinking. He was only 15 when she died and now I was like a mother to him. And he would soon lose me too.
The house was full by the next day with our extended family. Both my aunts prepared the mehndi trays--full of sweets, flowers and the henna (mehndi) that would adorn my hands and feet in a few days. I went to the church to confirm the booking and spoke at length with the pastor, going over the details of what would happen at the mehndi. We had invited over 50 women from our community and my inlaws would be bringing over 50 women from their side.
The pastor was intrigued by the whole ceremony. But what appealed to him more was the concept of the arranged marriage.
"So no dating or courtship before you marry?" he asked.
"No. But we do meet in a chaperoned environment. Its not like I am being forced to marry. At the end of the day, I have the right to refuse," I reassured him. He stood beside me as we looked at the stage in the church basement.
And then out of nowhere, he asked me the question everyone wanted to ask me but did not have the nerve.
"Do you love him?" He looked at me straight in the eye but with a kind smile.If anyone else had asked me this question, I knew I would go on the defensive but with the pastor, I felt at ease. Easy enough to be honest with him, and myself.
"No. But I will learn to love him," I said without thinking. The pastor paused and then took my hand into his.
"You are a very mature girl for your age. I am sure losing your mother so young made you look at the world with different eyes. I wish you happiness in your new life. And I give the same advice as I do with any couple ready to get married--arranged marriage or not. The more you invest in your marriage, the more valuable it becomes. There is no such thing as the perfect marriage--accept all that is good and accept all the flaws. You will be fine." I was waiting for him to say, And don't trash the Church, but he nodded and walked away.
We had to prepare food and drinks in two places. The mehndi was an all-women event and the few men who would bring their wives, mothers, and daughter to this event ended up spending the evening at my house with my father and talking politics over many cups of tea.
When all the decorations and food had been set at the Church that evening, I was whisked into a room and told to change in a yellow outfit with the veil. I was to wear no makeup and pin my hair back. The idea was to look simple and plain on this day because I would be made up and look like a beautiful bride on my wedding day. I sat in the room while my friends and aunts fussed over my clothes and fixed my hair. My fiancee's side had left an hour before and were on their way. Ironically, I did not feel nervous. While my aunts made arrangements in the hall to greet their family, I sat with my friends, joking about the cemetery next door.
"They are going to stop dead in their tracks when they see you!"
"I am sure his mom is dying to get you married."
"Your so pale--its looks like you saw a ghost."
We were laughing so hard that my aunt had to come in several times to scold me about not acting like a lady and being too loud. We would quiet down only to start up again.
"Don't ever stop being fun. I mean, don't get all serious after you marry," one of my friends said in a sombre manner.
"My circumstances may change but I am still me," I said. "If I don't laugh now, I will be crying instead." There was a hush amongst my friends and everyone pondered my words.
"They are here," my aunt exclaimed, running over to me to cover my face with the veil. "Stop smiling and look down. If I see you look up, I will hit you behind the head, do you hear me?" she threatened. I nodded and winked secretly to my friends.
The girls formed a grouping around me. Three on the right and three on the left. A large decorative shawl was hoisted above my head as they walked me into the hall when my inlaws arrived. Dutifully, I kept my head bowed and only feet and shoes as I made my way to the stage. The music was loud with my guests playing the tabla and dholki drums and singing wedding songs.
My mother-in-law approached me and pulled up my veil to kiss me on the forehead. She proceeded to put gold bangles on my hands and shove Pakistani sweets in my mouth. I am pretty sure I consumed five pounds of sweets that night with all the women feeding and lifting my veil to comment on my looks. I listened in silence, growing tired of all the gawking and food shovelling.
Fresh henna was applied to my hands and feet while I watched the girls from my side and his side dance the night away. I was not allowed to get up and dance. I had to sit, the demure bride-to-be: simple, unadorned, chastely looking down and pretending to be innocent. Since I was not used to the cultural expectations, I was told constantly to stop laughing, smiling, looking up or talking to anyone by my elders.
When the night was over and the guests filed out, I threw back my veil and lay back on the sequined pillows, flinging my arm over my face in pure exhaustion.
Tomorrow I would be officially married in my own house. It was time to sign my life away...
Four more days until my mehndi. And life continued in the most normal way. Someone still had to take out the garbage.
"Everytime I talk to you, it seems you are in another land," my father noted while getting up from the kitchen table to put his dinner dishes away. My brother smirked from his seat while my sister looked from me to my father.
"She is in la-la land. She will be married soon and forget about all of us. I guess I will have to take the garbage out when she leaves," my sister said emphatically.
I reflected on those words. When she leaves. There was such a final tone to it that I wondered how it would actually feel--not to be in my family home, taking out the garbage, talking on the phone with my friends, changing universities and jobs. All for one man. I was sure giving up a whole lot. Would it be worth it in the end?
"She is dreaming about Spain," my brother suspected. "Make sure you go see a bullfight in Madrid.
The honeymoon. We were supposed to leave two days after the wedding reception. The tickets were booked, the itinerary set and the luggage packed. I sat dumbfounded--packing for two departures--one for the trip and the other...for the rest of my life.
"All I know is that its a very delicate time in her life so you two should cherish the last couple of days we are here together as a family and reflect over the years that you have shared as brother and sister." My father looked at all of us, teared up and then left the room. My brother stared at me intently while my sister non-chalantly read the newspaper. I had always been closer to him and I knew he was thinking what I was thinking. He was only 15 when she died and now I was like a mother to him. And he would soon lose me too.
The house was full by the next day with our extended family. Both my aunts prepared the mehndi trays--full of sweets, flowers and the henna (mehndi) that would adorn my hands and feet in a few days. I went to the church to confirm the booking and spoke at length with the pastor, going over the details of what would happen at the mehndi. We had invited over 50 women from our community and my inlaws would be bringing over 50 women from their side.
The pastor was intrigued by the whole ceremony. But what appealed to him more was the concept of the arranged marriage.
"So no dating or courtship before you marry?" he asked.
"No. But we do meet in a chaperoned environment. Its not like I am being forced to marry. At the end of the day, I have the right to refuse," I reassured him. He stood beside me as we looked at the stage in the church basement.
And then out of nowhere, he asked me the question everyone wanted to ask me but did not have the nerve.
"Do you love him?" He looked at me straight in the eye but with a kind smile.If anyone else had asked me this question, I knew I would go on the defensive but with the pastor, I felt at ease. Easy enough to be honest with him, and myself.
"No. But I will learn to love him," I said without thinking. The pastor paused and then took my hand into his.
"You are a very mature girl for your age. I am sure losing your mother so young made you look at the world with different eyes. I wish you happiness in your new life. And I give the same advice as I do with any couple ready to get married--arranged marriage or not. The more you invest in your marriage, the more valuable it becomes. There is no such thing as the perfect marriage--accept all that is good and accept all the flaws. You will be fine." I was waiting for him to say, And don't trash the Church, but he nodded and walked away.
We had to prepare food and drinks in two places. The mehndi was an all-women event and the few men who would bring their wives, mothers, and daughter to this event ended up spending the evening at my house with my father and talking politics over many cups of tea.
When all the decorations and food had been set at the Church that evening, I was whisked into a room and told to change in a yellow outfit with the veil. I was to wear no makeup and pin my hair back. The idea was to look simple and plain on this day because I would be made up and look like a beautiful bride on my wedding day. I sat in the room while my friends and aunts fussed over my clothes and fixed my hair. My fiancee's side had left an hour before and were on their way. Ironically, I did not feel nervous. While my aunts made arrangements in the hall to greet their family, I sat with my friends, joking about the cemetery next door.
"They are going to stop dead in their tracks when they see you!"
"I am sure his mom is dying to get you married."
"Your so pale--its looks like you saw a ghost."
We were laughing so hard that my aunt had to come in several times to scold me about not acting like a lady and being too loud. We would quiet down only to start up again.
"Don't ever stop being fun. I mean, don't get all serious after you marry," one of my friends said in a sombre manner.
"My circumstances may change but I am still me," I said. "If I don't laugh now, I will be crying instead." There was a hush amongst my friends and everyone pondered my words.
"They are here," my aunt exclaimed, running over to me to cover my face with the veil. "Stop smiling and look down. If I see you look up, I will hit you behind the head, do you hear me?" she threatened. I nodded and winked secretly to my friends.
The girls formed a grouping around me. Three on the right and three on the left. A large decorative shawl was hoisted above my head as they walked me into the hall when my inlaws arrived. Dutifully, I kept my head bowed and only feet and shoes as I made my way to the stage. The music was loud with my guests playing the tabla and dholki drums and singing wedding songs.
My mother-in-law approached me and pulled up my veil to kiss me on the forehead. She proceeded to put gold bangles on my hands and shove Pakistani sweets in my mouth. I am pretty sure I consumed five pounds of sweets that night with all the women feeding and lifting my veil to comment on my looks. I listened in silence, growing tired of all the gawking and food shovelling.
Fresh henna was applied to my hands and feet while I watched the girls from my side and his side dance the night away. I was not allowed to get up and dance. I had to sit, the demure bride-to-be: simple, unadorned, chastely looking down and pretending to be innocent. Since I was not used to the cultural expectations, I was told constantly to stop laughing, smiling, looking up or talking to anyone by my elders.
When the night was over and the guests filed out, I threw back my veil and lay back on the sequined pillows, flinging my arm over my face in pure exhaustion.
Tomorrow I would be officially married in my own house. It was time to sign my life away...
Thursday, June 30, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 58: Sleeping with the Enemy
He turned the key to the hotel room door and walked in. I remained at the threshold of the door. Come in, he waved at me and I reluctantly followed. The room was decorated with rose petals--all over the floor, on the bed and around the bed posts. There were bouquets and flower arrangements everywhere. The sight left a dizzying affect on me but I was enthralled.
We stopped at the foot of the bed and he motioned me to sit down. I remained standing and turned to leave the room but he caught my hand and pulled me back into his arms. He held me for what seemed a long time. I could hear his heart pounding as I buried my head in his chest. I was too nervous to look up. I could feel his taut muscles through his shirt as my hands moved down from his shoulders to his arm. I turned my head to the right and saw our reflection in the mirror. I did not recognize her. She was all grown up, ready to embark on a new chapter in her life, looking scared but willing to take things as they would come.
I felt uneasy but willed myself to comply. He sat me down at the edge of the bed and removed my veil. He gingerly removed each hairpin slowly and took my hand to place each one in it so he would not lose any on the bed. I watched him as he did and studied his face. It was young but very handsome. He avoided eye contact. I stared without blinking. When he took my veil from my head, he opened my hair and let it fall around my shoulders. He caught me staring back and again, averted my gaze. Then he stood up and removed his jacket and tie. I too, got up and walked over to the dresser and removed all my jewellery. I looked in the mirror and he was watching. It sent shivers down my spine. My heart was in my throat. My chest was heaving with deep breaths as he walked over to me and put his arms around me from behind and kissed the nape of my neck. I knew what was coming and I thought I was ready. Until.
Until...
I woke up with a jolt. I was sweating despite the air blowing on me from oscillating fan near my bed. It seemed so real. I was breathing heavily and feeling strange. I looked around the room and realized I was in my bedroom at home. It was 7am. I was not there...in that hotel room. There were no flowers. I sat up and steadied myself. It took me a good minute to understand that it had all been a dream.
It took another good minute for my breathing to slow down...only to start hyperventilating once again. I got up, threw on my bathrobe and ran downstairs to the front door. I went outside and gulped the early morning air while pacing the front porch...my mind was deliriously going in circles but resting only on one thought...
One thought.
"Its 7:30am in the morning on a Saturday! You are like one of my kids--not letting me sleep in!" Yvonne exclaimed. I did not know who to call. She had expressed her doubts in the beginning when I told her about my arranged marriage, in between lectures and breaks at night school. But as she heard more, she fell in love with the idea and embraced the notion completely.
"It's ok. These feelings are natural. Everyone gets cold feet," she assured me.
"You are not listening to me. It's not like I have cold feet. Its just...well, I have barely had a complete conversation with him and now I realize that I...I will be...in one week...you know...I had this dream and I don't think I can do this," I whispered.
Yvonne was confused. And rightly so. I made absolutely no sense and was speaking in some secret language without letting her in on the secret. There was no other way. I just had to come out and say it.
"How do you sleep with a man you don't know?!!?" I yelled into the phone. The startled newspaper boy, instead of leaving the paper on the porch, dropped it at the end of the driveway and walked away slowly. He was scared but intrigued by the sight of a young, petrified girl, dressed only in a bathrobe, with dishevelled hair, pacing frantically and yelling into phone on a early Saturday morning.
Yvonne paused and chose her words very carefully. "Now you realize this? I have been wondering from the time I met you when you were going to come to this epiphany. Listen, even I waited until I was married. It's no big deal. You have your whole life ahead of you," she said calmly. I could feel the bile rising in my throat. I had my whole life ahead of me--with this one man who I had not even kissed, let alone held hands with. I stopped pacing and sat in the wicker chair next to the garden.
My decision to have an arranged marriage was so much bigger than me. It enveloped me whole without chewing or digesting the idea. And it was only now that I grasped the reality of my situation.
"Did you have a bad dream," she asked. I paused and reflected.
"No, it was not bad at all. But it felt real. The emotions were real and I felt everything...the look, the touch, everything," I sighed. It hit me that waking up from the dream was the worst part--it made me overanalyze it all.
"Darling, you made your decision long ago. You married an idea...a notion...a concept. You took it for face value. Now is the time to live it, accept it and move on with it. You don't need me to validate it or talk you out of this. You have pre-marriage jitters and it's...it's ok. You will find every excuse in the book not to go through with this but in essence, even though its an arranged marriage, you are going through the most normal feelings any bride would be going through. I am here for you. Just try calling me after 9 next time," Yvonne joked.
I hung up the phone, went back upstairs and climbed back into bed. I fell back asleep, exhausted and hoped that the dream would continue. It did not come back to me for those few hours. No matter how hard I willed it.
Yvonne was right. I had to let the dream become a reality. It was time to accept the inevitable, the expected. I was no different than any other girl entering an arranged marriage.
And the problem became apparent. I was sleeping with the enemy. And the enemy was me.
We stopped at the foot of the bed and he motioned me to sit down. I remained standing and turned to leave the room but he caught my hand and pulled me back into his arms. He held me for what seemed a long time. I could hear his heart pounding as I buried my head in his chest. I was too nervous to look up. I could feel his taut muscles through his shirt as my hands moved down from his shoulders to his arm. I turned my head to the right and saw our reflection in the mirror. I did not recognize her. She was all grown up, ready to embark on a new chapter in her life, looking scared but willing to take things as they would come.
I felt uneasy but willed myself to comply. He sat me down at the edge of the bed and removed my veil. He gingerly removed each hairpin slowly and took my hand to place each one in it so he would not lose any on the bed. I watched him as he did and studied his face. It was young but very handsome. He avoided eye contact. I stared without blinking. When he took my veil from my head, he opened my hair and let it fall around my shoulders. He caught me staring back and again, averted my gaze. Then he stood up and removed his jacket and tie. I too, got up and walked over to the dresser and removed all my jewellery. I looked in the mirror and he was watching. It sent shivers down my spine. My heart was in my throat. My chest was heaving with deep breaths as he walked over to me and put his arms around me from behind and kissed the nape of my neck. I knew what was coming and I thought I was ready. Until.
Until...
I woke up with a jolt. I was sweating despite the air blowing on me from oscillating fan near my bed. It seemed so real. I was breathing heavily and feeling strange. I looked around the room and realized I was in my bedroom at home. It was 7am. I was not there...in that hotel room. There were no flowers. I sat up and steadied myself. It took me a good minute to understand that it had all been a dream.
It took another good minute for my breathing to slow down...only to start hyperventilating once again. I got up, threw on my bathrobe and ran downstairs to the front door. I went outside and gulped the early morning air while pacing the front porch...my mind was deliriously going in circles but resting only on one thought...
One thought.
"Its 7:30am in the morning on a Saturday! You are like one of my kids--not letting me sleep in!" Yvonne exclaimed. I did not know who to call. She had expressed her doubts in the beginning when I told her about my arranged marriage, in between lectures and breaks at night school. But as she heard more, she fell in love with the idea and embraced the notion completely.
"It's ok. These feelings are natural. Everyone gets cold feet," she assured me.
"You are not listening to me. It's not like I have cold feet. Its just...well, I have barely had a complete conversation with him and now I realize that I...I will be...in one week...you know...I had this dream and I don't think I can do this," I whispered.
Yvonne was confused. And rightly so. I made absolutely no sense and was speaking in some secret language without letting her in on the secret. There was no other way. I just had to come out and say it.
"How do you sleep with a man you don't know?!!?" I yelled into the phone. The startled newspaper boy, instead of leaving the paper on the porch, dropped it at the end of the driveway and walked away slowly. He was scared but intrigued by the sight of a young, petrified girl, dressed only in a bathrobe, with dishevelled hair, pacing frantically and yelling into phone on a early Saturday morning.
Yvonne paused and chose her words very carefully. "Now you realize this? I have been wondering from the time I met you when you were going to come to this epiphany. Listen, even I waited until I was married. It's no big deal. You have your whole life ahead of you," she said calmly. I could feel the bile rising in my throat. I had my whole life ahead of me--with this one man who I had not even kissed, let alone held hands with. I stopped pacing and sat in the wicker chair next to the garden.
My decision to have an arranged marriage was so much bigger than me. It enveloped me whole without chewing or digesting the idea. And it was only now that I grasped the reality of my situation.
"Did you have a bad dream," she asked. I paused and reflected.
"No, it was not bad at all. But it felt real. The emotions were real and I felt everything...the look, the touch, everything," I sighed. It hit me that waking up from the dream was the worst part--it made me overanalyze it all.
"Darling, you made your decision long ago. You married an idea...a notion...a concept. You took it for face value. Now is the time to live it, accept it and move on with it. You don't need me to validate it or talk you out of this. You have pre-marriage jitters and it's...it's ok. You will find every excuse in the book not to go through with this but in essence, even though its an arranged marriage, you are going through the most normal feelings any bride would be going through. I am here for you. Just try calling me after 9 next time," Yvonne joked.
I hung up the phone, went back upstairs and climbed back into bed. I fell back asleep, exhausted and hoped that the dream would continue. It did not come back to me for those few hours. No matter how hard I willed it.
Yvonne was right. I had to let the dream become a reality. It was time to accept the inevitable, the expected. I was no different than any other girl entering an arranged marriage.
And the problem became apparent. I was sleeping with the enemy. And the enemy was me.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 57: Two head tables and a lot of hot air in between
The entire family left to my fiancee's house that weekend. I was left behind to plan for my mehndi which was occuring Friday August 31st. I was ordering the food and arranging for the decorations. We decided not to have the function at home as originally planned. Ironically, my father found a church to have my mehndi at! I nearly bowled over with laughter when he told me that he booked the church for that evening. When we went to see it, there was a cemetery right beside it. I turned to him incredulously.
"Dad! Are you kidding me? You want my mehndi next to a graveyard?!" My knuckles were turning white as I clutched the car door handle.
"Let's go in and speak the pastor. The rate is cheap and we are allowed to bring our own food," he said excitedly as we went in. The hall portion to the church was rather large and would house the 100 women that were invited. The pastor was very kind and inquisitive about our traditions and culture. Personally, I think he wanted to make sure we would not be having any seances or holy muslim rituals in the middle of his church.
What both my father and I forgot to ask was about the air conditioning. Or lack thereof! As you will learn, his mehndi would prove a much hotter affair!
With the church booked, my father, along with his brother and wife, my aunt who was visiting from Pakistan (his younger sister) and my siblings all headed over to my inlaws to discuss details about the actual wedding day and reception.
I finished up my tasks and moped around the house waiting for them to come back. Around 10pm, they waltzed in the door but every face I saw was gloomy. My heart immediately sank and I was scared to ask. I didn't need to. My aunt unleashed a tirade of compliants before I opened my mouth.
"I cannot believe these people! The nerve of them. How dare they ask the questions they asked!" she exclaimed while flopping herself on the sofa beside me. My father's sister was wringing her hands and clucking her tongue. My father and uncle were in a sombre mood and kept very quiet.
"Ok, I am sure it was not that bad," I reassured, trying to lighten the mood and lower their collective blood pressure. My father furrowed his brow and I saw that vein pulsating on his forehead.
"Not that bad you say? His father wants us to have TWO HEAD TABLES! I have never in my 30 years of living here seen TWO HEAD TABLES at a Pakistani wedding! He wants one for his family and one for our family! Aren't we all becoming one family with the marriage of our children? The community will arrive and laugh when they see two separate tables! They will talk about it for years," he cried while throwing his hands up in the air. They were so loud that I cringed every time they yelled because their voices carried out through the open windows and into the street.
My aunt joined in his frustration. "And his mother...Oh my Goodness! What can I say about her? She is a clever one, my dear! You have to watch out for that lady! She had the nerve to ask us what we are giving you before you marry! It is none of her business. Your dowry from your father is not her right. She should have told us what she is giving in your dowry so we do not duplicate it before we marry you off! When your father said he was thinking of buying you a car and giving you his Royal Albert china, she was smiling and asking..'what else?' UGH! We did not go there to discuss this!" She turned to my father who shook his head.
"I should have stayed quiet," he remarked. "Now I am not happy with these turn of events!"
I sat with my jaw dropped. I looked at each one of them, one by one and was mortified with what I heard. I could not keep quiet. Weeks of built up stress and anxiety that had been brimming at the surface could no longer be contained. I stood up and let everyone have it.
"I AM NOT FOR SALE! You are all treating me like there is a dollar sign on my head! Is this what Pakistani marriage is all about? Marry me off and see what dowry I get from his family wait in anticipation for my dowry. This is not the Islamic way! The only thing Islamic here is the maher (before marriage, the couple agrees with an Imam about what the husband will give his wife at the time of divorce--a sort of prenuptial agreement). We have never discussed our dowries to each other nor anything about money, clothes, jewellery, furniture or cars! We just want to get married and get it over with! They want two head tables...then GIVE THEM TWO HEAD TABLES. Just make sure he and I are at the SAME TABLE!" I roared and then ran upstairs. I threw myself on my bed and could not stop the tears from flowing. I could feel myself being emptied out and it carried on like this for the next two hours.
No one dared to come to my room that night and let me be. I heard muffled voices downstairs for many hours and then silence. As I lay there in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling, I wondered what he was thinking after hearing his family and my family argue about the wedding. I am sure he was in earshot of the whole situation. I wanted to call him and get his feedback but I knew it would cause more problems. It was not for us to get involved. It was for the parents to sort out. To arrange. Hence, THE ARRANGED MARRIAGE.
And if I was going to take part in this arranged marriage crap, then I made up my mind to leave it to the parents to work themselves out of this mess!
"Dad! Are you kidding me? You want my mehndi next to a graveyard?!" My knuckles were turning white as I clutched the car door handle.
"Let's go in and speak the pastor. The rate is cheap and we are allowed to bring our own food," he said excitedly as we went in. The hall portion to the church was rather large and would house the 100 women that were invited. The pastor was very kind and inquisitive about our traditions and culture. Personally, I think he wanted to make sure we would not be having any seances or holy muslim rituals in the middle of his church.
What both my father and I forgot to ask was about the air conditioning. Or lack thereof! As you will learn, his mehndi would prove a much hotter affair!
With the church booked, my father, along with his brother and wife, my aunt who was visiting from Pakistan (his younger sister) and my siblings all headed over to my inlaws to discuss details about the actual wedding day and reception.
I finished up my tasks and moped around the house waiting for them to come back. Around 10pm, they waltzed in the door but every face I saw was gloomy. My heart immediately sank and I was scared to ask. I didn't need to. My aunt unleashed a tirade of compliants before I opened my mouth.
"I cannot believe these people! The nerve of them. How dare they ask the questions they asked!" she exclaimed while flopping herself on the sofa beside me. My father's sister was wringing her hands and clucking her tongue. My father and uncle were in a sombre mood and kept very quiet.
"Ok, I am sure it was not that bad," I reassured, trying to lighten the mood and lower their collective blood pressure. My father furrowed his brow and I saw that vein pulsating on his forehead.
"Not that bad you say? His father wants us to have TWO HEAD TABLES! I have never in my 30 years of living here seen TWO HEAD TABLES at a Pakistani wedding! He wants one for his family and one for our family! Aren't we all becoming one family with the marriage of our children? The community will arrive and laugh when they see two separate tables! They will talk about it for years," he cried while throwing his hands up in the air. They were so loud that I cringed every time they yelled because their voices carried out through the open windows and into the street.
My aunt joined in his frustration. "And his mother...Oh my Goodness! What can I say about her? She is a clever one, my dear! You have to watch out for that lady! She had the nerve to ask us what we are giving you before you marry! It is none of her business. Your dowry from your father is not her right. She should have told us what she is giving in your dowry so we do not duplicate it before we marry you off! When your father said he was thinking of buying you a car and giving you his Royal Albert china, she was smiling and asking..'what else?' UGH! We did not go there to discuss this!" She turned to my father who shook his head.
"I should have stayed quiet," he remarked. "Now I am not happy with these turn of events!"
I sat with my jaw dropped. I looked at each one of them, one by one and was mortified with what I heard. I could not keep quiet. Weeks of built up stress and anxiety that had been brimming at the surface could no longer be contained. I stood up and let everyone have it.
"I AM NOT FOR SALE! You are all treating me like there is a dollar sign on my head! Is this what Pakistani marriage is all about? Marry me off and see what dowry I get from his family wait in anticipation for my dowry. This is not the Islamic way! The only thing Islamic here is the maher (before marriage, the couple agrees with an Imam about what the husband will give his wife at the time of divorce--a sort of prenuptial agreement). We have never discussed our dowries to each other nor anything about money, clothes, jewellery, furniture or cars! We just want to get married and get it over with! They want two head tables...then GIVE THEM TWO HEAD TABLES. Just make sure he and I are at the SAME TABLE!" I roared and then ran upstairs. I threw myself on my bed and could not stop the tears from flowing. I could feel myself being emptied out and it carried on like this for the next two hours.
No one dared to come to my room that night and let me be. I heard muffled voices downstairs for many hours and then silence. As I lay there in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling, I wondered what he was thinking after hearing his family and my family argue about the wedding. I am sure he was in earshot of the whole situation. I wanted to call him and get his feedback but I knew it would cause more problems. It was not for us to get involved. It was for the parents to sort out. To arrange. Hence, THE ARRANGED MARRIAGE.
And if I was going to take part in this arranged marriage crap, then I made up my mind to leave it to the parents to work themselves out of this mess!
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 56: He is my Ying
We drove home from the engagement that night and I looked out the car window to see my own reflection. I was tired. It was only three weeks before my own wedding and we were running around to last minute functions and finalizing details. Aunty's son's wedding was only four days before mine. The bride and groom were in a rush to be married because I found out later that they were moving to Japan.
I booked an appointment that week with my new celebrity doctor and met up with her while my father waited out in the hall. She gave me a clean bill of health and insisted that I would make my father a grandfather many times over. I sat obediently in the chair in front of her mahogany desk and smiled politely while simultaneously looking around at her office. Plaque after plaque of degrees, awards, certifications and distinctions covered her office without any indication of a wall beneath it!
She was impressive and kind. She put me at ease and until this day, I will always remember her support and encouragement. Before I got up to leave, she left me with this:
"Although your father may never say this to you, he IS very proud of you. After the death of your mother, he despaired. But you stood up at the plate and left your goals, ambitions and hopes behind to be there for him and your family. You are now embarking on a new stage in your life. Just remember, it will be very hard on him--for you to leave him behind, just only a year and half after your mother left. So keep him in your life even after you move forward and bond with your new husband." She put her hand on mine and watched me intently as I left the room.
I went out to the hall and my father stood up. I did not speak a word but only nodded to indicate that everything was fine. I waited outside the office while he spoke to her alone and pondered her advice. I had never thought about my life in this light.
The whole time I was fretting about getting married, living with someone I really did not know, ready to move forward and start a new life. What I forgot to do was look behind me to see what I was letting go. A somewhat easy life, with a father that knew me and siblings who were not yet adults. Could they survive without me? It was true--they were losing two matriarchs in a span of two years. And I had not given it one thought until now. They were all happy for me, or at least I thought. But would they be able to let go? Would I be able to let them go?
The next morning my fiancee called and I prayed that his mother was not breathing on the other line. He had learned and started calling me from work.
"Spain trip has been booked. I am not going with a tour. I figure we get there and make our way through the country by train. I will book the first three or four hotels in advance and then we just go with the flow," he proclaimed.
Reality was beginning to settle in. Our wedding would encompass three days:
Friday August 30th was my mehndi (a ceremony where only the women from the bride and groom's side attend and apply henna to the hands and feet of the bride--the groom is not present)
Saturday August 31 was our official wedding day at my home but that evening the men would return and celebrate his mehndi (traditionally both sides of the bride and groom attend a function thrown by the groom's side--I was not allowed to be there)
Sunday Sept 1 was a joint wedding reception traditionally known as the Barat. Typically the Barat is thrown by the bride's family and the next day, the groom's family throws a Valima. However, both our families decided to modernize it and combine both functions into one night. Our flight to Spain was booked for Sept 3rd, only one day after our reception.
"Go with the flow," I slowly repeated while thinking about all the logistics in my head.
"So have you been working out before the wedding?" he asked. He was playing tennis every night with friends after work. I laughed to myself. Since my surgery, I was instructed not to participate in anything strenuous. My nerves got the better of me so the sight of food allowed me to shave off another few pounds. My dress would be altered for the fourth time. My seamstress stared at my scar, shook her head in dismay and threatened to stop altering my clothes if I lost anymore weight.
"I will eat on the honeymoon. I hope me being vegetarian doesn't pose too many problems," I reminded him. He laughed it off and insisted that his mother would fatten me up.
Oh yes, I forgot to add that after my marriage I would be living with him AND the family. Something in the back of my mind but nothing I could wrap my brain around at this point!
"I may have not worked out but I have certainly shopped for the honeymoon," I joked. I was waiting for the obvious answer but he was too shy to say it. And instead of returning the joke, he reminded me that my family was meeting his in a few days. His demureness won me over, time and time again. My friends asked me why I was attracted to him, besides the obvious physical traits. I was already falling in love with his patience and shyness. He was my Ying.
The parents wanted to resolve some issues and finalize details but I was not allowed to come. Now that we were down to the wire, they did not want us seeing each other before the wedding--possibly the only non-traditional thing we practised.
And those days before this meeting were the calm before the storm...
I booked an appointment that week with my new celebrity doctor and met up with her while my father waited out in the hall. She gave me a clean bill of health and insisted that I would make my father a grandfather many times over. I sat obediently in the chair in front of her mahogany desk and smiled politely while simultaneously looking around at her office. Plaque after plaque of degrees, awards, certifications and distinctions covered her office without any indication of a wall beneath it!
She was impressive and kind. She put me at ease and until this day, I will always remember her support and encouragement. Before I got up to leave, she left me with this:
"Although your father may never say this to you, he IS very proud of you. After the death of your mother, he despaired. But you stood up at the plate and left your goals, ambitions and hopes behind to be there for him and your family. You are now embarking on a new stage in your life. Just remember, it will be very hard on him--for you to leave him behind, just only a year and half after your mother left. So keep him in your life even after you move forward and bond with your new husband." She put her hand on mine and watched me intently as I left the room.
I went out to the hall and my father stood up. I did not speak a word but only nodded to indicate that everything was fine. I waited outside the office while he spoke to her alone and pondered her advice. I had never thought about my life in this light.
The whole time I was fretting about getting married, living with someone I really did not know, ready to move forward and start a new life. What I forgot to do was look behind me to see what I was letting go. A somewhat easy life, with a father that knew me and siblings who were not yet adults. Could they survive without me? It was true--they were losing two matriarchs in a span of two years. And I had not given it one thought until now. They were all happy for me, or at least I thought. But would they be able to let go? Would I be able to let them go?
The next morning my fiancee called and I prayed that his mother was not breathing on the other line. He had learned and started calling me from work.
"Spain trip has been booked. I am not going with a tour. I figure we get there and make our way through the country by train. I will book the first three or four hotels in advance and then we just go with the flow," he proclaimed.
Reality was beginning to settle in. Our wedding would encompass three days:
Friday August 30th was my mehndi (a ceremony where only the women from the bride and groom's side attend and apply henna to the hands and feet of the bride--the groom is not present)
Saturday August 31 was our official wedding day at my home but that evening the men would return and celebrate his mehndi (traditionally both sides of the bride and groom attend a function thrown by the groom's side--I was not allowed to be there)
Sunday Sept 1 was a joint wedding reception traditionally known as the Barat. Typically the Barat is thrown by the bride's family and the next day, the groom's family throws a Valima. However, both our families decided to modernize it and combine both functions into one night. Our flight to Spain was booked for Sept 3rd, only one day after our reception.
"Go with the flow," I slowly repeated while thinking about all the logistics in my head.
"So have you been working out before the wedding?" he asked. He was playing tennis every night with friends after work. I laughed to myself. Since my surgery, I was instructed not to participate in anything strenuous. My nerves got the better of me so the sight of food allowed me to shave off another few pounds. My dress would be altered for the fourth time. My seamstress stared at my scar, shook her head in dismay and threatened to stop altering my clothes if I lost anymore weight.
"I will eat on the honeymoon. I hope me being vegetarian doesn't pose too many problems," I reminded him. He laughed it off and insisted that his mother would fatten me up.
Oh yes, I forgot to add that after my marriage I would be living with him AND the family. Something in the back of my mind but nothing I could wrap my brain around at this point!
"I may have not worked out but I have certainly shopped for the honeymoon," I joked. I was waiting for the obvious answer but he was too shy to say it. And instead of returning the joke, he reminded me that my family was meeting his in a few days. His demureness won me over, time and time again. My friends asked me why I was attracted to him, besides the obvious physical traits. I was already falling in love with his patience and shyness. He was my Ying.
The parents wanted to resolve some issues and finalize details but I was not allowed to come. Now that we were down to the wire, they did not want us seeing each other before the wedding--possibly the only non-traditional thing we practised.
And those days before this meeting were the calm before the storm...
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 55: The Juxtaposition of Brides
Aunty's son was marrying a Canadian girl. They weren't too happy about this turn of events. The thing was she was not Pakistani. But he had fallen in love and asked her to marry him. The old fashion way, by Canadian standards. They dated, had courtship, romance and he asked her father for her hand in marriage. When he told his parents, they threw a fit. But he was adamant about marrying her, and I was jealous.
Squeeze me?
Not of her. Not of him. Of the way it happened. Even though they were not Muslim, his elder brother got married the old fashion way, by Pakistani standards--like me. His marriage was arranged and he met his wife briefly in Pakistan before she was sponsored and brought to Canada. And he was happy. They are the couple whose son passed away a few months after my mother did. They now have three grown up children and their story is complete. But during this time, I was still pondering my own fate.
After the ceremony in their basement, the women got up to dance. There were about 30 of us, lined around all four walls, as she sat in the middle on a beautifully decorated chair next to her fiancee. She was stunning--light blond hair, alabaster skin and a small sculptured nose--the exact antithesis of the token Pakistani girl. That is why she garnered so much attention. She wore a dark red lehnga (long dress) and bright red lipstick. We could all see why he was so enthralled in her. She loved the clothes, the food and our culture. She wore the clothes proudly and had no qualms carrying out the traditions required in the ceremony.
One part entailed eating many Pakistani sweets (that were shoved into her mouth by a gazillion people) and the rubbing of oil into her scalp with the same hands that fed her the sweets. Yes, she was a trouper. And as I watched from the corner of the room--how he held her hand and leaned against her side, I sighed deeply, wishing this was the case with me and my fiancee. We had bumped knees briefly during our own engagement party and this was enough foreplay for one night.
Aunty came around to all the girls and pulled them up to dance when they started the music. When she approached me, I smiled but shook my head. She did not relent.
"No my darling, you must get up! This is a time to celebrate!" she said, tugging at my arm. I looked over at my father and saw he was not looking. As I got up and started to dance, Aunty's future daughter-in-law squealed in delight. Aunty had announced that I too was about to get married. However, when these words reached my father's ears, he called out my name. I stopped abruptly when I saw his stern look and when he jumped from his seat and made his way over.
He was smiling but I knew it was coming.
He whispered in my ear, "Sit down right this instance. You are about to be married and you are shaking your hips in front of all these men??!"
Aunty shot over to us like a torpedo.
"Oh bhai Sahib! Let her dance! She is so good at it...the kids are here to have a good time. Soon she will be married too!" she laughed as she grabbed both my father's arm and mine and pushed them up into the air.
Needless to say, my father was not impressed. He excused himself from the melee and shot me another dirty look. I quickly obeyed and feigned a cramp in my side. The lady doctor I had spoken to earlier rushed to my side.
"Bhatee,(my daughter) are you ok? Stitches still bothering you?" she asked. I had forgotten that I was on surgerical table only two weeks prior.
"No, no. I am fine. Daddy is a little protective you know," I smiled back.
She put her hand on my chin. "Come and book an appointment with me. I want to evaluate you in a post-surgical appointment. Forget the other doctor."
I nodded obediently and returned to my seat. My father relaxed and nodded in approval. He then pointed to the other side of the room. One of their cousins was videotaping. I got the hint.
Aunty's son and his fiancee posed for pictures. After we had tea and dessert, she approached me.
"Hi, my name is Sophia." She extended her hand. I smiled and hugged her instead.
"Congratulations. You will make a beautiful bride," I told her.
"You are a great dancer. You will have to teach me your moves," she smiled kindly as she held my arm. "Are you nervous about your wedding? I am getting married before you are and I am pretty nervous!"
"Naw, piece of cake," I lied. "You will do great! You already look like a pro."
"Really?" she gushed. "You look so calm. That's why I wanted to talk to you. I am really nervous! No clue about your traditions. Every corner I take, its something new," she confessed.
I looked her square in the eye. "If you love him, there is no reason to be nervous. You are doing the right thing."
She pondered for a moment and then hugged me tightly. I was surprised by her reaction. "Thank you! I knew the moment I saw you, that you would be a friend!" Someone grabbed her hand and off she went dancing in the middle of the basement, poorly emulating the dance moves Aunty was teaching her.
Go figure. Here I was giving her marital advice.
Now, could I take my own advice?
Squeeze me?
Not of her. Not of him. Of the way it happened. Even though they were not Muslim, his elder brother got married the old fashion way, by Pakistani standards--like me. His marriage was arranged and he met his wife briefly in Pakistan before she was sponsored and brought to Canada. And he was happy. They are the couple whose son passed away a few months after my mother did. They now have three grown up children and their story is complete. But during this time, I was still pondering my own fate.
After the ceremony in their basement, the women got up to dance. There were about 30 of us, lined around all four walls, as she sat in the middle on a beautifully decorated chair next to her fiancee. She was stunning--light blond hair, alabaster skin and a small sculptured nose--the exact antithesis of the token Pakistani girl. That is why she garnered so much attention. She wore a dark red lehnga (long dress) and bright red lipstick. We could all see why he was so enthralled in her. She loved the clothes, the food and our culture. She wore the clothes proudly and had no qualms carrying out the traditions required in the ceremony.
One part entailed eating many Pakistani sweets (that were shoved into her mouth by a gazillion people) and the rubbing of oil into her scalp with the same hands that fed her the sweets. Yes, she was a trouper. And as I watched from the corner of the room--how he held her hand and leaned against her side, I sighed deeply, wishing this was the case with me and my fiancee. We had bumped knees briefly during our own engagement party and this was enough foreplay for one night.
Aunty came around to all the girls and pulled them up to dance when they started the music. When she approached me, I smiled but shook my head. She did not relent.
"No my darling, you must get up! This is a time to celebrate!" she said, tugging at my arm. I looked over at my father and saw he was not looking. As I got up and started to dance, Aunty's future daughter-in-law squealed in delight. Aunty had announced that I too was about to get married. However, when these words reached my father's ears, he called out my name. I stopped abruptly when I saw his stern look and when he jumped from his seat and made his way over.
He was smiling but I knew it was coming.
He whispered in my ear, "Sit down right this instance. You are about to be married and you are shaking your hips in front of all these men??!"
Aunty shot over to us like a torpedo.
"Oh bhai Sahib! Let her dance! She is so good at it...the kids are here to have a good time. Soon she will be married too!" she laughed as she grabbed both my father's arm and mine and pushed them up into the air.
Needless to say, my father was not impressed. He excused himself from the melee and shot me another dirty look. I quickly obeyed and feigned a cramp in my side. The lady doctor I had spoken to earlier rushed to my side.
"Bhatee,(my daughter) are you ok? Stitches still bothering you?" she asked. I had forgotten that I was on surgerical table only two weeks prior.
"No, no. I am fine. Daddy is a little protective you know," I smiled back.
She put her hand on my chin. "Come and book an appointment with me. I want to evaluate you in a post-surgical appointment. Forget the other doctor."
I nodded obediently and returned to my seat. My father relaxed and nodded in approval. He then pointed to the other side of the room. One of their cousins was videotaping. I got the hint.
Aunty's son and his fiancee posed for pictures. After we had tea and dessert, she approached me.
"Hi, my name is Sophia." She extended her hand. I smiled and hugged her instead.
"Congratulations. You will make a beautiful bride," I told her.
"You are a great dancer. You will have to teach me your moves," she smiled kindly as she held my arm. "Are you nervous about your wedding? I am getting married before you are and I am pretty nervous!"
"Naw, piece of cake," I lied. "You will do great! You already look like a pro."
"Really?" she gushed. "You look so calm. That's why I wanted to talk to you. I am really nervous! No clue about your traditions. Every corner I take, its something new," she confessed.
I looked her square in the eye. "If you love him, there is no reason to be nervous. You are doing the right thing."
She pondered for a moment and then hugged me tightly. I was surprised by her reaction. "Thank you! I knew the moment I saw you, that you would be a friend!" Someone grabbed her hand and off she went dancing in the middle of the basement, poorly emulating the dance moves Aunty was teaching her.
Go figure. Here I was giving her marital advice.
Now, could I take my own advice?
Sunday, May 22, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 54: Muslims can high five too
Family friends of ours were holding an engagement party for their son. They were from Pakistan but the thing that differentiated them from the rest of the community was that they were Christian.
This difference was what made them special. They were the only ones to call every Muslim in the community on Eid day to wish them a Happy Eid. No other family was known to do this. They were also one of the first couples my parents met when they immigrated from Pakistan back in 1969. They always met us with hugs and Salaams--no different from our other Muslim families. The only thing I noticed that made me think they were different was the picture of Jesus Christ that hung in their living room. Otherwise, they spoke the same language, ate the same food and wore the same festive clothing.
That afternoon, as women hurried around me while I sat in their living room, I looked at the picture of Jesus on their wall. The engagement was being held in their basement and the women in the community were helping Aunty prepare the food for her son's celebration. No one asked for my help even though I offered many times. I had two suspicions: one was that I was a bride-to-be myself and secondly, shortly after my mother died, their first grandchild from their eldest son had died as well. It was an extremely sad time for both of our families and we lost ourselves in each other's grief the last time we met. Aunty became a mother figure to our family, understanding the essence of being motherless.
I sat alone on the sofa watching as the women hurriedly prepared the numerous dishes on the dining room table. Alone I thought I was, but not really. Jesus was before me, looking down kindly while I folded my hands on my lap. Jesus and someone else. I only took notice of him in the picture because he was smack-dab in front of me. He had sad eyes and he was raising his right hand. Like he wanted me to high five him. I quickly erased the thought, admonishing myself for thinking about such a thing. It would be blasphemy to even mention doing it. After all, even though I didn't believe that he was the son of God, I knew he was a great Prophet with healing abilities.
And at that very moment, I wanted to be healed. Inside and out. Mind and body. Appendix and ovaries. I looked at him and started to speak telepathically.
Jesus, if you can hear me, please help me. Help me get through the next couple of weeks. Help me be honest with myself and everyone around me. I wish I was like you --release me of my anger, bitterness and contempt. I just want to get through life without all this strife. With pleading eyes I looked carefully into his.
What I neglected to notice was a woman sitting in a chair, almost directly opposite to me, in the corner of their dining room. She was watching me intensely with a small smile on her face. An older woman, with dark very hair that was evidently dyed black and thick kohl eyeliner. I turned my attention from Jesus to her. Despite the drastic contrast of colours from her hair to her makeup to her clothes, she had the same kind face as in the picture before me. I jumped when she called out my name.
"Come sit with me," she motioned to the chair next to her. I froze momentarily, trying to assess if I knew her from somewhere. I was drawing a blank.
"Don't be shy. I don't bite," she continued with a slight Urdu and British accent. I slowly rose and walked over to her. She was looking at me from head to toe and her smile indicated approval.
"So you are his daughter! Do you know that my daughter works with your father at the Aid Society? That is how we know each other. I am invited to your wedding. It will be a splendid event, no?" She now had her hand clasped over mine. I looked at her more closely. Still, no recognition.
She was eyeing my pakistani suit and jewellery. I crossed my arms in a self-conscious moment. I had lost another five pounds from the surgery and my clothes now hung loosely on me.
"You are a very beautiful girl, just like your mother. I met her a few times. She was a quiet one. But like her, the fair skin, dark hair and long fingers...." her voice trailed off and she continued to size me up. Before my fiancee's family met me, I was used to this banter. It signified the inquisition that every young pakistani girl endured before marriage--a ritual whereby a prospective mother-in-law dug deeper to know if you were 'on the market' or not. However, she already knew I was spoken for and was even invited to the wedding!
I looked around the room to see if anyone was listening. The room was crowded but no one paid attention to our conversation.
"You had surgery last week, right?" she asked. Bells were ringing and suddenly I was on high alert. How did she know? I nodded slowly, unable to speak. She leaned in closer to me.
"Do not fret my dear. Your doctor is a quack. Don't believe everything they tell you." She crossed her legs and tugged at her ear to prevent her clip-on earring from slipping. I did not know how to respond. What did she know? Who told her? Why was she telling me this.
We were interrupted by Aunty who announced it was time to eat dinner before the actual ceremony. I rose slowly only to be pulled down again beside her.
"Are you scared?" she asked.
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. Instead, large tears welled up in my eyes. She nodded and patted my hand. People were coming by, asking us to get dinner. But she refused and insisted that we would wait until after the rush.
"Who are you?" I finally asked in a weak voice.
"Your father's friend. You see, he came to me and told me about your surgery. Don't worry, I know this is a very private matter. But you see, I am the best person to talk to for a second opinion. I am a gynecologist and I can assure you, that you will have many, many children for years to come," she smiled as she slipped her arm through mine. "Now, let's go and put some meat on these bones so you can fill out your wedding dress!"
Stunned, I stood up with her and walked over to the dining table. Many people were talking, laughing and acknowledging her. It seemed that after our conversation, everyone wanted a piece of her. She was the center of attention. I turned to my right to find another family friend piling food on her plate.
"Do you know who that lady is?" I asked.
"Oh yes! She is very well known in the community. But moreso, she is a leading physician and lecturer at the University. She is one the top doctors in the province!" she cried while biting into tandoori chicken.
I watched her from afar as I sat by myself to eat dinner. There were a crowd of women surronding her, all of whom were leaning in to listen to her wise words.
I looked up and realized I was sitting in front of Jesus again. He looked down at me with the same sad, kind eyes. This time, I smiled back and gave him an imaginary high five...let my healing begin.
This difference was what made them special. They were the only ones to call every Muslim in the community on Eid day to wish them a Happy Eid. No other family was known to do this. They were also one of the first couples my parents met when they immigrated from Pakistan back in 1969. They always met us with hugs and Salaams--no different from our other Muslim families. The only thing I noticed that made me think they were different was the picture of Jesus Christ that hung in their living room. Otherwise, they spoke the same language, ate the same food and wore the same festive clothing.
That afternoon, as women hurried around me while I sat in their living room, I looked at the picture of Jesus on their wall. The engagement was being held in their basement and the women in the community were helping Aunty prepare the food for her son's celebration. No one asked for my help even though I offered many times. I had two suspicions: one was that I was a bride-to-be myself and secondly, shortly after my mother died, their first grandchild from their eldest son had died as well. It was an extremely sad time for both of our families and we lost ourselves in each other's grief the last time we met. Aunty became a mother figure to our family, understanding the essence of being motherless.
I sat alone on the sofa watching as the women hurriedly prepared the numerous dishes on the dining room table. Alone I thought I was, but not really. Jesus was before me, looking down kindly while I folded my hands on my lap. Jesus and someone else. I only took notice of him in the picture because he was smack-dab in front of me. He had sad eyes and he was raising his right hand. Like he wanted me to high five him. I quickly erased the thought, admonishing myself for thinking about such a thing. It would be blasphemy to even mention doing it. After all, even though I didn't believe that he was the son of God, I knew he was a great Prophet with healing abilities.
And at that very moment, I wanted to be healed. Inside and out. Mind and body. Appendix and ovaries. I looked at him and started to speak telepathically.
Jesus, if you can hear me, please help me. Help me get through the next couple of weeks. Help me be honest with myself and everyone around me. I wish I was like you --release me of my anger, bitterness and contempt. I just want to get through life without all this strife. With pleading eyes I looked carefully into his.
What I neglected to notice was a woman sitting in a chair, almost directly opposite to me, in the corner of their dining room. She was watching me intensely with a small smile on her face. An older woman, with dark very hair that was evidently dyed black and thick kohl eyeliner. I turned my attention from Jesus to her. Despite the drastic contrast of colours from her hair to her makeup to her clothes, she had the same kind face as in the picture before me. I jumped when she called out my name.
"Come sit with me," she motioned to the chair next to her. I froze momentarily, trying to assess if I knew her from somewhere. I was drawing a blank.
"Don't be shy. I don't bite," she continued with a slight Urdu and British accent. I slowly rose and walked over to her. She was looking at me from head to toe and her smile indicated approval.
"So you are his daughter! Do you know that my daughter works with your father at the Aid Society? That is how we know each other. I am invited to your wedding. It will be a splendid event, no?" She now had her hand clasped over mine. I looked at her more closely. Still, no recognition.
She was eyeing my pakistani suit and jewellery. I crossed my arms in a self-conscious moment. I had lost another five pounds from the surgery and my clothes now hung loosely on me.
"You are a very beautiful girl, just like your mother. I met her a few times. She was a quiet one. But like her, the fair skin, dark hair and long fingers...." her voice trailed off and she continued to size me up. Before my fiancee's family met me, I was used to this banter. It signified the inquisition that every young pakistani girl endured before marriage--a ritual whereby a prospective mother-in-law dug deeper to know if you were 'on the market' or not. However, she already knew I was spoken for and was even invited to the wedding!
I looked around the room to see if anyone was listening. The room was crowded but no one paid attention to our conversation.
"You had surgery last week, right?" she asked. Bells were ringing and suddenly I was on high alert. How did she know? I nodded slowly, unable to speak. She leaned in closer to me.
"Do not fret my dear. Your doctor is a quack. Don't believe everything they tell you." She crossed her legs and tugged at her ear to prevent her clip-on earring from slipping. I did not know how to respond. What did she know? Who told her? Why was she telling me this.
We were interrupted by Aunty who announced it was time to eat dinner before the actual ceremony. I rose slowly only to be pulled down again beside her.
"Are you scared?" she asked.
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. Instead, large tears welled up in my eyes. She nodded and patted my hand. People were coming by, asking us to get dinner. But she refused and insisted that we would wait until after the rush.
"Who are you?" I finally asked in a weak voice.
"Your father's friend. You see, he came to me and told me about your surgery. Don't worry, I know this is a very private matter. But you see, I am the best person to talk to for a second opinion. I am a gynecologist and I can assure you, that you will have many, many children for years to come," she smiled as she slipped her arm through mine. "Now, let's go and put some meat on these bones so you can fill out your wedding dress!"
Stunned, I stood up with her and walked over to the dining table. Many people were talking, laughing and acknowledging her. It seemed that after our conversation, everyone wanted a piece of her. She was the center of attention. I turned to my right to find another family friend piling food on her plate.
"Do you know who that lady is?" I asked.
"Oh yes! She is very well known in the community. But moreso, she is a leading physician and lecturer at the University. She is one the top doctors in the province!" she cried while biting into tandoori chicken.
I watched her from afar as I sat by myself to eat dinner. There were a crowd of women surronding her, all of whom were leaning in to listen to her wise words.
I looked up and realized I was sitting in front of Jesus again. He looked down at me with the same sad, kind eyes. This time, I smiled back and gave him an imaginary high five...let my healing begin.
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