Runaway Bride. My Best Friend's Wedding. Father of the Bride. The Wedding Singer.
For some reason, I was drawn to these movies during my pre-engagement period. I would sit with a box of tissues, a couple of girlfriends and a notion of how my wedding should be. It was in the media, in the windows at People's and Birks, with co-workers planning their weddings and pamphlets left on my windshield for wedding shows. You could not escape the societal norm and it stared me in the face wondering, Why are you not a part of this?
The typical wedding was in the air. However, for me, romance wasn't. And I thought the two went hand in hand.
Back to my story.
No one knew about the engagement date except my close girlfriends, family and a few elderly couples known to my father and inlaws, which included the family that introduced us.
The secrecy was killing me. Shouldn't I be shouting it out to the world?
"I am about to enter a LOVELESS marriage! Yeehaw! Be happy for me! Ignite the fireworks! Shout it out in the streets"! Again, the feeling of dread overtook me and I wondered if I, frayed nerves and all, would make it to my engagement.
My father whistled while he worked. He would walk past me and smile gingerly when I was executing on the most mundane chores (mopping, laundry, etc) and I would break out laughing. He was happy but I knew deep down it was bittersweet. Happy to have a commitment and sad to finally let me go. I continued my daily routine but I had to admit, I was entering a stage in my life that I never thought would come this fast. And I pretended that it would just another evening like every other...OK, who was I kidding!!? My nervousness translated into laughter.
Squeeze me?
I was a laughing hyena everywhere I went. My mother-in-law would phone to ask about the preparations and I would giggle. The newpaper boy would collect the dues and I would laugh while paying him. My professor asked a question in sociology class about the economics of marriage. I laughed so hard that I had to leave the lecture hall. I was a bumbling idiot, laughing incessantly that my friends thought I was high most of the time. "I am sure she took something for the stress," I overheard one friend tell another. I laughed at that too. I did't know why everything seemed so funny to me. Perhaps I was thinking this would be last time I laughed--once I realized what I was getting myself into. Or maybe it masked the reality of my situation, to enter a loveless marriage. Would this be something I could laugh about later or would the joke be on me?
My friends led a countdown and every time they would phone, it would be to remind me how many days closer it was to the engagement day. I would usually hang up abruptly but they would call right back and laugh into the phone. Funny game for them, disturbing for me. We weren't young kids anymore--no longer fun and games. This marriage was a clearly a reality and a huge gamble...
One night, as I walked up the stairs towards my bedroom, I passed the wedding picture of my parents. The elegant brass framed photo was in the main hall between the four bedrooms. I stood close to the picture to get a better look. I studied each detail carefully. She wore a red dress and gold jewellery with her hands clasped elegantly in front of her. My father wore a three piece suit, a traditional hat and pants that looked a size too small. His expression was stern and overbearing. She had a demure smile, full of innocence and naivety. I stared at her intently. She smiled back at me. I remained there for awhile until I felt a presence behind me. There was a shadow in the reflection of the glass on the picture. The hairs on my arms stood up. I turned around quickly, expecting to see my father but no one was there.
I opened everyone's bedroom door. "Did you stand behind me when I was in the main hallway?" I asked my father, my brother and then my sister. They were all tucked into their rooms either busy with homework, reading or preparing for bed. The answer was a resounding NO. I closed their doors and returned back to the picture. It was as if I wanted someone to move. Ok Mom, blink if you see me. Twitch your finger, Dad. Do something! Give me a sign. Were you two truly happy in this picture? Will I wear a fake smile while my husband stares sternly into the camera on our wedding day?
Remember, when I asked for signs, they did not come. It was a feeling that enveloped me instead. I knew someone stood behind me but who? I had no dreams of my mother for months and I thought it was because she was happy about my decision. For selfish reasons, I wanted her to come again. The more I expected it, the more disappointed I ended up. Until the day before my engagement.
It was a Friday afternoon. I had studied the night before and then worked that morning. When I came home, I ate lunch and then headed to my room to take a quick nap. I was nervous about the engagement and figured I would clean up the house when my father came home from work and my brother and sister came home after school.
No one was home so I headed upstairs to lay down. I was on my right side and I slowly drifted off to sleep. And then I dreamt.
I was standing in an open pastoral green field. The sun was shining, birds were chirping and there was not a cloud in the sky. The breeze felt warm upon my face and I lay down in the field and fell asleep. I woke up in my dream to find that dark clouds had rolled in, thunder was clapping and the winds were blowing me around. I tried to fight the winds but they lifted me up off the fields and threaten to throw me into the air, away from where I felt safe. I cried out but no voice came out of my mouth. I tried again, this time to scream, but no one heard me.
I felt myself coming out of my dream but I could not open my eyes. My body was heavy but my mind was alert. I felt my chest begin to heave and I tried to let out a sob. Again, no sound came out. I could feel the spasm of fear erupting in my chest but before it became intense, I felt someone sit down at the side of my bed. I tried to open my eyes but I couldn't. And then I felt a hand on top of my hand. There was no temperature--the hand was neither cold or warm. I tried to move my hand in response to this touch but I could not move. What soothed me was that I recognized the touch. My panic dissipated and I felt a calm envelope me. The winds stopped blowing and I returned to my original patch of green field where I had laid down. And as I stared into the sky I was slowly awakening from my dream.
I could still feeling something or someone sitting on my bed and this feeling lasted for a full minute. No matter how much I tried to open my eyes to see her, something prevented me from doing so. Why? Why won't you let me see you? I had to settle for her touch. As soon as she came, she left just as quickly and when I felt the bed rise back up, my eyes flew open. My room looked the same as it did before I fell asleep.
The only difference was not physical in nature. It was the resolute tranquilness that remained.
She had been in front of me when I admired her picture. She was behind me while I pondered my future in the hallway. She was beside me when I felt lost in the field.
Darling, don't look for just one sign...the signs are everywhere, I heard her whisper, as the winds died down.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 35: I will rock your world
We had made the verbal agreement to marry in February 1991. And the engagement was slated for April. In the month of March, the wheels were in motion with the decision to have the ceremony at our house.
Today, the typical Pakistani wedding would involve many weeks of preparation for a four day event: two mehndis (a ceremony each for the bride and groom), the baraat (actual wedding day) and the following day which is called the walima (function sponsored by the family of the groom). Prior to the marriage, the engagement is an over-the-top affair, resembling a 'mini' wedding.
Too much decadence. Back when I got engaged, it was simple and small, with only immediate family.
Three weeks prior, my husband went to buy my ring. I did not accompany him nor did I give any input about what I wanted. Ironically, back then, it did not matter to me.
Squeeze me?
When I see women getting engaged today, they are going with their respective other and helping to choose their dream ring. Contributing, suggesting and ultimately buying something they want. Most men do not mind this as it eliminates the guesswork in figuring out what their fiancee wants. For me, it was one more aspect of the process of getting married that I was not involved in. I took it in stride while my girlfriends around me freaked out. The ring was an inanimate object to me. Instead, my main concern was of an empathetic nature. How was the poor boy going to buy something for me without having a clue?
Romance. I never saw my parents openly show affection. No holding of the hands, a kiss, hug or even a friendly shove. In my toddler years, I rocked. Not to heavy metal music--I mean physically rocked back and forth. When the springs of the sofa protruded after damage caused by my rocking, my father took me for the eleventh time to the pediatrician. The doctor finally asked him if I was in an environment of love. After my father stormed out of the office, my mother calmly explained that in our culture, it was customary for parents not to show affection in front of their children.
This environment resulted in the opposite effect on me. I looked for and spread my affection freely. I remember looking at my baby pictures. I was always hanging onto someone: in the crook of my father's arm, on my mother's lap with my thumb in my mouth and my head resting on her chest, or snuggled in between my parents as their missing link. I was starving back then and the rocking motion settled me down. I knew my parents loved me and showed me affection in many ways however the sensation of touch was not one of them, within the four walls of our home.
Yet, outside my front door was a world of emotion. And although I craved it, I was a silent observer. I did not fit the mould. Time and time again, my beliefs and values clashed with the world as I knew it, given the fact that I still secretly wanted to fit in. Odd one out. Whistling to a different tune. My proposal, or lack thereof was just another chapter in my life where I accepted the unfolding events of my life as not the part of the norm.
I did not get the traditional fairytale proposal. He did not bend on one knee and slip a ring on my finger. Heck, he did not even ask me to marry him. My fate was sealed in a knowing smile, a manly hug with my father, a slight nod of the head and the setting of a dining table. Romance, my foot! I did not know what was worse: the lack of romance at the time of the proposal or explaining the lack of romance at the time of my proposal to my non-Muslim friends.
Driving home one day after class, my best friend threw her feet on my dashboard and interrogated me all the way home.
"Where is your ring?"
"I will get it in April when we are formally engaged," I replied, trying to concentrate on the road.
"What does your ring look like? What style and what size?"
"Dunno." My friend paused and lost the chewing gum somewhere on the floor of my car.
"Let me get this straight. Dude doesn't propose to you directly, utters not a word after you agree to marry him and now is shopping for your ring, a big ticket item without knowing a thing about you?" she exclaimed. I sighed and pretended to notice something in my rearview mirror. At this point, even I felt dismayed.
"You know, given all that I have been through my wish is for me to get to the wedding without there being any fallout! You know my dad still keeps in touch with all the suitors in Pakistan? What for? Plan B??" I shook my head and turned on the radio. She switched it off and removed her seatbelt so she could turn and address me.
"Listen, you know me. I have always given you my honest advice, right? Anytime you have had issues or needed a sounding board, I have been here and my two cents have been worth it, correct?" I did not know where she was going with this and I had no choice but to listen, considering I was trapped in a moving vehicle with her.
"I know you. You are born here. Raised here. Educated here. You ain't off the boat and I understand this is your culture and religion. Seriously, how do you know he is the right man for you?"
And I can honestly say that I had many sleepless nights wondering the same thing. What got me through was the inexplicable gut feeling. A sixth instinct that I possessed and could not explain to anyone. I waited for my mother to reappear at night but I took her absence as a sign. She only came to me when I was genuinely troubled. This time, I saw no trouble in sight. Although sleep eluded me, my senses were alarmingly heightened. It was a high.
"Well my dear, it works both ways. You trust me too. And when I say its right although I cannot explain it, you just have to trust my instincts. I know its pretty lame to rely on a gut feeling when making the most important decision in my life...just believe in me, be there for me and support me."
It was all I could offer her. I had not told her, much less anyone about all the signs I had witnessed. Knowing her skepticism, she would laugh in my face. All I know was that when she met him at my engagement party, she took back every doubt she ever had.
He called me one night, without his parents or my father knowing. It was late and I was studying. There was no caller id back then and I had to pick up the phone quickly without waking anyone up.
"I bought your ring today," he whispered, nervously gushing with happiness.
I sat back and smiled into the phone.
I did not ask one detail about the ring.
Instead, I congratulated him and told him to surprise me at the engagement.
And that he did.
Screw the proposal. Who needs tradition anyway?
Today, the typical Pakistani wedding would involve many weeks of preparation for a four day event: two mehndis (a ceremony each for the bride and groom), the baraat (actual wedding day) and the following day which is called the walima (function sponsored by the family of the groom). Prior to the marriage, the engagement is an over-the-top affair, resembling a 'mini' wedding.
Too much decadence. Back when I got engaged, it was simple and small, with only immediate family.
Three weeks prior, my husband went to buy my ring. I did not accompany him nor did I give any input about what I wanted. Ironically, back then, it did not matter to me.
Squeeze me?
When I see women getting engaged today, they are going with their respective other and helping to choose their dream ring. Contributing, suggesting and ultimately buying something they want. Most men do not mind this as it eliminates the guesswork in figuring out what their fiancee wants. For me, it was one more aspect of the process of getting married that I was not involved in. I took it in stride while my girlfriends around me freaked out. The ring was an inanimate object to me. Instead, my main concern was of an empathetic nature. How was the poor boy going to buy something for me without having a clue?
Romance. I never saw my parents openly show affection. No holding of the hands, a kiss, hug or even a friendly shove. In my toddler years, I rocked. Not to heavy metal music--I mean physically rocked back and forth. When the springs of the sofa protruded after damage caused by my rocking, my father took me for the eleventh time to the pediatrician. The doctor finally asked him if I was in an environment of love. After my father stormed out of the office, my mother calmly explained that in our culture, it was customary for parents not to show affection in front of their children.
This environment resulted in the opposite effect on me. I looked for and spread my affection freely. I remember looking at my baby pictures. I was always hanging onto someone: in the crook of my father's arm, on my mother's lap with my thumb in my mouth and my head resting on her chest, or snuggled in between my parents as their missing link. I was starving back then and the rocking motion settled me down. I knew my parents loved me and showed me affection in many ways however the sensation of touch was not one of them, within the four walls of our home.
Yet, outside my front door was a world of emotion. And although I craved it, I was a silent observer. I did not fit the mould. Time and time again, my beliefs and values clashed with the world as I knew it, given the fact that I still secretly wanted to fit in. Odd one out. Whistling to a different tune. My proposal, or lack thereof was just another chapter in my life where I accepted the unfolding events of my life as not the part of the norm.
I did not get the traditional fairytale proposal. He did not bend on one knee and slip a ring on my finger. Heck, he did not even ask me to marry him. My fate was sealed in a knowing smile, a manly hug with my father, a slight nod of the head and the setting of a dining table. Romance, my foot! I did not know what was worse: the lack of romance at the time of the proposal or explaining the lack of romance at the time of my proposal to my non-Muslim friends.
Driving home one day after class, my best friend threw her feet on my dashboard and interrogated me all the way home.
"Where is your ring?"
"I will get it in April when we are formally engaged," I replied, trying to concentrate on the road.
"What does your ring look like? What style and what size?"
"Dunno." My friend paused and lost the chewing gum somewhere on the floor of my car.
"Let me get this straight. Dude doesn't propose to you directly, utters not a word after you agree to marry him and now is shopping for your ring, a big ticket item without knowing a thing about you?" she exclaimed. I sighed and pretended to notice something in my rearview mirror. At this point, even I felt dismayed.
"You know, given all that I have been through my wish is for me to get to the wedding without there being any fallout! You know my dad still keeps in touch with all the suitors in Pakistan? What for? Plan B??" I shook my head and turned on the radio. She switched it off and removed her seatbelt so she could turn and address me.
"Listen, you know me. I have always given you my honest advice, right? Anytime you have had issues or needed a sounding board, I have been here and my two cents have been worth it, correct?" I did not know where she was going with this and I had no choice but to listen, considering I was trapped in a moving vehicle with her.
"I know you. You are born here. Raised here. Educated here. You ain't off the boat and I understand this is your culture and religion. Seriously, how do you know he is the right man for you?"
And I can honestly say that I had many sleepless nights wondering the same thing. What got me through was the inexplicable gut feeling. A sixth instinct that I possessed and could not explain to anyone. I waited for my mother to reappear at night but I took her absence as a sign. She only came to me when I was genuinely troubled. This time, I saw no trouble in sight. Although sleep eluded me, my senses were alarmingly heightened. It was a high.
"Well my dear, it works both ways. You trust me too. And when I say its right although I cannot explain it, you just have to trust my instincts. I know its pretty lame to rely on a gut feeling when making the most important decision in my life...just believe in me, be there for me and support me."
It was all I could offer her. I had not told her, much less anyone about all the signs I had witnessed. Knowing her skepticism, she would laugh in my face. All I know was that when she met him at my engagement party, she took back every doubt she ever had.
He called me one night, without his parents or my father knowing. It was late and I was studying. There was no caller id back then and I had to pick up the phone quickly without waking anyone up.
"I bought your ring today," he whispered, nervously gushing with happiness.
I sat back and smiled into the phone.
I did not ask one detail about the ring.
Instead, I congratulated him and told him to surprise me at the engagement.
And that he did.
Screw the proposal. Who needs tradition anyway?
Thursday, February 17, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 34: Walk the Walk
Back when I was in high school, I thought I had it all figured out. Most teenagers think that they do. What exactly did I know back then? Well, primarily it was about living two different lives.
Squeeze me?
Growing up, I was completely aware of the double life I led. The one behind my front door and the other past the front door.
You see, living at home was the easy part. Rules, culture and religion were known aspects within our home. Pray five times a day, don't eat pork, be home before 10pm, no alcohol and don't talk back to your father. I grew up with those regulations without questioning them. It was the accepted way of life.
When I walked out the front door, that was when I entered the unknown. Different rules, cultures, religions and expectations.
Assimilate or differentiate?
When you are a teenager trying to fit in, the answer is clear. And I tried hard to compromise. I never balked from going out the front door but I did return, coming home more confused than ever.
I recall sitting with a group of friends in the high school cafeteria. We would discuss school, assignments, gossip about other people, share our goals and aspirations and fight the odd time. We sat at the same table everyday -- we were a rather large group of about 10 girls and guys. Many of the girls had boyfriends who they would bring along to share in the discussion.
The topic of dating and relationships came up one afternoon. I remained quiet for the most part. This was not my topic of expertise and believe me, I never held back on any other topic from before so I let this one slide. The conversation consisted of the girls complaining about men, how they lacked sensitivity and emotions while the guys complained how moody and judgemental the girls were. I was careful not to comment, take sides or to offer any insight. They all knew I was forbidden to date based on my "look but don't touch rule". It was common knowledge but a mysterious unknown. To them, it was something about my religion being against the concept. But no one ever asked me bluntly to explain it.
Until that day.
Everyone had left the table to go to class except one of the guys and me. I was still eating my lunch and studying for a test. He asked if he could sit with me since he had a spare. He was one of my friend's boyfriend and I knew that they were not on good terms. In the past, they had both approached me for advice. And ironically, I had offered my advice -- this coming from a girl who never dated. If I thought she was at fault, I called her out on it and vice versa. I never volunteered to be their confidante but I ended up becoming the 'guru of dating'. It came down to trust and honesty--both traits that I offered. Easy for me because there were no strings attached.
Until that day.
"So Tina and I are breaking up," he quietly said to me as I tried to apply ketchup over my french fries. It squirted everywhere when he made his announcement.
Note to reader: I was a HUGE klutz back then and still am today.
He helped me clean up the mess, oblivious to my blunder and more concerned about my reaction.
"Did you tell her?"
"Not yet. I was going to ask your thoughts on the matter first," he replied. I looked back at my textbook, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.
"You should not be telling me this. You need to talk this through with her. I am sure you both can work it out together. You are a bit headstrong, you know." I clapped my hand over my mouth. Damn! Seriously, I thought, I talk too much!
"Headstrong? That is an unfair observation. What do you know?" he demanded.
"All I know is that you both have been unhappy for the last six months and instead of talking to each other, you both come to ME to complain!" I threw out the fifteen napkins it took to clean up the ketchup mess on the table.
He looked at me silently and then sat back in his chair. I resumed studying for my test. I thought he would make up his mind and leave to talk to Tina.
But he just sat there and stared at me.
"You know something? Over the period of time that we have known each other, I have noticed something about you."
I looked up from my textbook. He passed me another napkin and motioned me to clean the ketchup off my shirt.
"And what is that?" I asked.
"You get me. You always have. And if you were allowed to date, we would be dating now."
I could feel my ears growing hot while the blood spread across my face and the butterflies erupted in my stomach. I looked everywhere else but at him.
"You are wrong. Even if I could date, I would not date my friend's boyfriend!"
He did not buy my answer. "Forget Tina. If she did not exist, would you date me?" he asked. He moved closer and I dropped my pencil case on the floor.
"I am not allowed to date so don't throw these fictitious scenarios at me."
"You are not answering the question."
"I don't want to answer the question!" He moved back to his original spot at the table and watched me fumble with my textbook.
"I am not allowed to date," I repeated in a hushed voice and again could not make eye contact.
"Why not?" he inquired.
"Because we are not supposed to ...with any dating ....before we marry...and its an arranged marriage ...parents are supposed to do this..." I stood up with my books and tried to walk past him. I had no clue what I was saying. All I knew was that I was speaking a foreign language.
He blocked my exit. "You are a great listener and even a better friend. You are not like the other girls. Tina doesn't understand me. You don't know it but you would be a great girlfriend. Everyone says it... but not to you."
I looked up at him. He was not joking and there was sincerity in his eyes. They would all come to me with their problems and I felt free just knowing that I was not part of the drama. On the other hand, I missed having a relationship that was deemed 'normal' --in that world outside my front door.
What perturbed me the most was that I could not explain why I could not date. It was sort of explained to us more as a rule than a reason. You cannot date. You cannot have a boyfriend. You will shame your family. You will shame the community. You are Muslim. You are not like them. It paralyzed me that I could not offer an explanation to him without knowing what it meant to me.
I looked around the cafeteria and saw many couples. Some were eating together, studying or just sitting in silence holding hands. He stood in front of me, blocking my way out of the cafeteria, waiting for an answer. I could feel both my worlds colliding, the warning bells going off in my brain and my heart sinking.
"I am who I am because I am not in a relationship. The quintessential observer. Unbiased, non-judgemental--on the outside looking in. I can talk the talk but I cannot walk the walk. It would not be the same if we were in a relationship together. I would not be the same. I think you know that," I reasoned. We stood facing each other for a good minute.
He stepped aside and allowed me to pass. You don't know it but you would be a great girlfriend. Everyone says it but not to you. I walked home that day wondering what type of girlfriend I would really be, if given the chance.
Would I always be the outsider looking in? Always be a part of society but not really? These questions stayed with me until I met my husband.
Even though I was technically no longer the outsider, I was not in any relationship that allowed me to 'walk the walk' with my husband...nor were we the only two people!
Squeeze me?
Growing up, I was completely aware of the double life I led. The one behind my front door and the other past the front door.
You see, living at home was the easy part. Rules, culture and religion were known aspects within our home. Pray five times a day, don't eat pork, be home before 10pm, no alcohol and don't talk back to your father. I grew up with those regulations without questioning them. It was the accepted way of life.
When I walked out the front door, that was when I entered the unknown. Different rules, cultures, religions and expectations.
Assimilate or differentiate?
When you are a teenager trying to fit in, the answer is clear. And I tried hard to compromise. I never balked from going out the front door but I did return, coming home more confused than ever.
I recall sitting with a group of friends in the high school cafeteria. We would discuss school, assignments, gossip about other people, share our goals and aspirations and fight the odd time. We sat at the same table everyday -- we were a rather large group of about 10 girls and guys. Many of the girls had boyfriends who they would bring along to share in the discussion.
The topic of dating and relationships came up one afternoon. I remained quiet for the most part. This was not my topic of expertise and believe me, I never held back on any other topic from before so I let this one slide. The conversation consisted of the girls complaining about men, how they lacked sensitivity and emotions while the guys complained how moody and judgemental the girls were. I was careful not to comment, take sides or to offer any insight. They all knew I was forbidden to date based on my "look but don't touch rule". It was common knowledge but a mysterious unknown. To them, it was something about my religion being against the concept. But no one ever asked me bluntly to explain it.
Until that day.
Everyone had left the table to go to class except one of the guys and me. I was still eating my lunch and studying for a test. He asked if he could sit with me since he had a spare. He was one of my friend's boyfriend and I knew that they were not on good terms. In the past, they had both approached me for advice. And ironically, I had offered my advice -- this coming from a girl who never dated. If I thought she was at fault, I called her out on it and vice versa. I never volunteered to be their confidante but I ended up becoming the 'guru of dating'. It came down to trust and honesty--both traits that I offered. Easy for me because there were no strings attached.
Until that day.
"So Tina and I are breaking up," he quietly said to me as I tried to apply ketchup over my french fries. It squirted everywhere when he made his announcement.
Note to reader: I was a HUGE klutz back then and still am today.
He helped me clean up the mess, oblivious to my blunder and more concerned about my reaction.
"Did you tell her?"
"Not yet. I was going to ask your thoughts on the matter first," he replied. I looked back at my textbook, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.
"You should not be telling me this. You need to talk this through with her. I am sure you both can work it out together. You are a bit headstrong, you know." I clapped my hand over my mouth. Damn! Seriously, I thought, I talk too much!
"Headstrong? That is an unfair observation. What do you know?" he demanded.
"All I know is that you both have been unhappy for the last six months and instead of talking to each other, you both come to ME to complain!" I threw out the fifteen napkins it took to clean up the ketchup mess on the table.
He looked at me silently and then sat back in his chair. I resumed studying for my test. I thought he would make up his mind and leave to talk to Tina.
But he just sat there and stared at me.
"You know something? Over the period of time that we have known each other, I have noticed something about you."
I looked up from my textbook. He passed me another napkin and motioned me to clean the ketchup off my shirt.
"And what is that?" I asked.
"You get me. You always have. And if you were allowed to date, we would be dating now."
I could feel my ears growing hot while the blood spread across my face and the butterflies erupted in my stomach. I looked everywhere else but at him.
"You are wrong. Even if I could date, I would not date my friend's boyfriend!"
He did not buy my answer. "Forget Tina. If she did not exist, would you date me?" he asked. He moved closer and I dropped my pencil case on the floor.
"I am not allowed to date so don't throw these fictitious scenarios at me."
"You are not answering the question."
"I don't want to answer the question!" He moved back to his original spot at the table and watched me fumble with my textbook.
"I am not allowed to date," I repeated in a hushed voice and again could not make eye contact.
"Why not?" he inquired.
"Because we are not supposed to ...with any dating ....before we marry...and its an arranged marriage ...parents are supposed to do this..." I stood up with my books and tried to walk past him. I had no clue what I was saying. All I knew was that I was speaking a foreign language.
He blocked my exit. "You are a great listener and even a better friend. You are not like the other girls. Tina doesn't understand me. You don't know it but you would be a great girlfriend. Everyone says it... but not to you."
I looked up at him. He was not joking and there was sincerity in his eyes. They would all come to me with their problems and I felt free just knowing that I was not part of the drama. On the other hand, I missed having a relationship that was deemed 'normal' --in that world outside my front door.
What perturbed me the most was that I could not explain why I could not date. It was sort of explained to us more as a rule than a reason. You cannot date. You cannot have a boyfriend. You will shame your family. You will shame the community. You are Muslim. You are not like them. It paralyzed me that I could not offer an explanation to him without knowing what it meant to me.
I looked around the cafeteria and saw many couples. Some were eating together, studying or just sitting in silence holding hands. He stood in front of me, blocking my way out of the cafeteria, waiting for an answer. I could feel both my worlds colliding, the warning bells going off in my brain and my heart sinking.
"I am who I am because I am not in a relationship. The quintessential observer. Unbiased, non-judgemental--on the outside looking in. I can talk the talk but I cannot walk the walk. It would not be the same if we were in a relationship together. I would not be the same. I think you know that," I reasoned. We stood facing each other for a good minute.
He stepped aside and allowed me to pass. You don't know it but you would be a great girlfriend. Everyone says it but not to you. I walked home that day wondering what type of girlfriend I would really be, if given the chance.
Would I always be the outsider looking in? Always be a part of society but not really? These questions stayed with me until I met my husband.
Even though I was technically no longer the outsider, I was not in any relationship that allowed me to 'walk the walk' with my husband...nor were we the only two people!
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 33: Bad rep
"So it is a go?"
"Yep. We will be officially engaged in April."
"And you still have to have a proper conversation with him?"
"Yes. Its kind of hard when his father is breathing on the other line and MY father is sitting in earshot, pretending to read the newspaper."
"What? Listen, you really need to go out alone with him and have some time to get to know each other."
"And how am I supposed to do that? He asked me to meet up--told me his parents have no problem with the idea. But my Dad is a real stickler. He doesn't want me to see him. He thinks if we break off the engagement for whatever reason, I will end up with a reputation."
"That is dumbest thing I have ever heard! Why would you have a reputation? Do you plan on sleeping with him on the first date?"
"Yes, of course.... NOT! My dad thinks if we are alone together, the community will jump to the conclusion that there was some hanky panky and then I will be blamed for it."
"Your culture is so weird. That is pretty backwards thinking. What if you don't do anything and he makes the moves on you? You will still get blamed? That is so unfair. You are only trying to get to know each other. There must be another way?"
"Well, my father says he is trying to protect my honour. When two people are alone, there is not a third person as a witness."
"A witness? Sounds more like a court trial than a date! What about if you go out in a group setting?"
"Well my fiancee suggested we go out with his brother and my brother and sister. We could come over as a family and then take off for dinner."
"So what did your Dad say?"
"I have yet to ask him. I think that is reasonable, don't you think?"
"Listen, if you need a witness, I will come!"
"Thanks, but I don't need to implicate you either. Let's stick with one girl having a bad rep, Ms Sleep with him on the first date!" I joked with my best friend. Out of all of my friends, she had to be the wildest, most spontaneous one.
Enter Supreme Ruler of the household
"OVER MY DEAD BODY! I don't care if your brother and sister are there! They are younger than you and don't know any better. Even if there are a hundred people sitting between you, you will still come out of this tainted."
My father had that look on his face that prevented me from arguing my point. This was getting ridiculous! How on earth was I going to get to know him?
I couldn't go out with him alone nor with a chaperone. My father was taking this arranged marriage thing to a whole new level.
"Just get to know him over the phone. Didn't you do that with the last one?" he proclaimed and walked away in a huff.
DANG IT. I certainly had that coming.
While my new engagement was being orchestrated, I often wondered how this was going to resonate once it became official? There was no way I could hide my engagement from our immediate community. And when the news broke, it would spread like wildfire. I knew something heavy would hit the fan once my ex-fiancee's family found out. But that was off in the distance and I blocked it from my mind.
"I'm sorry but he will not allow a group setting," I told him over the phone.
"Mom! Get off the phone!" my husband yelled. I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling. It felt like we were in grade school.
"You know, I would like to get to know you better," he sighed.
There was a long pause before I answered.
"Yeah, same here. But it won't happen the way we want it to."
I wanted to tell him about all the signs. How I knew he was the one. What I had gone through in the last year to be finally led to him. But everytime I opened my mouth, nothing came out. I did not know where to start. I sensed that he too wanted to talk and open up about himself but the setting was not right. The phone calls were foreign and uninviting--ironically the opposite experience I had with my ex-fiancee. However, it was a good thing. It only reiterated the feeling I possessed--that I needed to get to know him in person.
And I would find a way to do this, with or without Daddy's approval.
"Yep. We will be officially engaged in April."
"And you still have to have a proper conversation with him?"
"Yes. Its kind of hard when his father is breathing on the other line and MY father is sitting in earshot, pretending to read the newspaper."
"What? Listen, you really need to go out alone with him and have some time to get to know each other."
"And how am I supposed to do that? He asked me to meet up--told me his parents have no problem with the idea. But my Dad is a real stickler. He doesn't want me to see him. He thinks if we break off the engagement for whatever reason, I will end up with a reputation."
"That is dumbest thing I have ever heard! Why would you have a reputation? Do you plan on sleeping with him on the first date?"
"Yes, of course.... NOT! My dad thinks if we are alone together, the community will jump to the conclusion that there was some hanky panky and then I will be blamed for it."
"Your culture is so weird. That is pretty backwards thinking. What if you don't do anything and he makes the moves on you? You will still get blamed? That is so unfair. You are only trying to get to know each other. There must be another way?"
"Well, my father says he is trying to protect my honour. When two people are alone, there is not a third person as a witness."
"A witness? Sounds more like a court trial than a date! What about if you go out in a group setting?"
"Well my fiancee suggested we go out with his brother and my brother and sister. We could come over as a family and then take off for dinner."
"So what did your Dad say?"
"I have yet to ask him. I think that is reasonable, don't you think?"
"Listen, if you need a witness, I will come!"
"Thanks, but I don't need to implicate you either. Let's stick with one girl having a bad rep, Ms Sleep with him on the first date!" I joked with my best friend. Out of all of my friends, she had to be the wildest, most spontaneous one.
Enter Supreme Ruler of the household
"OVER MY DEAD BODY! I don't care if your brother and sister are there! They are younger than you and don't know any better. Even if there are a hundred people sitting between you, you will still come out of this tainted."
My father had that look on his face that prevented me from arguing my point. This was getting ridiculous! How on earth was I going to get to know him?
I couldn't go out with him alone nor with a chaperone. My father was taking this arranged marriage thing to a whole new level.
"Just get to know him over the phone. Didn't you do that with the last one?" he proclaimed and walked away in a huff.
DANG IT. I certainly had that coming.
While my new engagement was being orchestrated, I often wondered how this was going to resonate once it became official? There was no way I could hide my engagement from our immediate community. And when the news broke, it would spread like wildfire. I knew something heavy would hit the fan once my ex-fiancee's family found out. But that was off in the distance and I blocked it from my mind.
"I'm sorry but he will not allow a group setting," I told him over the phone.
"Mom! Get off the phone!" my husband yelled. I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling. It felt like we were in grade school.
"You know, I would like to get to know you better," he sighed.
There was a long pause before I answered.
"Yeah, same here. But it won't happen the way we want it to."
I wanted to tell him about all the signs. How I knew he was the one. What I had gone through in the last year to be finally led to him. But everytime I opened my mouth, nothing came out. I did not know where to start. I sensed that he too wanted to talk and open up about himself but the setting was not right. The phone calls were foreign and uninviting--ironically the opposite experience I had with my ex-fiancee. However, it was a good thing. It only reiterated the feeling I possessed--that I needed to get to know him in person.
And I would find a way to do this, with or without Daddy's approval.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 32: Craving Chocolate
The arranged marriage. If I grew up dating, falling in love and then marrying, as an outsider looking in, I too, would find the concept of arranged marriages perturbing. I grew up with my friends adhering to the mating rituals: flirting, small talk, courtship, dating, falling in love and perhaps, marriage. And I was an outsider to that world. It surrounded me, encompassed me and at times, smothered me. It affected me as soon as I stepped out my front door or turned on the television. Imagine: You are told not to eat chocolate but you can see, touch, smell and hear others eating it--all the time. That was how I felt growing up. And there were times when it was hard to obey.
Sure, there were times when I wanted to taste-test that chocolate. Take it in my closet, close the door and nibble on it in secret. And I did. The secrecy was exhilarating. I think that is why teenagers defy their parents in the first place. It is not so much the act, but being cleverly and skillfully elusive that creates the excitement. I knew many girls my age who were closet daters. It was not the kind of life I was an advocate for. For it to mean anything to me, it was all or nothing.
I remember just after I had turned sixteen, I was at the theatre with a group of my girlfriends when I spotted a Muslim girl from my class going into a movie with a senior from high school. I knew him well as an outspoken, popular, handsome and athletic guy, one grade ahead of us. Just before she entered the theatre, she caught me looking over at her. As I made my way to the concession stand, she cut me off abruptly. She hugged me and asked how I was doing. There was a wild look in her eye while she looked around to see if anyone was watching.
"Please don't tell anyone that I am here with him," she pleaded. My parents knew her parents, being part of the same social circle. I looked at her with sympathy and nodded. And then she was off in a flash, next to her beau, linking her arm through his and looking at him adoringly.
My friend nudged and leaned into me to whisper," Isn't she the same religion as you? I thought you were not supposed to date?"
"Me too," as I turned her around from staring at the 'forbidden' couple.
"Are you going to tell her parents?" she asked inquisitively. I shook my head. It was none of my business. Sure, a part of me was envious. She was getting away with it and no one knew--or at least I thought. Quite noteworthy was the fact that if a boy called the house, I got the third degree and a lecture about unwanted pregnancies. It did not help that my father worked as a social worker and had been privy to all the social ills within our community. It only strengthened his grip on all his children.
Even when people approached to commend him on a job well done in his own parenting, he never cut us some slack and complained we did not listen to him. I refrained from telling him about my fellow Muslim friends, boys and girls alike, who were smoking, drinking, doing drugs or secretly dating. That would just get me locked up in my bedroom for the rest of my life. So I made it a point to never speak about anyone's indiscretions which made me the youth Muslim psychiatrist. Ironically, although I became everyone's confidante, they pressured me to do what they were doing. Again, for me, it was all or nothing. Hence, the revelation of my relationship with my ex-fiancee. I wanted to be free to express my feelings and emotions but it did not happen the way I thought it would.
Knowing full well that I was embarking on a road less travelled, I knew that I needed to walk the path in a guarded way. We were not officially engaged. It was now February and the plans for the engagement were underway. April would be the month of our engagement--a simple ceremony at my house, attended by close family and friends. In the meantime, I was busy with school and work. He was working fulltime as an accountant and the evenings became our time to talk. We were permitted to speak on the phone to each other a few times a week.
The first conversation was rather awkward. Very conservative and much like a business call. It would begin with my father speaking to his mother. If my mother were alive, she would have been assessing and sizing her up. Getting to know her to prepare me on what not to say. But my father had to take on that role, and he was not a good substitute. His conversations with her were curt and concise. And after speaking about things related to the engagement, he would pass the phone to me to talk to my future fiancee. With my father in the same room, and his mother sometimes breathing heavily on another line, we would uncomfortably ask each other about work, school, the heavy snowfall the other night and a few frivilous things. Many times he had to ask his mother or father to hang up the phone or I would go to another room to escape the elephant ears of my father.
Still, with the removal of any adult supervision, we could not relax and speak normally. For me, with many years of using the phone as a protective device, I thought I could speak freely and without fear. But with every word came judgement and first impressions.
It was the curse of trying too hard. Despite my clean track record, if there was any time to drink or do drugs, it would have been just before these dreaded phone calls...
Sure, there were times when I wanted to taste-test that chocolate. Take it in my closet, close the door and nibble on it in secret. And I did. The secrecy was exhilarating. I think that is why teenagers defy their parents in the first place. It is not so much the act, but being cleverly and skillfully elusive that creates the excitement. I knew many girls my age who were closet daters. It was not the kind of life I was an advocate for. For it to mean anything to me, it was all or nothing.
I remember just after I had turned sixteen, I was at the theatre with a group of my girlfriends when I spotted a Muslim girl from my class going into a movie with a senior from high school. I knew him well as an outspoken, popular, handsome and athletic guy, one grade ahead of us. Just before she entered the theatre, she caught me looking over at her. As I made my way to the concession stand, she cut me off abruptly. She hugged me and asked how I was doing. There was a wild look in her eye while she looked around to see if anyone was watching.
"Please don't tell anyone that I am here with him," she pleaded. My parents knew her parents, being part of the same social circle. I looked at her with sympathy and nodded. And then she was off in a flash, next to her beau, linking her arm through his and looking at him adoringly.
My friend nudged and leaned into me to whisper," Isn't she the same religion as you? I thought you were not supposed to date?"
"Me too," as I turned her around from staring at the 'forbidden' couple.
"Are you going to tell her parents?" she asked inquisitively. I shook my head. It was none of my business. Sure, a part of me was envious. She was getting away with it and no one knew--or at least I thought. Quite noteworthy was the fact that if a boy called the house, I got the third degree and a lecture about unwanted pregnancies. It did not help that my father worked as a social worker and had been privy to all the social ills within our community. It only strengthened his grip on all his children.
Even when people approached to commend him on a job well done in his own parenting, he never cut us some slack and complained we did not listen to him. I refrained from telling him about my fellow Muslim friends, boys and girls alike, who were smoking, drinking, doing drugs or secretly dating. That would just get me locked up in my bedroom for the rest of my life. So I made it a point to never speak about anyone's indiscretions which made me the youth Muslim psychiatrist. Ironically, although I became everyone's confidante, they pressured me to do what they were doing. Again, for me, it was all or nothing. Hence, the revelation of my relationship with my ex-fiancee. I wanted to be free to express my feelings and emotions but it did not happen the way I thought it would.
Knowing full well that I was embarking on a road less travelled, I knew that I needed to walk the path in a guarded way. We were not officially engaged. It was now February and the plans for the engagement were underway. April would be the month of our engagement--a simple ceremony at my house, attended by close family and friends. In the meantime, I was busy with school and work. He was working fulltime as an accountant and the evenings became our time to talk. We were permitted to speak on the phone to each other a few times a week.
The first conversation was rather awkward. Very conservative and much like a business call. It would begin with my father speaking to his mother. If my mother were alive, she would have been assessing and sizing her up. Getting to know her to prepare me on what not to say. But my father had to take on that role, and he was not a good substitute. His conversations with her were curt and concise. And after speaking about things related to the engagement, he would pass the phone to me to talk to my future fiancee. With my father in the same room, and his mother sometimes breathing heavily on another line, we would uncomfortably ask each other about work, school, the heavy snowfall the other night and a few frivilous things. Many times he had to ask his mother or father to hang up the phone or I would go to another room to escape the elephant ears of my father.
Still, with the removal of any adult supervision, we could not relax and speak normally. For me, with many years of using the phone as a protective device, I thought I could speak freely and without fear. But with every word came judgement and first impressions.
It was the curse of trying too hard. Despite my clean track record, if there was any time to drink or do drugs, it would have been just before these dreaded phone calls...
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 31: Leap of Faith
The plane touched down in Canada after four weeks in Pakistan. I looked out the window and saw the familiar grounds. It was January 1991 and patches of snow covered the highways and fields as we approached the airport. I was happy to return, especially after my Khala made up for all the nonsense I endured. Go home and marry. Her command was heartfelt. It rang in my ears the whole trip home and my heart skipped a beat when I thought about seeing him again. The man in the tweed jacket. And all I knew was that he liked tweed...
Two days after we arrived, she called. My mother-in-law was talking a mile a minute. I could barely keep up with her but when she jokingly asked if I was betrothed to another person while on the trip, a twinge of guilt shot through me. We are going there to meet my mother's family. Not seek out someone for marriage... The words rang out loud and clear. I needed to erase them out of my thoughts quickly before I blurted anything out. She wanted us to come and see them. I heard the excitement in her voice and ...it scared me. It was going to happen and even though I was apprehensive, I tingled with a mixture of fear and excitement.
"What do you want me to tell them?" my father asked me in the doorway of bedroom while I was unpacking and hanging my clothes in the closet.
"Do you really need to ask, Dad? I told you my answer BEFORE we left for Pakistan," I retorted. He stood there in silence, just staring at me. I continued my unpacking, fully aware of the insolence in my tone. I was still angry about his attempts to thwart my Canadian plans.
"I thought you were not sure." He walked away without me having a chance to answer.
To be sure. That was the question.
Unlike my father, I never planned out my life. Life for me was about spontaneity. I would jump into everything without thinking. So in this situation, it was no different. Life was beyond my control and I had to let the pieces fall as they may. And no matter how frightening it was, it felt right. Its hard to explain...perhaps it needs no explanation since it lacks reason or any scientific theory. The formula did not add up--but who says there needed to be one? History proved that when I tried to reason, control or apply logic, the events backfired.
I needed to take that leap of faith.
We went to visit them the following weekend. Our customary family room soiree was disrupted with my father and his parents asking for our presence in the living room. Our siblings were excluded however they smiled knowingly. I sat next to my father and he between his mother and father. I looked down at my feet, my heart pounding wildly in my ears.
"After much thought, my daughter has given consent to marry your son," my father announced. I kept my eyes lowered. My second toe is larger than my big toe, I thought. Folklore dictated that a person with a larger second toe would be very lucky in life. Was it luck, coincidence or fate that landed me in this living room, agreeing to marry a complete stranger? I tried to flip my second toe over my big toe. Yes, I was not paying attention. My way of deflecting the reality of what was going on. When I looked up, my husband was sheepishly smiling at me. I feigned a smile and scratched my nose. Agh, not classy! Was I supposed to stand up and shake hands with him? Give him a high five? Ask to be excused with him so we could talk shop? My father got up and hugged him and my father-in-law. My mother-in-law got up and hugged me hard, whispering in my ear, "Welcome to our family."
The deed was done and I felt ...neutral. I thought I would feel on top of the world. Bursting at the seams, celebrating in the streets. Instead, I felt nothing! For a second, I despaired. Was this normal? What was normal in this traditional role? This was not the way I wanted to feel.
We stood in their kitchen as his mother passed us the plates and glasses.
We both walked into the dining room and set the table. I set the place settings. His hands shook while he poured water into the glasses. I pretended not to notice. I thought it was endearing. He looked up at me and smiled. And I brushed away my hopelessness.
Although we did not speak one word, it was the first thing we did together.
Two days after we arrived, she called. My mother-in-law was talking a mile a minute. I could barely keep up with her but when she jokingly asked if I was betrothed to another person while on the trip, a twinge of guilt shot through me. We are going there to meet my mother's family. Not seek out someone for marriage... The words rang out loud and clear. I needed to erase them out of my thoughts quickly before I blurted anything out. She wanted us to come and see them. I heard the excitement in her voice and ...it scared me. It was going to happen and even though I was apprehensive, I tingled with a mixture of fear and excitement.
"What do you want me to tell them?" my father asked me in the doorway of bedroom while I was unpacking and hanging my clothes in the closet.
"Do you really need to ask, Dad? I told you my answer BEFORE we left for Pakistan," I retorted. He stood there in silence, just staring at me. I continued my unpacking, fully aware of the insolence in my tone. I was still angry about his attempts to thwart my Canadian plans.
"I thought you were not sure." He walked away without me having a chance to answer.
To be sure. That was the question.
Unlike my father, I never planned out my life. Life for me was about spontaneity. I would jump into everything without thinking. So in this situation, it was no different. Life was beyond my control and I had to let the pieces fall as they may. And no matter how frightening it was, it felt right. Its hard to explain...perhaps it needs no explanation since it lacks reason or any scientific theory. The formula did not add up--but who says there needed to be one? History proved that when I tried to reason, control or apply logic, the events backfired.
I needed to take that leap of faith.
We went to visit them the following weekend. Our customary family room soiree was disrupted with my father and his parents asking for our presence in the living room. Our siblings were excluded however they smiled knowingly. I sat next to my father and he between his mother and father. I looked down at my feet, my heart pounding wildly in my ears.
"After much thought, my daughter has given consent to marry your son," my father announced. I kept my eyes lowered. My second toe is larger than my big toe, I thought. Folklore dictated that a person with a larger second toe would be very lucky in life. Was it luck, coincidence or fate that landed me in this living room, agreeing to marry a complete stranger? I tried to flip my second toe over my big toe. Yes, I was not paying attention. My way of deflecting the reality of what was going on. When I looked up, my husband was sheepishly smiling at me. I feigned a smile and scratched my nose. Agh, not classy! Was I supposed to stand up and shake hands with him? Give him a high five? Ask to be excused with him so we could talk shop? My father got up and hugged him and my father-in-law. My mother-in-law got up and hugged me hard, whispering in my ear, "Welcome to our family."
The deed was done and I felt ...neutral. I thought I would feel on top of the world. Bursting at the seams, celebrating in the streets. Instead, I felt nothing! For a second, I despaired. Was this normal? What was normal in this traditional role? This was not the way I wanted to feel.
We stood in their kitchen as his mother passed us the plates and glasses.
We both walked into the dining room and set the table. I set the place settings. His hands shook while he poured water into the glasses. I pretended not to notice. I thought it was endearing. He looked up at me and smiled. And I brushed away my hopelessness.
Although we did not speak one word, it was the first thing we did together.
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 30: Blessed to move further
Back in Lahore, I returned and pondered recent events. Ultimately, the games began when we left Canada.
I tried to put myself in my father's shoes. One offer was pretty secure back in Canada but he wanted to test the waters in Pakistan. Why? Because there was many fish in the sea and he wanted to know how many would bite!
Squeeze me?
Like I said, he was playing the field, fishing in the sea, herding in the cattle-- to find the best one. Much to my dismay. He was appeasing his family and friends without thinking much of me. What happened to the lecture about not rushing into anything? Thinking about my decision while I was away? How could I do that when the suitors were 'suiting up' in front of me? Despite the mass confusion, I was convinced about one thing. No matter how hard my father tried to present every option to sway me, my heart and mind was in Canada. This charade only solidified my decision.
So it was notably funny when my father pulled the same stunt for the very last time. And this time it was with my mother's brother. You see, when I was that small eight year old girl back in 1979, the exchange of looks between my mother and her sister had nothing to do with my cousin who proclaimed his love for me. Instead, and I would find this out years later, my mother had a hidden desire for me to marry her brother's son. She told me this when we had visited Pakistan in 1987. She did not make a big deal about it at the time and I actually thought she was joking. But when she came back in 1988, she expressed her wish to me again. Although she knew I was friends with my ex-fiancee, she secretly wanted me to marry my cousin, knowing full well that I would never accept it.
While at my Khala's house, their brother came for a visit to see us. He is a large man with extra large hands, a stern expression and a soft voice. He scared me then and still scares me today. To conduct a conversation with him was like pulling teeth. In most cases, we would all be sitting in silence. Except when my father would open his mouth. And lo and behold, he did--asking his brother-in-law if he still considered his son to be married to me. I expected the fallout this time and shook my head. I stared up at the ceiling, praying to God that He would end this scene quickly. And He did.
After my father posed this question, my Uncle froze. He then stood up slowly and walked out of the room. My father's expression said it all. I smiled at the ceiling and followed after my Uncle. Promptly, my Khala left the room and intercepted my path to him. She held out her hand, motioning me to back away and nodded to me, encouragingly. I knew she was going to explain my situation back home, just in case he came back to reconsider the proposal.
As we said our last goodbyes to my mother's family, my Khala hugged me and whispered in my ear.
"You were small and did not know what your mother went through. Only I know. She protected you. Now that she is gone, you need to be strong in front of him. Stand up for yourself. She died of a broken heart. You have a right to be happy. Be happy for her."
I knew exactly who she meant when she said, "him".
I pulled away from her in time to see tears streaming down her face. I felt as if my mother was standing in front of me: guiding, supporting, encouraging. My Khala's pain seeped through me from our tight embrace and I vowed at that point, to heed her advice, no matter what.
"Go home and marry," she smiled. In that smile, her blessing was instantaneous.
Another sign that felt like I was moving in the right direction...
I tried to put myself in my father's shoes. One offer was pretty secure back in Canada but he wanted to test the waters in Pakistan. Why? Because there was many fish in the sea and he wanted to know how many would bite!
Squeeze me?
Like I said, he was playing the field, fishing in the sea, herding in the cattle-- to find the best one. Much to my dismay. He was appeasing his family and friends without thinking much of me. What happened to the lecture about not rushing into anything? Thinking about my decision while I was away? How could I do that when the suitors were 'suiting up' in front of me? Despite the mass confusion, I was convinced about one thing. No matter how hard my father tried to present every option to sway me, my heart and mind was in Canada. This charade only solidified my decision.
So it was notably funny when my father pulled the same stunt for the very last time. And this time it was with my mother's brother. You see, when I was that small eight year old girl back in 1979, the exchange of looks between my mother and her sister had nothing to do with my cousin who proclaimed his love for me. Instead, and I would find this out years later, my mother had a hidden desire for me to marry her brother's son. She told me this when we had visited Pakistan in 1987. She did not make a big deal about it at the time and I actually thought she was joking. But when she came back in 1988, she expressed her wish to me again. Although she knew I was friends with my ex-fiancee, she secretly wanted me to marry my cousin, knowing full well that I would never accept it.
While at my Khala's house, their brother came for a visit to see us. He is a large man with extra large hands, a stern expression and a soft voice. He scared me then and still scares me today. To conduct a conversation with him was like pulling teeth. In most cases, we would all be sitting in silence. Except when my father would open his mouth. And lo and behold, he did--asking his brother-in-law if he still considered his son to be married to me. I expected the fallout this time and shook my head. I stared up at the ceiling, praying to God that He would end this scene quickly. And He did.
After my father posed this question, my Uncle froze. He then stood up slowly and walked out of the room. My father's expression said it all. I smiled at the ceiling and followed after my Uncle. Promptly, my Khala left the room and intercepted my path to him. She held out her hand, motioning me to back away and nodded to me, encouragingly. I knew she was going to explain my situation back home, just in case he came back to reconsider the proposal.
As we said our last goodbyes to my mother's family, my Khala hugged me and whispered in my ear.
"You were small and did not know what your mother went through. Only I know. She protected you. Now that she is gone, you need to be strong in front of him. Stand up for yourself. She died of a broken heart. You have a right to be happy. Be happy for her."
I knew exactly who she meant when she said, "him".
I pulled away from her in time to see tears streaming down her face. I felt as if my mother was standing in front of me: guiding, supporting, encouraging. My Khala's pain seeped through me from our tight embrace and I vowed at that point, to heed her advice, no matter what.
"Go home and marry," she smiled. In that smile, her blessing was instantaneous.
Another sign that felt like I was moving in the right direction...
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 29: Snubbing High Society
Just when I thought things could not get worse, my father was about to repeat the same mistake again!
When he returned from Islamabad, I confronted him about my cousin. He looked confused and then feigned ignorance. We were at his family home and I had to watch my tone and volume. He took me into another room, out of earshot from the rest of the family. He insisted that my Aunt approached him and 'technically' he had no problem me marrying her son but that the decision was totally up to me. He felt he did nothing wrong and presented it in such a way that he put the ball in my court.
Then it dawned on me. He was trying to be politically correct. His inlaws were mad and sad enough losing their baby to him back in Canada. He agreed to the proposal to look good! By leaving it up to me to reject the offer (which he knew very well I would do) he would be absolved of any wrongdoing and I would look like the culprit! It infuriated me that he wiped his hands clean of the whole situation. I did not want to start a fight at his parental home so I stormed out of the room. As I passed my aunts, his sisters, in the front foyer, they knew better than to ask what was wrong. My relationship with my father on this trip was growing more and more volatile. I went up to the roof of my grandparents house. It was three stories high. I could see the minaret of the local Mosque and the sky was dark and brooding. I felt like I was in another world as I paced the width of the roof. I thought my father liked my husband's family? Why was he consenting to other proposals?
When I came back downstairs, I overheard my father making travel arrangements to Karachi, on the west side of the country. And apparently, I was going with him.
Enter story number two. The plan was to visit his friend's wife in Karachi. My father's good friend had passed away years before our arrival to Pakistan in 1990 but he still remained friends with his wives. Yes, you got it. This friend had two wives. We had visited both of them back in 1979. The notion of this man having two families boggled my mind as an eight year old. He was a very rich businessman who could afford many luxuries. His original wife lived in main city of Karachi and he had fathered eight children with her. The second wife lived near the ocean in an expensive district called Clifton. She had two children from her first marriage and three children with him. Eleven children all together! Now as a twenty year old I incessantly asked my father how this man could legally walk around with two women! Did the women know of each other? Did they meet and have tea? Did the children play together? Did they have big Brady Bunch picnics? Who does he sleep with and when?? My imagination got the better of me and this infuriated my father.
"It is permitted to marry more than one wife," he mumbled as we headed to Clifton. I knew our religion permitted up to four wives but in the early 90s, I did not think the practice still existed. "Anyways, he is no longer around so does it matter?"
As we rounded the corner and approached their stately low-rise condominium, across the street was a slum area. Tin roofs and garbage made up the dwelling of some of the poorest people in the country. This averted my attention from the "two-wife" dilemna, for the time being. We met Mrs. X and her three children. Judging from their surroundings, her husband's legacy allowed her to live a full life. Her elder daughter was studying to become a doctor abroad and her son was a businessman. The three young children were still in school.
My father had enlisted her good tastes to help us purchase my clothes and jewellery as part of my marriage dowry. Thing is, he forgot to mention that these items were being purchased for my impending marriage. A small detail...left out.
Instead he presented it as a preplanning exercise --these items would be ready in the future, making it sound like my marriage was not imminent. Since nothing was written in stone with my husband's family back in Canada, I was prohibited to speak of something that was unconfirmed. So I bit my lip and went along with the charade. Until I was cornered again!
After a week of shopping, negotiating (Mrs. X was a great haggler) and purchasing my wedding items, I was lounging after gorging myself on a sumptuous dinner at Mrs. X's favorite restaurant. We came home to have tea and dessert. She approached me, like a snake slithering across to its prey--fattening me up for a nice juicy bite. The expensive dinner, her exorbitant taste in shopping (which in the end, did not sit well with my father's pocketbook) and her introductions to the who's who in Karachi, Mrs. X, with my father in plain sight, asked for my hand in marriage for her businessman son! Bloody hell!
I nearly choked on my tea biscuit. My God, it was happening again!! My father smiled from his spot in her drawing room, waiting for my reply. I was not one to organize a rebellion on the spot or make a public scene but since she was an assertive, assuming individual with an air of haughtiness, I gathered my courage and thoughts as they waited for my response. My dad avoided me altogether, paying attention to Mrs. X.
"I just want to say that I appreciate you considering me as a potential daughter-in-law but I must say I did not come to Pakistan to find a husband!" She put down her teacup, stroked her immaculately coiffed hair and placed her hands on her hips. Her gold glistened under the soft lights.
"Well, you are prepared after all these days of shopping I helped you with! You have all the goods. Now you just need the husband." She looked over to my father, who smiled. Good one -- make me feel guilty. Put me on the spot even though it was my father's idea. Why did I agree to visit her? I sat there in stony silence.
"You Canadian children are quite spoiled, like your father says. Don't you see a good opportunity? My son is successful and will give you a very luxurious life. Many girls here would love to be in your position".
Yeah, position of a Canadian citizen! I rolled my eyes at her. She raised her eyebrow.
My father stood up, holding his teacup, sensing an impending radical move on my part. There were many times in my life where I wanted to put him on the spot. To forego the parent-child expectations and ignore the authority he possessed. A part of me wanted to lash out and completely embarress him. But the mother in me, meaning my mother, would never stand for this behaviour. She taught me gentleness, patience and class. It took her death to teach me to put these traits into practice. The old me, the monster in the mirror, wanted to defy everyone and everything in the world that pushed my buttons. Mrs. X and who she represented, had pushed them all.
I put my teacup down and smiled politely. That's right my daughter. You are the most beautiful when you smile. Never show them your pain. Smile and you will get through it, I heard my mother whisper.
"Thank you for your proposal. You are very kind and practice sound judgment when it comes to choosing a bride for your son. Unfortunately, I cannot accept. This is one great opportunity that I must release. I am certainly not worthy. Being raised in Western culture does not allow me to be familiar with Pakistani social expectations, values and rights of women. I would not be a good match for your son who is only accustomed to your wonderful traits and experiences. He deserves a Pakistani bride who will fit in." Oddly, the speech came out in a British accent. I was putting on a show--a damn good one!
With that, I stood up and excused myself to the washroom. Mrs. X's mouth hung open and for the first time, she had nothing intelligent to say. The injured party, my father included, did not broach the topic for the rest of our visit there. I was outcasted. And it suited me fine. My father got an earful on the flight back to Lahore. I turned my back to him and looked out the window. I missed my mom. Now I knew what she put up with.
But the insult to my injury would be attempted one last time....Daddy Dearest was a fighter. Too bad I packed my boxing gloves!
When he returned from Islamabad, I confronted him about my cousin. He looked confused and then feigned ignorance. We were at his family home and I had to watch my tone and volume. He took me into another room, out of earshot from the rest of the family. He insisted that my Aunt approached him and 'technically' he had no problem me marrying her son but that the decision was totally up to me. He felt he did nothing wrong and presented it in such a way that he put the ball in my court.
Then it dawned on me. He was trying to be politically correct. His inlaws were mad and sad enough losing their baby to him back in Canada. He agreed to the proposal to look good! By leaving it up to me to reject the offer (which he knew very well I would do) he would be absolved of any wrongdoing and I would look like the culprit! It infuriated me that he wiped his hands clean of the whole situation. I did not want to start a fight at his parental home so I stormed out of the room. As I passed my aunts, his sisters, in the front foyer, they knew better than to ask what was wrong. My relationship with my father on this trip was growing more and more volatile. I went up to the roof of my grandparents house. It was three stories high. I could see the minaret of the local Mosque and the sky was dark and brooding. I felt like I was in another world as I paced the width of the roof. I thought my father liked my husband's family? Why was he consenting to other proposals?
When I came back downstairs, I overheard my father making travel arrangements to Karachi, on the west side of the country. And apparently, I was going with him.
Enter story number two. The plan was to visit his friend's wife in Karachi. My father's good friend had passed away years before our arrival to Pakistan in 1990 but he still remained friends with his wives. Yes, you got it. This friend had two wives. We had visited both of them back in 1979. The notion of this man having two families boggled my mind as an eight year old. He was a very rich businessman who could afford many luxuries. His original wife lived in main city of Karachi and he had fathered eight children with her. The second wife lived near the ocean in an expensive district called Clifton. She had two children from her first marriage and three children with him. Eleven children all together! Now as a twenty year old I incessantly asked my father how this man could legally walk around with two women! Did the women know of each other? Did they meet and have tea? Did the children play together? Did they have big Brady Bunch picnics? Who does he sleep with and when?? My imagination got the better of me and this infuriated my father.
"It is permitted to marry more than one wife," he mumbled as we headed to Clifton. I knew our religion permitted up to four wives but in the early 90s, I did not think the practice still existed. "Anyways, he is no longer around so does it matter?"
As we rounded the corner and approached their stately low-rise condominium, across the street was a slum area. Tin roofs and garbage made up the dwelling of some of the poorest people in the country. This averted my attention from the "two-wife" dilemna, for the time being. We met Mrs. X and her three children. Judging from their surroundings, her husband's legacy allowed her to live a full life. Her elder daughter was studying to become a doctor abroad and her son was a businessman. The three young children were still in school.
My father had enlisted her good tastes to help us purchase my clothes and jewellery as part of my marriage dowry. Thing is, he forgot to mention that these items were being purchased for my impending marriage. A small detail...left out.
Instead he presented it as a preplanning exercise --these items would be ready in the future, making it sound like my marriage was not imminent. Since nothing was written in stone with my husband's family back in Canada, I was prohibited to speak of something that was unconfirmed. So I bit my lip and went along with the charade. Until I was cornered again!
After a week of shopping, negotiating (Mrs. X was a great haggler) and purchasing my wedding items, I was lounging after gorging myself on a sumptuous dinner at Mrs. X's favorite restaurant. We came home to have tea and dessert. She approached me, like a snake slithering across to its prey--fattening me up for a nice juicy bite. The expensive dinner, her exorbitant taste in shopping (which in the end, did not sit well with my father's pocketbook) and her introductions to the who's who in Karachi, Mrs. X, with my father in plain sight, asked for my hand in marriage for her businessman son! Bloody hell!
I nearly choked on my tea biscuit. My God, it was happening again!! My father smiled from his spot in her drawing room, waiting for my reply. I was not one to organize a rebellion on the spot or make a public scene but since she was an assertive, assuming individual with an air of haughtiness, I gathered my courage and thoughts as they waited for my response. My dad avoided me altogether, paying attention to Mrs. X.
"I just want to say that I appreciate you considering me as a potential daughter-in-law but I must say I did not come to Pakistan to find a husband!" She put down her teacup, stroked her immaculately coiffed hair and placed her hands on her hips. Her gold glistened under the soft lights.
"Well, you are prepared after all these days of shopping I helped you with! You have all the goods. Now you just need the husband." She looked over to my father, who smiled. Good one -- make me feel guilty. Put me on the spot even though it was my father's idea. Why did I agree to visit her? I sat there in stony silence.
"You Canadian children are quite spoiled, like your father says. Don't you see a good opportunity? My son is successful and will give you a very luxurious life. Many girls here would love to be in your position".
Yeah, position of a Canadian citizen! I rolled my eyes at her. She raised her eyebrow.
My father stood up, holding his teacup, sensing an impending radical move on my part. There were many times in my life where I wanted to put him on the spot. To forego the parent-child expectations and ignore the authority he possessed. A part of me wanted to lash out and completely embarress him. But the mother in me, meaning my mother, would never stand for this behaviour. She taught me gentleness, patience and class. It took her death to teach me to put these traits into practice. The old me, the monster in the mirror, wanted to defy everyone and everything in the world that pushed my buttons. Mrs. X and who she represented, had pushed them all.
I put my teacup down and smiled politely. That's right my daughter. You are the most beautiful when you smile. Never show them your pain. Smile and you will get through it, I heard my mother whisper.
"Thank you for your proposal. You are very kind and practice sound judgment when it comes to choosing a bride for your son. Unfortunately, I cannot accept. This is one great opportunity that I must release. I am certainly not worthy. Being raised in Western culture does not allow me to be familiar with Pakistani social expectations, values and rights of women. I would not be a good match for your son who is only accustomed to your wonderful traits and experiences. He deserves a Pakistani bride who will fit in." Oddly, the speech came out in a British accent. I was putting on a show--a damn good one!
With that, I stood up and excused myself to the washroom. Mrs. X's mouth hung open and for the first time, she had nothing intelligent to say. The injured party, my father included, did not broach the topic for the rest of our visit there. I was outcasted. And it suited me fine. My father got an earful on the flight back to Lahore. I turned my back to him and looked out the window. I missed my mom. Now I knew what she put up with.
But the insult to my injury would be attempted one last time....Daddy Dearest was a fighter. Too bad I packed my boxing gloves!
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 28: The Apple doesn't fall far from the Tree
"We are going there to meet my mother's family. Not seek out someone for marriage," I told her.
Technically, this was true. My agenda was to see my mother's family and enjoy their company. It was a break from school and as my father put it, to take time and reflect about the decision I had already made. In essence, there was not much to think about. I knew deep down inside that I was making the right decision. There was not much to think of since I did not know what to expect. The key was to take it one day at a time. My father, on the other hand, was playing the field.
Squeeze me?
I blindsided him when I introduced my fiancee to him. I was young and naive. Although he preached the fact that he was a widow and he had the daunting task to marry not one but two daughters off, I thought I was making things easy for him. I guess he accepted the fact that my marriage was inevitable and bound to happen anyday. But I knew, even back then, that a part of him could not bear to see me go. And if I were to go, it would be to his liking and expectations. Sorry Dad. I did not expect it to go that way. He knew that my consent was required but funny thing was, when I gave it, he found every excuse not to honour it! What do I mean? Well, here goes story number one.
During my visit to Pakistan in 1987, I was 17 years old and friends with my ex-fiancee. We joked about my trip and warned me not to get married off while I was there. By default, relatives were always seeking marriage to obtain citizenship in Canada. The idea of marrying within my own family made me cringe. However, it was common practice in our culture. For instance, the story of my parents.
My mother was given the choice to marry my father or her cousin. Two pictures were presented to her and she was asked to pick between the two. She did not want to pick between either but ended up choosing my father--just because he was not related to her. When my father first saw my mother, it was through a transparent curtain at her home. He did not enter the room but eyeballed her from afar. And that was it--his bride was chosen.
Imagine choosing your husband from a picture and meeting him for the first time on your wedding day. That was how my mother did it and I knew I would never follow in her footsteps. Yet, ironically, here I was, born and raised in Canada, ready to marry someone I knew nothing about. My...how the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. During the summer of 1989 in Pakistan, my mother's nephew, her sister's son, took a liking to me. But hold on. His crush actually began back in 1979...So let's journey back in time to show you how that seed was planted.
I was only eight years old and he was thirteen. One day as I flew down the stairs while he was close behind in wild pursuit, he grabbed me by the hair and made a proclaimation that caught me off guard. Anyone with their grip on your hair would seem delusional whilst proclaiming their love.
In broken English, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "You and I be married. You be my wife, forever, together!" I pried his fingers from my ponytail and ran into a room where my mother, her sister and the rest of the women were cutting vegetables. They witnessed my tear-stained face and demanded what was the cause. I blurted all the details about my cousin's annoucement. He had followed me to the room and stood in the doorway, pounding his fist in his palm, with a sneer on his face. He did not expect me to tell a room full of people about his proclaimation. Upon seeing this look, I hid behind his mother while everyone laughed. "Don't worry my Canadian princess. We won't let this boy marry you," my aunt exclaimed with a twinkle in her eye. She was giving a look to my mother, who smiled demurely while chopping the food. I did not know it then but a silent agreement had passed amongst the sisters.
Fast forward to 1987. My cousin was now 22 and vying for my attention. Subtlety was not their forte in the Pakistani culture. At every occasion, he made excuses to be in the same room as me, accompanied us on every excursion and hid me from his friends. Purdah (separation of men and women) was practised in every household. Quite hypocritical as I would find out later that almost every male cousin had a girlfriend or crush on someone. When I insisted to go to the Mosque for Friday prayer, my cousins laughed and said that only the men went to the Mosque. The women stayed home. What infuriated me was, despite this rule, when we were playing our card games and the Adhaan, Call to Prayer, was heard over the loudspeaker, they did not budge or get up to pray. "Practice what you preach" was not adhered to and I spoke out at every opportunity. Mind you, sitting with all my male cousins, as the only female, was not common but they all grew to like and respect me because of my friendliness. Of course, I spent time with all the girls and women in the family, helping with cooking and taking shopping excursions. But because I was from Canada, I brought a bit of what they called, "modernity" and plain 'ole fun! Problem was, I stood out too much. And this got me in hot water because I noticed my infatuated cousin getting a little too familiar.
While at a local amusement park, I got stuck riding the ferris wheel with him. He jumped the line and nonchalantly pushed his sister aside to climb onto the ride, after I had sat down. From the vantage point at the top of the wheel, while overlooking the entire city of Lahore, he confessed his love for me and wanted to be married. I remembered trying to stifle my laughter until the end of the ride. When we got off, he pretended as nothing happened but I had to tell his sister. He was not impressed. The next day, his sister's husband cornered me to clarify that his brother-in-law was not joking. That he really wished to be married and move to Canada. Warning bells were going off in my brain and the conversation I had with my ex-fiancee came to mind. Citizenship. I never spoke of it to my cousin. And I most certainly did not see him as a potential spouse. All my cousins were like my brothers. I had to let him down gently by explaining how I felt about our blood ties. He reluctantly agreed but continued his flirtatious ways to make me change my mind.
Now you can only imagine the scene in Dec 1990. We were all at my aunt's home. My father agreed to leave us there for a week while he travelled to the capital city of Islamabad to visit his friend. The same cousin requested my presence in the drawing room to have a 'serious' talk. I honestly thought it was about my mother. To express his concern and speak about the details of her death. I sat down and he stared at me closely without speaking for awhile. I looked around the room and waited. I never expected him to say the following.
"My mother was speaking to your father," he said, looking at me for a sign of recognition.
"Yessss?" I had not clued in.
"She told him about us." He leaned forward and waited. I was stumped. I frantically searched in my mind for any clue that would warrant him to start the conversation this way.
"Told him what? What do you mean?" He sat back in his chair and folded his hands in front of his face. His gestures reminded me of someone much older than his years.
"Well, she told your dad that I like you and that I want your hand in marriage." He could not look at me at this point. I could feel my heart beating in my ears. NOT AGAIN! The last two attempts to obtain my consent flashed across my mind.
"And what did my father say?" I demanded. He sensed something was wrong. Very wrong.
"Your father said that it was ok for him. We just needed to ask you." I felt my blood pressure rise and the room suddenly became blurry.
"Could you please.... HOLD THAT THOUGHT?!" I could not control my anger at that point and I am sure he had never seen me in this state before. I furiously walked out of the room and looked for my brother. I called out his name and he appeared from outside.
"You are NEVER going to believe this!" I exclaimed. My brother calmly asked what was wrong.
"Wrong? WRONG?! Dad has flipped his lid! He told Khala that if her son wants to marry me, he is "OK" with the whole thing!" My brother raised one eyebrow and shook his head.
"Can you please come with me? I need you there as a witness!" I practically dragged him to the drawing room. My cousin was sitting on the edge of his seat, with his leg shaking a mile a minute. I felt sorry for what I was about to tell him. It would be the third time I refused his proposal.
"I have brought my brother as a witness so you can hear the truth. I am very perturbed that my father has gone ahead and given his consent about my hand in marriage to you. Considering the fact that I am already spoken for in Canada!" My cousin's erratically shaking leg stopped and he sat motionless. I lowered my voice, realizing that I must have appeared as a raving lunatic to him.
"I am sorry. But there is already something happening in Canada. I am pretty sure it will go through. My brother will confirm it." I turned to my brother who nodded his head. My cousin looked utterly defeated. After an awkward few minutes of silence and of us staring at the carpet, he finally spoke.
"I understand. I did not realize this small detail. I would have never asked you if I knew. I am sorry too." I felt awful for him but my anger got the best of me. My father was out of town but I knew, when he returned, he would get a piece of my mind! I loved my Aunt very much--she was the next best thing to my mother. And rejecting her son was not the politically correct thing to do, especially while we were trying to do damage control as a result of my mother's death.
My father successfully placed me in an awkward position that entailed me having to talk to my mother's family about my impending engagement back home. She understood completely and I thanked God for her intelligence and compassion. She knew my father better than I did, it seemed. However, my decision did not bode well for her son who kept his distance from me for the remainder of the week. But hey guys, it doesn't end here. Oh yes, there is a story number two!!!
Technically, this was true. My agenda was to see my mother's family and enjoy their company. It was a break from school and as my father put it, to take time and reflect about the decision I had already made. In essence, there was not much to think about. I knew deep down inside that I was making the right decision. There was not much to think of since I did not know what to expect. The key was to take it one day at a time. My father, on the other hand, was playing the field.
Squeeze me?
I blindsided him when I introduced my fiancee to him. I was young and naive. Although he preached the fact that he was a widow and he had the daunting task to marry not one but two daughters off, I thought I was making things easy for him. I guess he accepted the fact that my marriage was inevitable and bound to happen anyday. But I knew, even back then, that a part of him could not bear to see me go. And if I were to go, it would be to his liking and expectations. Sorry Dad. I did not expect it to go that way. He knew that my consent was required but funny thing was, when I gave it, he found every excuse not to honour it! What do I mean? Well, here goes story number one.
During my visit to Pakistan in 1987, I was 17 years old and friends with my ex-fiancee. We joked about my trip and warned me not to get married off while I was there. By default, relatives were always seeking marriage to obtain citizenship in Canada. The idea of marrying within my own family made me cringe. However, it was common practice in our culture. For instance, the story of my parents.
My mother was given the choice to marry my father or her cousin. Two pictures were presented to her and she was asked to pick between the two. She did not want to pick between either but ended up choosing my father--just because he was not related to her. When my father first saw my mother, it was through a transparent curtain at her home. He did not enter the room but eyeballed her from afar. And that was it--his bride was chosen.
Imagine choosing your husband from a picture and meeting him for the first time on your wedding day. That was how my mother did it and I knew I would never follow in her footsteps. Yet, ironically, here I was, born and raised in Canada, ready to marry someone I knew nothing about. My...how the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. During the summer of 1989 in Pakistan, my mother's nephew, her sister's son, took a liking to me. But hold on. His crush actually began back in 1979...So let's journey back in time to show you how that seed was planted.
I was only eight years old and he was thirteen. One day as I flew down the stairs while he was close behind in wild pursuit, he grabbed me by the hair and made a proclaimation that caught me off guard. Anyone with their grip on your hair would seem delusional whilst proclaiming their love.
In broken English, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "You and I be married. You be my wife, forever, together!" I pried his fingers from my ponytail and ran into a room where my mother, her sister and the rest of the women were cutting vegetables. They witnessed my tear-stained face and demanded what was the cause. I blurted all the details about my cousin's annoucement. He had followed me to the room and stood in the doorway, pounding his fist in his palm, with a sneer on his face. He did not expect me to tell a room full of people about his proclaimation. Upon seeing this look, I hid behind his mother while everyone laughed. "Don't worry my Canadian princess. We won't let this boy marry you," my aunt exclaimed with a twinkle in her eye. She was giving a look to my mother, who smiled demurely while chopping the food. I did not know it then but a silent agreement had passed amongst the sisters.
Fast forward to 1987. My cousin was now 22 and vying for my attention. Subtlety was not their forte in the Pakistani culture. At every occasion, he made excuses to be in the same room as me, accompanied us on every excursion and hid me from his friends. Purdah (separation of men and women) was practised in every household. Quite hypocritical as I would find out later that almost every male cousin had a girlfriend or crush on someone. When I insisted to go to the Mosque for Friday prayer, my cousins laughed and said that only the men went to the Mosque. The women stayed home. What infuriated me was, despite this rule, when we were playing our card games and the Adhaan, Call to Prayer, was heard over the loudspeaker, they did not budge or get up to pray. "Practice what you preach" was not adhered to and I spoke out at every opportunity. Mind you, sitting with all my male cousins, as the only female, was not common but they all grew to like and respect me because of my friendliness. Of course, I spent time with all the girls and women in the family, helping with cooking and taking shopping excursions. But because I was from Canada, I brought a bit of what they called, "modernity" and plain 'ole fun! Problem was, I stood out too much. And this got me in hot water because I noticed my infatuated cousin getting a little too familiar.
While at a local amusement park, I got stuck riding the ferris wheel with him. He jumped the line and nonchalantly pushed his sister aside to climb onto the ride, after I had sat down. From the vantage point at the top of the wheel, while overlooking the entire city of Lahore, he confessed his love for me and wanted to be married. I remembered trying to stifle my laughter until the end of the ride. When we got off, he pretended as nothing happened but I had to tell his sister. He was not impressed. The next day, his sister's husband cornered me to clarify that his brother-in-law was not joking. That he really wished to be married and move to Canada. Warning bells were going off in my brain and the conversation I had with my ex-fiancee came to mind. Citizenship. I never spoke of it to my cousin. And I most certainly did not see him as a potential spouse. All my cousins were like my brothers. I had to let him down gently by explaining how I felt about our blood ties. He reluctantly agreed but continued his flirtatious ways to make me change my mind.
Now you can only imagine the scene in Dec 1990. We were all at my aunt's home. My father agreed to leave us there for a week while he travelled to the capital city of Islamabad to visit his friend. The same cousin requested my presence in the drawing room to have a 'serious' talk. I honestly thought it was about my mother. To express his concern and speak about the details of her death. I sat down and he stared at me closely without speaking for awhile. I looked around the room and waited. I never expected him to say the following.
"My mother was speaking to your father," he said, looking at me for a sign of recognition.
"Yessss?" I had not clued in.
"She told him about us." He leaned forward and waited. I was stumped. I frantically searched in my mind for any clue that would warrant him to start the conversation this way.
"Told him what? What do you mean?" He sat back in his chair and folded his hands in front of his face. His gestures reminded me of someone much older than his years.
"Well, she told your dad that I like you and that I want your hand in marriage." He could not look at me at this point. I could feel my heart beating in my ears. NOT AGAIN! The last two attempts to obtain my consent flashed across my mind.
"And what did my father say?" I demanded. He sensed something was wrong. Very wrong.
"Your father said that it was ok for him. We just needed to ask you." I felt my blood pressure rise and the room suddenly became blurry.
"Could you please.... HOLD THAT THOUGHT?!" I could not control my anger at that point and I am sure he had never seen me in this state before. I furiously walked out of the room and looked for my brother. I called out his name and he appeared from outside.
"You are NEVER going to believe this!" I exclaimed. My brother calmly asked what was wrong.
"Wrong? WRONG?! Dad has flipped his lid! He told Khala that if her son wants to marry me, he is "OK" with the whole thing!" My brother raised one eyebrow and shook his head.
"Can you please come with me? I need you there as a witness!" I practically dragged him to the drawing room. My cousin was sitting on the edge of his seat, with his leg shaking a mile a minute. I felt sorry for what I was about to tell him. It would be the third time I refused his proposal.
"I have brought my brother as a witness so you can hear the truth. I am very perturbed that my father has gone ahead and given his consent about my hand in marriage to you. Considering the fact that I am already spoken for in Canada!" My cousin's erratically shaking leg stopped and he sat motionless. I lowered my voice, realizing that I must have appeared as a raving lunatic to him.
"I am sorry. But there is already something happening in Canada. I am pretty sure it will go through. My brother will confirm it." I turned to my brother who nodded his head. My cousin looked utterly defeated. After an awkward few minutes of silence and of us staring at the carpet, he finally spoke.
"I understand. I did not realize this small detail. I would have never asked you if I knew. I am sorry too." I felt awful for him but my anger got the best of me. My father was out of town but I knew, when he returned, he would get a piece of my mind! I loved my Aunt very much--she was the next best thing to my mother. And rejecting her son was not the politically correct thing to do, especially while we were trying to do damage control as a result of my mother's death.
My father successfully placed me in an awkward position that entailed me having to talk to my mother's family about my impending engagement back home. She understood completely and I thanked God for her intelligence and compassion. She knew my father better than I did, it seemed. However, my decision did not bode well for her son who kept his distance from me for the remainder of the week. But hey guys, it doesn't end here. Oh yes, there is a story number two!!!
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