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!
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