There were multiple flashes and I suddenly zoned out and taken to a time when I was a young girl.
"Where is Papa?" I inquired. She sat there on the sofa, knitting and watching tv at the same time.
"I told you, he has gone to get the groceries. You are so impatient. He will be back anytime.
I turned away from my mother and pressed my nose against the window pane. It was a cold winter day and my nose left an imprint.
Suddenly I saw the headlights of his car come onto the driveway. Hurriedly, I ran over to the stairs and made my way down in my pink nightie. It ravelled in between my legs and I had to hike it up over my knees to get down the stairs. He came through the door with paper bags.
"Go call your mother to help me," he said. I grabbed one of the bags to find it was quite heavy.
"No my dear. The milk is too heavy. Go call your mother. You take up the bread."
I shook my head and grabbed the jug of milk. "Papa, I am a strong girl! I can help you and take the milk," I said stubbornly as he and I played tug-of-war with the plastic milk jug. With bags in his other arm, he had no choice but to let go of the milk. I hauled it up the flight of stairs and panted upon reaching the top step. I beamed proudly and held it up as high as I could (which was close to my chin). But because the milk was cold and upon being in room temperature, a thin film of condensation had formed on the outside, rendering it slippery. I lost my grip and it fell from my hands, bouncing along each step of the stairs until it reached the bottom, where it cracked and splattered everywhere. There was milk on the floor, on the door and all over my father's dress pants.
I shuddered in fear and fell to my knees in pure and utter horror. I continued to stare at the floor where the jug lay in pieces and milk formed several puddles. I heard my mother come up behind me and gasp. I wanted to show him what a strong girl I was--to make him proud that I was his helper. Instead, I let him down and was about to suffer the consequences. My mother ran into the kitchen to grab a towel but I remain frozen at the top of the stairs. I could not look at him. Oddly, I did not hear him speak one word. And then slowly, I heard him climb the stairs, one footstep at a time. My heartbeat thundered in my chest and I thought that this was it.
He reached the top and sat down beside me and sighed. He lifted my chin with his hand and I stared up at him while large teardrops rolled down my face. He looked at me and smiled.
"Sometimes your dreams are too big and you want too much too fast. Slow down and grow up first," he said quietly.
"I am sorry Papa! I thought I could do it," I exclaimed and buried my head into his chest. My mother walked past us down the stairs while I cried in my father's arms. He stroked my hair to soothe me and then picked me up and put me into my bed.
I remember him waiting by my door and watching me as I dozed off to sleep. He may have been a strict father when I was growing up but I knew deep down inside that I would always be his favorite little girl, always trying to impress him and make him proud of me.
The flash from the camera continued and I came back to the hall. My husband looked over to see where I was looking and then immediately understood my pained expression. He took my veil and pulled it across my front as a way to protect me. It was no use. To see my father overcome with such emotion was the signal to release my floodgate. The whole night was surreal until this moment. Now I realized my life would change when I left the hall and moved in with my new family. No matter how hard I tried to push it back in the recesses of my mind, I suddenly became cognisant of the fact that my situation had become immensely real.
The photographer continued to click away but my tears propelled the end of the evening. My mother-in-law gave hand signals to her family and friends to wrap it up and start the procession outside. With a group of about thirty people left, I was told by my aunt to say goodbye to my family. The ceremony of the bride leaving her family is called Rukhsati and is almost always symbolized with the entire bridal party bidding the bride a final farewell and handing over to the groom's side. The Holy Quran is held over the couple as they leave--to leave in God's name and start a new life with Him in rememberance. From that point to the limo, everything was a blur. I only remember the last person I hugged. And that was my father.
"You grew up too fast. I brought you home from the hospital yesterday and tonight you are leaving me. It was only a blink of an eye," he cried in my ear. I pushed him back gently and smiled back wearily.
"Remember what you said, Dad. Don't cry over spilt milk," I winked, trying desperately to lighten the mood. He smiled sadly and kissed my forehead.
I got into the limo and looked out of the window.
I did not feel like a young woman. I did not feel like a bride. I was still that little girl, in the pink nightie, trying to convince her father she could be that strong girl who would do anything for her Papa....
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 64: Losing It
The women in my family walked me to the head table and sat me down next to my husband. I remember looking through my veil to the left where my side of family and guests were seated in the hall. The tables closest to the front were reserved for our extended family and my close friends. They were looking at me adoringly and whispering amongst themselves. I was more concerned that they did not have any gastric issues eating the spicy food for dinner.
My father's friend was MC for the evening and of course my father-in-law had requested his own MC to do the introductions on their side. I dreaded that there would be two head tables but that idea was scrapped just in time. My husband's school friend agreed to bring his equipment to play background music and set up in the corner of the hall.
The evening started with the bagpipers playing two songs. The entire congregration was flabbergasted. The Pakistani community watched and listened, not sure how to react as this was a novelty. Everyone applauded politely and the band departed. The speeches began with three of my closest childhood friends sharing embaressing moments and fond memories. What struck me most was that each them bawled their eyes out at the end of their speech as they stepped off the stage. They were really going to miss me. With all of us barely at the age of 19 and 20, I was being taken away too soon and at such a young age. We all had so many plans for the future--all to be thwarted by my marriage.
Dinner had begun and I begged my sister to go over to my friends from work and university to help them select their food from the buffet. My aunt brought food over for me and my husband but I only picked at my food. One of my aunt's closest friends came over and started teasing me in front of him.
"You are not eating those kabobs. Don't you want kabob tonite?" she winked at me and then nudged my aunt, who joined in the lewd humour.
I was mortified. My husband laughed it off but he became uncomfortable just like me. And to make matters worse, these two women continued their banter and antics for a good ten minutes while I pretended to be distracted by people who came to the head table to congratulate us. It was all captured on my wedding video but thank God the audio was dubbed over with Indian music!
When they left, I leaned over to him and apologized profusely. He was more accustomed to my father's side of the family who were a lot more anal and conservative in their demeanor--this was another wild side of the family I wasn't sure he would approve of. But he laughed it off and thought they were both fun. And then in the most serious manner, turned to me and asked if I was really going to eat the kabob. I laughed out loud and covered my mouth when I saw my father's sister shot me a stern look.
Yes, I was still a kid in their eyes and forever making mistakes that needed immediate correction.
Traditionally, towards the end of the reception, the photographer would take pictures and the families would get ready to leave. Of course, my wedding would defy all tradition and standards that everyone expected. My husband's friend, who was responsible for the music, announced that everyone should take to the dance floor and "Get down and boogie!" I looked over at my stunned father and back at my husband who shrugged his shoulders. His friend was not Muslim and proceeded to call out to the other Indian friends on my husband's side to come and party on the dance floor. All of a sudden, there was a light show and loud music. No Pakistani wedding in the early 90s had any form of dancing. Except mine.
Well this did not bode well with the religious elders in my community. They all stood up, came over to the head table, and bid us farewell with long faces. My father was talking to my father-in-law who shook his head and held up his hands. There was no way either of them could stop the 50 odd people on the dance floor from shaking their booties. I was too busy saying goodbye to a multitude of people who after making sure they had dinner and dessert, were ready to depart.
To my utter surprise, all of my conservative Pakistani friends, family friends and majority of my husband's side, got up and joined all the crazy Indian dancers and my work and university crowd. I smiled and waved at them politely when they asked us to get up. Typically, the groom and bride do NOT get up to dance. My aunt made sure that I did not get up. Instead she grabbed the photographer to take our pictures in the corner of the hall.
As the crowd dispersed and only family and close family friends remained around 12am, we took the last of many family pictures. When I did not see my father, my friend pointed him out to me at the far end of the hall.
He was hunched over, his shoulders moving up and down, with his hand over his eyes. There were three men consoling him. And then I realized that he was crying.
I averted my eyes and tried to smile in the camera.
Too bad. So sad. And in that moment, I turned and lost it too.
My father's friend was MC for the evening and of course my father-in-law had requested his own MC to do the introductions on their side. I dreaded that there would be two head tables but that idea was scrapped just in time. My husband's school friend agreed to bring his equipment to play background music and set up in the corner of the hall.
The evening started with the bagpipers playing two songs. The entire congregration was flabbergasted. The Pakistani community watched and listened, not sure how to react as this was a novelty. Everyone applauded politely and the band departed. The speeches began with three of my closest childhood friends sharing embaressing moments and fond memories. What struck me most was that each them bawled their eyes out at the end of their speech as they stepped off the stage. They were really going to miss me. With all of us barely at the age of 19 and 20, I was being taken away too soon and at such a young age. We all had so many plans for the future--all to be thwarted by my marriage.
Dinner had begun and I begged my sister to go over to my friends from work and university to help them select their food from the buffet. My aunt brought food over for me and my husband but I only picked at my food. One of my aunt's closest friends came over and started teasing me in front of him.
"You are not eating those kabobs. Don't you want kabob tonite?" she winked at me and then nudged my aunt, who joined in the lewd humour.
I was mortified. My husband laughed it off but he became uncomfortable just like me. And to make matters worse, these two women continued their banter and antics for a good ten minutes while I pretended to be distracted by people who came to the head table to congratulate us. It was all captured on my wedding video but thank God the audio was dubbed over with Indian music!
When they left, I leaned over to him and apologized profusely. He was more accustomed to my father's side of the family who were a lot more anal and conservative in their demeanor--this was another wild side of the family I wasn't sure he would approve of. But he laughed it off and thought they were both fun. And then in the most serious manner, turned to me and asked if I was really going to eat the kabob. I laughed out loud and covered my mouth when I saw my father's sister shot me a stern look.
Yes, I was still a kid in their eyes and forever making mistakes that needed immediate correction.
Traditionally, towards the end of the reception, the photographer would take pictures and the families would get ready to leave. Of course, my wedding would defy all tradition and standards that everyone expected. My husband's friend, who was responsible for the music, announced that everyone should take to the dance floor and "Get down and boogie!" I looked over at my stunned father and back at my husband who shrugged his shoulders. His friend was not Muslim and proceeded to call out to the other Indian friends on my husband's side to come and party on the dance floor. All of a sudden, there was a light show and loud music. No Pakistani wedding in the early 90s had any form of dancing. Except mine.
Well this did not bode well with the religious elders in my community. They all stood up, came over to the head table, and bid us farewell with long faces. My father was talking to my father-in-law who shook his head and held up his hands. There was no way either of them could stop the 50 odd people on the dance floor from shaking their booties. I was too busy saying goodbye to a multitude of people who after making sure they had dinner and dessert, were ready to depart.
To my utter surprise, all of my conservative Pakistani friends, family friends and majority of my husband's side, got up and joined all the crazy Indian dancers and my work and university crowd. I smiled and waved at them politely when they asked us to get up. Typically, the groom and bride do NOT get up to dance. My aunt made sure that I did not get up. Instead she grabbed the photographer to take our pictures in the corner of the hall.
As the crowd dispersed and only family and close family friends remained around 12am, we took the last of many family pictures. When I did not see my father, my friend pointed him out to me at the far end of the hall.
He was hunched over, his shoulders moving up and down, with his hand over his eyes. There were three men consoling him. And then I realized that he was crying.
I averted my eyes and tried to smile in the camera.
Too bad. So sad. And in that moment, I turned and lost it too.
Friday, July 22, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 63: Amazing Grace
My family led me downstairs into the living room for pre-reception pictures. I was so nervous that I knocked over a potted plant. My five year old cousin got a big kick out of that. At least someone laughed. Everyone else was tense and preoccupied.
We took many pictures and then the clock struck five. It was time to leave. As we walked out to the decorated cars, many drove by slowly to watch. Many people had not seen a Pakistani wedding party in our neighborhood - with most of them being Causcasian, it was a sight for sore eyes.
When we were in Pakistan the year before, I insisted on buying a white Pakistani wedding dress. My relatives balked at the idea but I was not about to wear red like the Hindu Indian brides. I wanted a mix of both cultures and it only seemed fitting for me to wear white. My father finally compromised on a cream coloured long dress with Pakistani silk embroidery and sequins with shocking pink and green hand-sewn beads. It was an original and I insisted on buying it. I had made a scene at the Karachi high-end shop which led to my father finally relenting so not to embaress the family friend who accompanied us as an advisor. I could tell she loved the dress too because she did not protest the purchase and helped bargain down the price!
We drove to the banquet hall where the reception was being held. Custom dictates that the bride arrives before the groom and is separated from him until his party arrives. I was placed in a room to await the arrival of my husband's party and his guests. My sister, two aunts, two cousins and three close friends kept me company, smoothing out my dress and fixing my hair and makeup. Everyone was excited.
And I was unexplicably an example of extreme calm. Over 400 people were to attend our wedding reception. 80% of them I would not know, including the groom's entire wedding party.
I finally got it and I think that's why I was so calm. I was ready for the excitement of the unknown. Ready to live within the moment.
Ready for the bagpipers.
Squeeze me?
That was the first sound I heard, even before the incessant chatter of the guests. My father-in-law was retired from working in a police office and requested the police band to accompany the groom's party. Back home, the tradition was that the groom arrived by horseback and was preceded by a band that beat traditional drums along with trumpet players. The men on the groom's side would dance upon entering the hall as a gesture that the groom had arrived. Instead I heard Amazing Grace blown through bagpipes. I sat frozen wondering if I had arrived at the wrong wedding!
You tell Pakistani people to arrive at six o'clock? They arrive at eight o'clock. The only filled and complete table were my friends from university and childhood. They read the invitation card correctly and made sure to be there on time despite my advice that everything would run late. My family took turns sitting with them while the other guests arrived.
After my husband and his family were seated at the head table (ONE head table), my aunts came back to fetch me. I stood up and four girls grabbed my arms and hands.
"I am not an invalid! I can walk to the head table myself," I exclaimed. My father's sister came over to me with a look that could kill.
"It is customary for the bride's side to bring her in. To hold her up and present her to the groom. We know you can walk and we know you can certainly talk but my dear, this is part of our cultural traditions. Would you oblige us?"
At that point I wanted to stick a fork through my eye. Was I that insensitive? Was it nerves? I was calm but maybe I wanted to get everything over and done with. I felt extremely embaressed as I looked at all the women in my family who had worked so hard to make sure that my wedding ran smoothly. I stopped and released myself unto their care.
"Take me to him," I smiled and hugged them all. My cousin started to cry and my heart jumped into my throat. This was it. They were giving me away much like how a father walks his daughter down the aisle and relinquishes his rights over her to her husband.
I remember bright lights and loud applause. Again, what I thought I would do and what I actually did where two different things. I wanted to hold my head up high and look him in the eye. When I came out into the hall and was confronted with 400 guests and an adoring husband standing up waiting for my arrival, I lowered my head and kept it that way for the next two hours...
So much for living in the moment.
We took many pictures and then the clock struck five. It was time to leave. As we walked out to the decorated cars, many drove by slowly to watch. Many people had not seen a Pakistani wedding party in our neighborhood - with most of them being Causcasian, it was a sight for sore eyes.
When we were in Pakistan the year before, I insisted on buying a white Pakistani wedding dress. My relatives balked at the idea but I was not about to wear red like the Hindu Indian brides. I wanted a mix of both cultures and it only seemed fitting for me to wear white. My father finally compromised on a cream coloured long dress with Pakistani silk embroidery and sequins with shocking pink and green hand-sewn beads. It was an original and I insisted on buying it. I had made a scene at the Karachi high-end shop which led to my father finally relenting so not to embaress the family friend who accompanied us as an advisor. I could tell she loved the dress too because she did not protest the purchase and helped bargain down the price!
We drove to the banquet hall where the reception was being held. Custom dictates that the bride arrives before the groom and is separated from him until his party arrives. I was placed in a room to await the arrival of my husband's party and his guests. My sister, two aunts, two cousins and three close friends kept me company, smoothing out my dress and fixing my hair and makeup. Everyone was excited.
And I was unexplicably an example of extreme calm. Over 400 people were to attend our wedding reception. 80% of them I would not know, including the groom's entire wedding party.
I finally got it and I think that's why I was so calm. I was ready for the excitement of the unknown. Ready to live within the moment.
Ready for the bagpipers.
Squeeze me?
That was the first sound I heard, even before the incessant chatter of the guests. My father-in-law was retired from working in a police office and requested the police band to accompany the groom's party. Back home, the tradition was that the groom arrived by horseback and was preceded by a band that beat traditional drums along with trumpet players. The men on the groom's side would dance upon entering the hall as a gesture that the groom had arrived. Instead I heard Amazing Grace blown through bagpipes. I sat frozen wondering if I had arrived at the wrong wedding!
You tell Pakistani people to arrive at six o'clock? They arrive at eight o'clock. The only filled and complete table were my friends from university and childhood. They read the invitation card correctly and made sure to be there on time despite my advice that everything would run late. My family took turns sitting with them while the other guests arrived.
After my husband and his family were seated at the head table (ONE head table), my aunts came back to fetch me. I stood up and four girls grabbed my arms and hands.
"I am not an invalid! I can walk to the head table myself," I exclaimed. My father's sister came over to me with a look that could kill.
"It is customary for the bride's side to bring her in. To hold her up and present her to the groom. We know you can walk and we know you can certainly talk but my dear, this is part of our cultural traditions. Would you oblige us?"
At that point I wanted to stick a fork through my eye. Was I that insensitive? Was it nerves? I was calm but maybe I wanted to get everything over and done with. I felt extremely embaressed as I looked at all the women in my family who had worked so hard to make sure that my wedding ran smoothly. I stopped and released myself unto their care.
"Take me to him," I smiled and hugged them all. My cousin started to cry and my heart jumped into my throat. This was it. They were giving me away much like how a father walks his daughter down the aisle and relinquishes his rights over her to her husband.
I remember bright lights and loud applause. Again, what I thought I would do and what I actually did where two different things. I wanted to hold my head up high and look him in the eye. When I came out into the hall and was confronted with 400 guests and an adoring husband standing up waiting for my arrival, I lowered my head and kept it that way for the next two hours...
So much for living in the moment.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 62: Last Day of the Life as I knew it
I didn't sleep that night. My two friends slept in my double bed with me that night. You got it. All three of us. I was stuck on the edge and rolled off the side a couple of times during the middle of the night.
And it was the strangest thing to be sleeping with my two best friends and sharing the bed with two women before my wedding night. You would think I was have a "Kumbaya" session with my own family. But to honestly say, they were so busy and had their minds wrapped around the logistics of the weddding reception that everyone was just too tired to sit and spend the evening with me.
Squeeze me?
Yes, they all went to bed at 3am Sunday morning and my friends stayed with me in my room. I told them there were enough rooms for them to bunk in on a proper bed, but they insisted to stay with me. There were bouts of laughter and then some teary-eyed memory sharing but for the most part, I didn't sleep from the snoring and heavy breathing.
I think I did catch about two hours of sleep, which were fitful and interrupted with thoughts of fear, worry, elation and confusion.
How did I get here? Even despite signing the papers the day before, I was still unsure if I could do this. A part of me was ready -- that was the boisterous, risk-taking, impetous side of me that governed my personality most of the time. However, there was the buried pensive, calculating and apprehensive part that seemed to anchor my elation. Maybe it was true -- that most Librans were always executing a balance act - hence the symbolism of the scales. Before my mother passed away, that wild, uninhibited, crazy side dominated my life. And she knew it existed but never tried to bottle it up like my father. She knew I had to fall and learn from my own mistakes and never judged me for it. Instead, she instilled positive reinforcement, delicately nudged me in the right direction and fed my spirtuality...only after her death.
And it was unadulterated irony, that to open my eyes, she had to close hers.
In a few hours, I would be leaving the life as I knew it.
And as her friends prepared the Canadian-Pakistani bride to finally meet her husband, the person propelled to her by unforeseen forces, she breathed deeply and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
"I don't recognize you," I said to the reflection.
"It is because you need to accept me. You must grow into my skin," she said. Her hair was coiffed in an elegant updo and her features were enhanced by a multitude of colours.
"But how do I do that?" I asked. The reflection looked back at me with a blank stare.
"Why do you ask so many questions? Why do you ask 'How do I do this' or 'How do I do that'? Do you think I have all the answers upfront?"
This question was remnicient of the times when I was about to try something new. I had to know all the answers before embarking on a new experience whereas many just went ahead and did it. The apprehensive, pensive side would kick in and make me question everything.
"Maybe you need to stop asking questions and just dive into it. Worry about it later. Ask questions later. Live in the moment and enjoy," the reflection responded.
I zoned back in when my friends chatter became increasingly noisy.
And when I looked back in the mirror, I did not recognize myself. But at this point, my reflection helped me not to care.
And it was the strangest thing to be sleeping with my two best friends and sharing the bed with two women before my wedding night. You would think I was have a "Kumbaya" session with my own family. But to honestly say, they were so busy and had their minds wrapped around the logistics of the weddding reception that everyone was just too tired to sit and spend the evening with me.
Squeeze me?
Yes, they all went to bed at 3am Sunday morning and my friends stayed with me in my room. I told them there were enough rooms for them to bunk in on a proper bed, but they insisted to stay with me. There were bouts of laughter and then some teary-eyed memory sharing but for the most part, I didn't sleep from the snoring and heavy breathing.
I think I did catch about two hours of sleep, which were fitful and interrupted with thoughts of fear, worry, elation and confusion.
How did I get here? Even despite signing the papers the day before, I was still unsure if I could do this. A part of me was ready -- that was the boisterous, risk-taking, impetous side of me that governed my personality most of the time. However, there was the buried pensive, calculating and apprehensive part that seemed to anchor my elation. Maybe it was true -- that most Librans were always executing a balance act - hence the symbolism of the scales. Before my mother passed away, that wild, uninhibited, crazy side dominated my life. And she knew it existed but never tried to bottle it up like my father. She knew I had to fall and learn from my own mistakes and never judged me for it. Instead, she instilled positive reinforcement, delicately nudged me in the right direction and fed my spirtuality...only after her death.
And it was unadulterated irony, that to open my eyes, she had to close hers.
In a few hours, I would be leaving the life as I knew it.
And as her friends prepared the Canadian-Pakistani bride to finally meet her husband, the person propelled to her by unforeseen forces, she breathed deeply and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
"I don't recognize you," I said to the reflection.
"It is because you need to accept me. You must grow into my skin," she said. Her hair was coiffed in an elegant updo and her features were enhanced by a multitude of colours.
"But how do I do that?" I asked. The reflection looked back at me with a blank stare.
"Why do you ask so many questions? Why do you ask 'How do I do this' or 'How do I do that'? Do you think I have all the answers upfront?"
This question was remnicient of the times when I was about to try something new. I had to know all the answers before embarking on a new experience whereas many just went ahead and did it. The apprehensive, pensive side would kick in and make me question everything.
"Maybe you need to stop asking questions and just dive into it. Worry about it later. Ask questions later. Live in the moment and enjoy," the reflection responded.
I zoned back in when my friends chatter became increasingly noisy.
And when I looked back in the mirror, I did not recognize myself. But at this point, my reflection helped me not to care.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 61: Party of the Century
My uncle came back upstairs after twenty minutes. The girls were fixing my veil to reveal my face to sit higher on top of my head. He was allowed to see me now since I was officially betrothed to him. And as the all-female procession left the bedroom, my youngest cousin who was five years old at the time, spread eagle at the top of stairs, barring all of us from going downstairs.
With tears in her eyes, she exclaimed, "I don't want you to leave me. Why is he taking you away?!"
I stood teetering on the first step as she put her arms across, preventing me from passing. Her mother yelled from behind me to move, but she would not relent.
"She is my Bhaji (my big sister) and I cannot let her go!' she cried. We were all embaressed because we knew she was in earshot of the entire male congregation in the living room.
I bent down, veil, jewellery and all so that I was at eye level with her.
"I am not leaving the family. We are inviting him to join OUR family. Now lets go downstairs so you can introduce me to him and I promise you can sit between us."
She thought for a minute and then nodded excitedly. I knew if I did not sway her with my promise, my aunt would have come around me, grab her and make her cry. I did not want that memory etched in my mind of a hysterical five year old crying while I entered holy matrimony!
As promised, she led me to him and he stood up from the living room sofa to let me sit beside him. And without hesitation, my little cousin sat in between us. He looked incredibly handsome and I became very shy. He wore a traditional shyarwani (tunic-styled black jacket with a white tight pant and kusay (Alladin typed shoes with a curl at the end). My cousin slid off the sofa and ended up sitting on the end of the shoe and eliminating the curl. Everyone laughed and commented on her cuteness. I was more cognisant of the fact that the man who sat to my left was now my husband.
We sat opposite from the Imam and felt constrained where I could look. I rarely looked up, only when someone was taking our picture. My aunts ran around feeding everyone while we sat on the loveseat with my friends and cousins. Everyone was teasing him about being married and he laughed easily. Everytime I opened my mouth, nothing came out. And for everyone who knew me, this was an anomaly. For some strange reason, I knew not what to talk about nor how to contribute to the conversation. Instead I was in awe, that after months of uncertainty and apprehension, I was finally sitting here at the end result. A married woman.
His father came to us and said they had to leave. Only one hour had elapsed and now my husband was leaving me. They had to head back to his home for his mehndi. Over 100 guests were coming over and that was why his mother did not show up for our nikkah ceremony--she was preparing for the second henna ceremony that night. Everyone from my side also needed to get ready--for my husband's mehndi was a mixed affair. Men and women, girls and boys were invited. They had decorated their basement to prepare for the event a week before. I was to stay home with my five year old cousin. Some things never changed. After everyone left, she insisted that we play hairdresser that night. I had to clean up after the nikkah ceremony. There was food and dishes everywhere and while she helped me place the dishes in the dishwasher, she kept asking me why I got married.
"Well one day you will too," I said as she passed me the cutlery.
"Ewww. No way. Mama says you are going to live with his family. Are you going to visit us still?"
"Of course I will silly!"
"Don't bring bhai (big brother)," she said, scrunching her nose.
"Why not? He is my husband now. I cannot leave him at home. He wants to see you too. See how nice he was even after you crushed his shoe today?" I said.
She paused, searching for another excuse not to accept him into the family. "We are all girls. No boys allowed!" She was getting mad and at this point refused to help me clean up and folded her arms across her chest. I sat down and put her on my lap.
"My brother is a boy and your cousin and you accept him. Now your new Bhai is here. If you ignore him, he might cry. Is that how your mother taught you to behave? There comes a time when you have to let new people into your life no matter how weird it feels. You never know how much you will love them." She finally smiled and then told me to braid her hair. As I was doing so, the phone rang.
"Hello, Mrs. _____" he said. I could hear girls in the background. It was him. My new husband.
I smiled into the phone. I had to balance it between my ear and my shoulder so not to disturb the braidmaking for my bossy cousin. "Hello, Mr. _____. Why is there so much noise?"
Again, I could hear girls giggling in the background and I grew jealous. Jealous of what, I dont know.
"I came upstairs to my room to call you. And a bunch of your friends followed me up wondering where I was going," he replied and I could hear my good friend saying hi to me. "I wish you here. It was hard to sign a paper and then leave you behind. I just wanted to let you know that I am thinking about you even though there is a huge party going on here."
It was true. I could hear loud music, girls screaming, guys yelling and all sorts of noises. And with all of this going on, he remembered that I was home alone, cleaning up the mess they left behind.
"I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. I will be thinking about you until then," he said shyly and I could hear the girls sighing in the background. He was trying to shoo them from the room. I did not want to continue the conversation if they were listening on his side.
"I will see you tomorrow, inshallah (God willing)," I smiled and hung up the phone. I stared off in space until my cousin slapped me in the arm.
"Stop dreaming and finish my braid," she barked.
He remembered me. My family came back from his mehndi at 3am that morning. My aunt had the old styled camera that was equipped with a VHS tape. They all were raving about the party and she stuck the tape into the VCR to show me. My jaw hit the ground for most of the two hours of video footage. Our side consisted of 50 women from our city. The older women sat around the walls of the basement while the girls had a dance-off with the girls on his side. Major competition. But what I had not seen in most mehdnis that I had attended were the guys dancing with the girls!
My husband was only 26 and majority of his friends were single, twenty-something guys dressed up in suits dancing with the girls from my side. This was certainly not the norm. My two friends did not shut up as I listened to their stories and who they fell in love with that night. All I knew was that I had a wedding reception to prepare for the next day and I fell asleep while my friends continued raving about the party of the century...
With tears in her eyes, she exclaimed, "I don't want you to leave me. Why is he taking you away?!"
I stood teetering on the first step as she put her arms across, preventing me from passing. Her mother yelled from behind me to move, but she would not relent.
"She is my Bhaji (my big sister) and I cannot let her go!' she cried. We were all embaressed because we knew she was in earshot of the entire male congregation in the living room.
I bent down, veil, jewellery and all so that I was at eye level with her.
"I am not leaving the family. We are inviting him to join OUR family. Now lets go downstairs so you can introduce me to him and I promise you can sit between us."
She thought for a minute and then nodded excitedly. I knew if I did not sway her with my promise, my aunt would have come around me, grab her and make her cry. I did not want that memory etched in my mind of a hysterical five year old crying while I entered holy matrimony!
As promised, she led me to him and he stood up from the living room sofa to let me sit beside him. And without hesitation, my little cousin sat in between us. He looked incredibly handsome and I became very shy. He wore a traditional shyarwani (tunic-styled black jacket with a white tight pant and kusay (Alladin typed shoes with a curl at the end). My cousin slid off the sofa and ended up sitting on the end of the shoe and eliminating the curl. Everyone laughed and commented on her cuteness. I was more cognisant of the fact that the man who sat to my left was now my husband.
We sat opposite from the Imam and felt constrained where I could look. I rarely looked up, only when someone was taking our picture. My aunts ran around feeding everyone while we sat on the loveseat with my friends and cousins. Everyone was teasing him about being married and he laughed easily. Everytime I opened my mouth, nothing came out. And for everyone who knew me, this was an anomaly. For some strange reason, I knew not what to talk about nor how to contribute to the conversation. Instead I was in awe, that after months of uncertainty and apprehension, I was finally sitting here at the end result. A married woman.
His father came to us and said they had to leave. Only one hour had elapsed and now my husband was leaving me. They had to head back to his home for his mehndi. Over 100 guests were coming over and that was why his mother did not show up for our nikkah ceremony--she was preparing for the second henna ceremony that night. Everyone from my side also needed to get ready--for my husband's mehndi was a mixed affair. Men and women, girls and boys were invited. They had decorated their basement to prepare for the event a week before. I was to stay home with my five year old cousin. Some things never changed. After everyone left, she insisted that we play hairdresser that night. I had to clean up after the nikkah ceremony. There was food and dishes everywhere and while she helped me place the dishes in the dishwasher, she kept asking me why I got married.
"Well one day you will too," I said as she passed me the cutlery.
"Ewww. No way. Mama says you are going to live with his family. Are you going to visit us still?"
"Of course I will silly!"
"Don't bring bhai (big brother)," she said, scrunching her nose.
"Why not? He is my husband now. I cannot leave him at home. He wants to see you too. See how nice he was even after you crushed his shoe today?" I said.
She paused, searching for another excuse not to accept him into the family. "We are all girls. No boys allowed!" She was getting mad and at this point refused to help me clean up and folded her arms across her chest. I sat down and put her on my lap.
"My brother is a boy and your cousin and you accept him. Now your new Bhai is here. If you ignore him, he might cry. Is that how your mother taught you to behave? There comes a time when you have to let new people into your life no matter how weird it feels. You never know how much you will love them." She finally smiled and then told me to braid her hair. As I was doing so, the phone rang.
"Hello, Mrs. _____" he said. I could hear girls in the background. It was him. My new husband.
I smiled into the phone. I had to balance it between my ear and my shoulder so not to disturb the braidmaking for my bossy cousin. "Hello, Mr. _____. Why is there so much noise?"
Again, I could hear girls giggling in the background and I grew jealous. Jealous of what, I dont know.
"I came upstairs to my room to call you. And a bunch of your friends followed me up wondering where I was going," he replied and I could hear my good friend saying hi to me. "I wish you here. It was hard to sign a paper and then leave you behind. I just wanted to let you know that I am thinking about you even though there is a huge party going on here."
It was true. I could hear loud music, girls screaming, guys yelling and all sorts of noises. And with all of this going on, he remembered that I was home alone, cleaning up the mess they left behind.
"I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. I will be thinking about you until then," he said shyly and I could hear the girls sighing in the background. He was trying to shoo them from the room. I did not want to continue the conversation if they were listening on his side.
"I will see you tomorrow, inshallah (God willing)," I smiled and hung up the phone. I stared off in space until my cousin slapped me in the arm.
"Stop dreaming and finish my braid," she barked.
He remembered me. My family came back from his mehndi at 3am that morning. My aunt had the old styled camera that was equipped with a VHS tape. They all were raving about the party and she stuck the tape into the VCR to show me. My jaw hit the ground for most of the two hours of video footage. Our side consisted of 50 women from our city. The older women sat around the walls of the basement while the girls had a dance-off with the girls on his side. Major competition. But what I had not seen in most mehdnis that I had attended were the guys dancing with the girls!
My husband was only 26 and majority of his friends were single, twenty-something guys dressed up in suits dancing with the girls from my side. This was certainly not the norm. My two friends did not shut up as I listened to their stories and who they fell in love with that night. All I knew was that I had a wedding reception to prepare for the next day and I fell asleep while my friends continued raving about the party of the century...
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 60: The Calligraphy Pen
Our wedding was only partially traditional. Take for instance the order of events. Typically the Pakistani wedding follows this order:
-Girls Mehndi (Henna ceremony)
-Boys Mehndi (Henna ceremony)
-Nikkah (Legal Ceremony)
-Baraat (Reception thrown by girls family)
-Walima (Reception thrown by boys family)
Ironically, out of all these events, the only truly Islamic functions are the Nikkah and Walima. Everything else has been inherited from Hindu culture. And since every Pakistani has Indian forefathers, many of the traditions have been passed down and over to our country. But again, there is a hazy divide from what is cultural and religious. Both are intertwined and viewed by many as inseparable.
My mehndi started off the festivities but it veered off the traditional course after that. And it was all because the events were planned around dates of bookings. During the tumultuous weeks leading up to my wedding when both families were having it out with each other, the events got mixed up. And it went like this:
-Friday night (my mehndi)
-Saturday morning (our nikkah)
-Saturday night (his mehndi)
-Sunday night (combined Baraat and Walima)
Basically, most decisions were cemented over economics. Cheaper for both sides to party out of a Church basement and his basement, have a wedding ceremony in the living room of my house and end with a combined event. My wedding had very little tradition in it due to all the shortcuts. Marry me in Pakistan and I am sure my father would tell me he was broke for the next ten years--weddings back home were a GRAND event, with no expense spared and the pomp and ceremony conducted in the atmosphere of competition where the groom and bride's family try to outdo the other.
Saturday morning arrived and I got up before everyone else did. It was 6am and my eyes flew open to the realization that I was to be married that day at the ripe old age of 20.
I looked at the chair tucked under my desk. My wedding ensemble was pressed and laid delicately over the chair. Tradition dictates that the groom's side provide the clothes to the bride on her wedding day. My outfit was reddish-orange. Not my first choice of colour however I accepted it graciously so not to offend my pending mother in law. The colour was very close to what my own mother wore on her wedding day so I did not make much of a fuss. I went downstairs, careful not to wake a sleeping house full of people including my relatives, grabbed a mop and bucket and began cleaning all the floors in the house.
Squeeze me?
It was surreal to be cleaning my house for the last time. Most people my age would abhor the thought of even picking up a broom on their wedding day but my mind was racing and to settle my nervousness, I had to keep myself physically busy. The satisfaction of seeing the floor shine, soothed me as I continued the back and forth movement--like being rocked. Little did I know, my father was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching me.
"I thought I heard someone up," he remarked quietly. Startled, I stopped and faced him but when I saw the expression on his face, I dumped the mop in the bucket and continued. He was wiping his brow; a sign that meant he did not know what to do or say next.
With my back to him, I replied. "The men left their shoes all over the place and the floor was a mess from last night. Everyone is coming soon for the nikkah ceremony. We can't have them enter to dirty floors!" I could not look at him because I knew I would lose it. Who would take care of him like this after I was gone? Boys were boys and my sister and I were like day and night--not on the same page. And still, here I was, going through the motions with the only intent to preserve what I knew, scared to make it different from any other day.
When I turned around, he was gone. I finished up the floors and then went to shower. I had no appetite and once the rest of the family awoke, the hustle and bustle of the day began. Back in the day, the beauty parlours for Pakistani hair and makeup did not exist. I ended up doing my own hair and makeup. I felt like I was preparing for a party--like I always did. But this time, I was preparing for my own wedding.
Two of my best Pakistani friends came over and were planning to sleep at my house that Saturday night. Their jaws dropped when I appeared from my bedroom. My childhood friend grabbed me by the arm and marched me to the picture that hung in our main hallway that was in the middle of four bedrooms. There, she took a picture of me next to my parent's wedding picture that hung on the wall. The resemblance was uncanny.
My mother and I were almost mirror images. Same hair, same makeup, same clothes. All unintentional. When I saw the picture later while putting it in my wedding albums, it really made me feel she was there with me that day.
I was ushered into my parent's bedroom and made to sit on the bed. Here my friends spread out my veil and sat next to me. The groom's side had just arrived along with the Imam (our religious priest). They were brought into the living room of our split level house. The partition was significant. Our vows would be conducted separately where three witnesses would be present to watch the proceedings.
In Islam, no bride should be coerced to be married. While I waited on the bed in my parents room, my father's brother came upstairs. He told me that the Imam and two male witnesses were coming upstairs to ask me for verbal and written consent for marriage. At that point my mind went completely blank. He left the room and I looked at my two aunts, my sister, my two female cousins and two best friends. A hush fell across the room and I saw my aunt dab her eyes. She came over and pulled my veil down and all I could see were my own hands in my lap. They were trembling.
The men filed in after the Imam who pulled up a chair by the side of the bed with a stack of long, legal-sized papers. He held a beautiful, calligraphy styled pen that entranced me and also helped me focus to prevent myself from flipping out.
He introduced himself and then began immediately with the first question.
"Are you here against your will?"
"No," I whispered.
He then asked me three times if I wished to take his (my fiancee's ) hand in marriage. Each time he asked the question, he paused to hear my answer as did the two men who accompanied him (these two men were friends of my father). They all had to lean in each time I answered because I could barely deliver an answer. Each yes was weaker than the one before and said with a hoarse voice. It was an automated response and delivered without emotion or thought. I was going through the motions all while staring at the pen that rested on the official wedding papers.
I felt like that pen. I would be picked up and moved by unseen forces to begin the unwritten story of my life. He would also use the same pen to help create the chapters that would weave into mine. And despite my fear, the risk factor was so exhilarating that I embraced it all in that moment and signed my signature with such care and beauty that even the Imam commented on my penmanship. He left explaining that now he would conduct the same procedure downstairs.
Everyone rushed over to me and pulled back my veil to see my reaction. They were all in tears and trying to soothe me. What they found instead was someone beaming a brilliant smile, ready to meet her new husband...
-Girls Mehndi (Henna ceremony)
-Boys Mehndi (Henna ceremony)
-Nikkah (Legal Ceremony)
-Baraat (Reception thrown by girls family)
-Walima (Reception thrown by boys family)
Ironically, out of all these events, the only truly Islamic functions are the Nikkah and Walima. Everything else has been inherited from Hindu culture. And since every Pakistani has Indian forefathers, many of the traditions have been passed down and over to our country. But again, there is a hazy divide from what is cultural and religious. Both are intertwined and viewed by many as inseparable.
My mehndi started off the festivities but it veered off the traditional course after that. And it was all because the events were planned around dates of bookings. During the tumultuous weeks leading up to my wedding when both families were having it out with each other, the events got mixed up. And it went like this:
-Friday night (my mehndi)
-Saturday morning (our nikkah)
-Saturday night (his mehndi)
-Sunday night (combined Baraat and Walima)
Basically, most decisions were cemented over economics. Cheaper for both sides to party out of a Church basement and his basement, have a wedding ceremony in the living room of my house and end with a combined event. My wedding had very little tradition in it due to all the shortcuts. Marry me in Pakistan and I am sure my father would tell me he was broke for the next ten years--weddings back home were a GRAND event, with no expense spared and the pomp and ceremony conducted in the atmosphere of competition where the groom and bride's family try to outdo the other.
Saturday morning arrived and I got up before everyone else did. It was 6am and my eyes flew open to the realization that I was to be married that day at the ripe old age of 20.
I looked at the chair tucked under my desk. My wedding ensemble was pressed and laid delicately over the chair. Tradition dictates that the groom's side provide the clothes to the bride on her wedding day. My outfit was reddish-orange. Not my first choice of colour however I accepted it graciously so not to offend my pending mother in law. The colour was very close to what my own mother wore on her wedding day so I did not make much of a fuss. I went downstairs, careful not to wake a sleeping house full of people including my relatives, grabbed a mop and bucket and began cleaning all the floors in the house.
Squeeze me?
It was surreal to be cleaning my house for the last time. Most people my age would abhor the thought of even picking up a broom on their wedding day but my mind was racing and to settle my nervousness, I had to keep myself physically busy. The satisfaction of seeing the floor shine, soothed me as I continued the back and forth movement--like being rocked. Little did I know, my father was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching me.
"I thought I heard someone up," he remarked quietly. Startled, I stopped and faced him but when I saw the expression on his face, I dumped the mop in the bucket and continued. He was wiping his brow; a sign that meant he did not know what to do or say next.
With my back to him, I replied. "The men left their shoes all over the place and the floor was a mess from last night. Everyone is coming soon for the nikkah ceremony. We can't have them enter to dirty floors!" I could not look at him because I knew I would lose it. Who would take care of him like this after I was gone? Boys were boys and my sister and I were like day and night--not on the same page. And still, here I was, going through the motions with the only intent to preserve what I knew, scared to make it different from any other day.
When I turned around, he was gone. I finished up the floors and then went to shower. I had no appetite and once the rest of the family awoke, the hustle and bustle of the day began. Back in the day, the beauty parlours for Pakistani hair and makeup did not exist. I ended up doing my own hair and makeup. I felt like I was preparing for a party--like I always did. But this time, I was preparing for my own wedding.
Two of my best Pakistani friends came over and were planning to sleep at my house that Saturday night. Their jaws dropped when I appeared from my bedroom. My childhood friend grabbed me by the arm and marched me to the picture that hung in our main hallway that was in the middle of four bedrooms. There, she took a picture of me next to my parent's wedding picture that hung on the wall. The resemblance was uncanny.
My mother and I were almost mirror images. Same hair, same makeup, same clothes. All unintentional. When I saw the picture later while putting it in my wedding albums, it really made me feel she was there with me that day.
I was ushered into my parent's bedroom and made to sit on the bed. Here my friends spread out my veil and sat next to me. The groom's side had just arrived along with the Imam (our religious priest). They were brought into the living room of our split level house. The partition was significant. Our vows would be conducted separately where three witnesses would be present to watch the proceedings.
In Islam, no bride should be coerced to be married. While I waited on the bed in my parents room, my father's brother came upstairs. He told me that the Imam and two male witnesses were coming upstairs to ask me for verbal and written consent for marriage. At that point my mind went completely blank. He left the room and I looked at my two aunts, my sister, my two female cousins and two best friends. A hush fell across the room and I saw my aunt dab her eyes. She came over and pulled my veil down and all I could see were my own hands in my lap. They were trembling.
The men filed in after the Imam who pulled up a chair by the side of the bed with a stack of long, legal-sized papers. He held a beautiful, calligraphy styled pen that entranced me and also helped me focus to prevent myself from flipping out.
He introduced himself and then began immediately with the first question.
"Are you here against your will?"
"No," I whispered.
He then asked me three times if I wished to take his (my fiancee's ) hand in marriage. Each time he asked the question, he paused to hear my answer as did the two men who accompanied him (these two men were friends of my father). They all had to lean in each time I answered because I could barely deliver an answer. Each yes was weaker than the one before and said with a hoarse voice. It was an automated response and delivered without emotion or thought. I was going through the motions all while staring at the pen that rested on the official wedding papers.
I felt like that pen. I would be picked up and moved by unseen forces to begin the unwritten story of my life. He would also use the same pen to help create the chapters that would weave into mine. And despite my fear, the risk factor was so exhilarating that I embraced it all in that moment and signed my signature with such care and beauty that even the Imam commented on my penmanship. He left explaining that now he would conduct the same procedure downstairs.
Everyone rushed over to me and pulled back my veil to see my reaction. They were all in tears and trying to soothe me. What they found instead was someone beaming a brilliant smile, ready to meet her new husband...
Monday, July 4, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 59: It's hard to be demure...
"It's garbage night." I sat across from my father, staring off into space, not blinking or taking note that he was addressing me.
Four more days until my mehndi. And life continued in the most normal way. Someone still had to take out the garbage.
"Everytime I talk to you, it seems you are in another land," my father noted while getting up from the kitchen table to put his dinner dishes away. My brother smirked from his seat while my sister looked from me to my father.
"She is in la-la land. She will be married soon and forget about all of us. I guess I will have to take the garbage out when she leaves," my sister said emphatically.
I reflected on those words. When she leaves. There was such a final tone to it that I wondered how it would actually feel--not to be in my family home, taking out the garbage, talking on the phone with my friends, changing universities and jobs. All for one man. I was sure giving up a whole lot. Would it be worth it in the end?
"She is dreaming about Spain," my brother suspected. "Make sure you go see a bullfight in Madrid.
The honeymoon. We were supposed to leave two days after the wedding reception. The tickets were booked, the itinerary set and the luggage packed. I sat dumbfounded--packing for two departures--one for the trip and the other...for the rest of my life.
"All I know is that its a very delicate time in her life so you two should cherish the last couple of days we are here together as a family and reflect over the years that you have shared as brother and sister." My father looked at all of us, teared up and then left the room. My brother stared at me intently while my sister non-chalantly read the newspaper. I had always been closer to him and I knew he was thinking what I was thinking. He was only 15 when she died and now I was like a mother to him. And he would soon lose me too.
The house was full by the next day with our extended family. Both my aunts prepared the mehndi trays--full of sweets, flowers and the henna (mehndi) that would adorn my hands and feet in a few days. I went to the church to confirm the booking and spoke at length with the pastor, going over the details of what would happen at the mehndi. We had invited over 50 women from our community and my inlaws would be bringing over 50 women from their side.
The pastor was intrigued by the whole ceremony. But what appealed to him more was the concept of the arranged marriage.
"So no dating or courtship before you marry?" he asked.
"No. But we do meet in a chaperoned environment. Its not like I am being forced to marry. At the end of the day, I have the right to refuse," I reassured him. He stood beside me as we looked at the stage in the church basement.
And then out of nowhere, he asked me the question everyone wanted to ask me but did not have the nerve.
"Do you love him?" He looked at me straight in the eye but with a kind smile.If anyone else had asked me this question, I knew I would go on the defensive but with the pastor, I felt at ease. Easy enough to be honest with him, and myself.
"No. But I will learn to love him," I said without thinking. The pastor paused and then took my hand into his.
"You are a very mature girl for your age. I am sure losing your mother so young made you look at the world with different eyes. I wish you happiness in your new life. And I give the same advice as I do with any couple ready to get married--arranged marriage or not. The more you invest in your marriage, the more valuable it becomes. There is no such thing as the perfect marriage--accept all that is good and accept all the flaws. You will be fine." I was waiting for him to say, And don't trash the Church, but he nodded and walked away.
We had to prepare food and drinks in two places. The mehndi was an all-women event and the few men who would bring their wives, mothers, and daughter to this event ended up spending the evening at my house with my father and talking politics over many cups of tea.
When all the decorations and food had been set at the Church that evening, I was whisked into a room and told to change in a yellow outfit with the veil. I was to wear no makeup and pin my hair back. The idea was to look simple and plain on this day because I would be made up and look like a beautiful bride on my wedding day. I sat in the room while my friends and aunts fussed over my clothes and fixed my hair. My fiancee's side had left an hour before and were on their way. Ironically, I did not feel nervous. While my aunts made arrangements in the hall to greet their family, I sat with my friends, joking about the cemetery next door.
"They are going to stop dead in their tracks when they see you!"
"I am sure his mom is dying to get you married."
"Your so pale--its looks like you saw a ghost."
We were laughing so hard that my aunt had to come in several times to scold me about not acting like a lady and being too loud. We would quiet down only to start up again.
"Don't ever stop being fun. I mean, don't get all serious after you marry," one of my friends said in a sombre manner.
"My circumstances may change but I am still me," I said. "If I don't laugh now, I will be crying instead." There was a hush amongst my friends and everyone pondered my words.
"They are here," my aunt exclaimed, running over to me to cover my face with the veil. "Stop smiling and look down. If I see you look up, I will hit you behind the head, do you hear me?" she threatened. I nodded and winked secretly to my friends.
The girls formed a grouping around me. Three on the right and three on the left. A large decorative shawl was hoisted above my head as they walked me into the hall when my inlaws arrived. Dutifully, I kept my head bowed and only feet and shoes as I made my way to the stage. The music was loud with my guests playing the tabla and dholki drums and singing wedding songs.
My mother-in-law approached me and pulled up my veil to kiss me on the forehead. She proceeded to put gold bangles on my hands and shove Pakistani sweets in my mouth. I am pretty sure I consumed five pounds of sweets that night with all the women feeding and lifting my veil to comment on my looks. I listened in silence, growing tired of all the gawking and food shovelling.
Fresh henna was applied to my hands and feet while I watched the girls from my side and his side dance the night away. I was not allowed to get up and dance. I had to sit, the demure bride-to-be: simple, unadorned, chastely looking down and pretending to be innocent. Since I was not used to the cultural expectations, I was told constantly to stop laughing, smiling, looking up or talking to anyone by my elders.
When the night was over and the guests filed out, I threw back my veil and lay back on the sequined pillows, flinging my arm over my face in pure exhaustion.
Tomorrow I would be officially married in my own house. It was time to sign my life away...
Four more days until my mehndi. And life continued in the most normal way. Someone still had to take out the garbage.
"Everytime I talk to you, it seems you are in another land," my father noted while getting up from the kitchen table to put his dinner dishes away. My brother smirked from his seat while my sister looked from me to my father.
"She is in la-la land. She will be married soon and forget about all of us. I guess I will have to take the garbage out when she leaves," my sister said emphatically.
I reflected on those words. When she leaves. There was such a final tone to it that I wondered how it would actually feel--not to be in my family home, taking out the garbage, talking on the phone with my friends, changing universities and jobs. All for one man. I was sure giving up a whole lot. Would it be worth it in the end?
"She is dreaming about Spain," my brother suspected. "Make sure you go see a bullfight in Madrid.
The honeymoon. We were supposed to leave two days after the wedding reception. The tickets were booked, the itinerary set and the luggage packed. I sat dumbfounded--packing for two departures--one for the trip and the other...for the rest of my life.
"All I know is that its a very delicate time in her life so you two should cherish the last couple of days we are here together as a family and reflect over the years that you have shared as brother and sister." My father looked at all of us, teared up and then left the room. My brother stared at me intently while my sister non-chalantly read the newspaper. I had always been closer to him and I knew he was thinking what I was thinking. He was only 15 when she died and now I was like a mother to him. And he would soon lose me too.
The house was full by the next day with our extended family. Both my aunts prepared the mehndi trays--full of sweets, flowers and the henna (mehndi) that would adorn my hands and feet in a few days. I went to the church to confirm the booking and spoke at length with the pastor, going over the details of what would happen at the mehndi. We had invited over 50 women from our community and my inlaws would be bringing over 50 women from their side.
The pastor was intrigued by the whole ceremony. But what appealed to him more was the concept of the arranged marriage.
"So no dating or courtship before you marry?" he asked.
"No. But we do meet in a chaperoned environment. Its not like I am being forced to marry. At the end of the day, I have the right to refuse," I reassured him. He stood beside me as we looked at the stage in the church basement.
And then out of nowhere, he asked me the question everyone wanted to ask me but did not have the nerve.
"Do you love him?" He looked at me straight in the eye but with a kind smile.If anyone else had asked me this question, I knew I would go on the defensive but with the pastor, I felt at ease. Easy enough to be honest with him, and myself.
"No. But I will learn to love him," I said without thinking. The pastor paused and then took my hand into his.
"You are a very mature girl for your age. I am sure losing your mother so young made you look at the world with different eyes. I wish you happiness in your new life. And I give the same advice as I do with any couple ready to get married--arranged marriage or not. The more you invest in your marriage, the more valuable it becomes. There is no such thing as the perfect marriage--accept all that is good and accept all the flaws. You will be fine." I was waiting for him to say, And don't trash the Church, but he nodded and walked away.
We had to prepare food and drinks in two places. The mehndi was an all-women event and the few men who would bring their wives, mothers, and daughter to this event ended up spending the evening at my house with my father and talking politics over many cups of tea.
When all the decorations and food had been set at the Church that evening, I was whisked into a room and told to change in a yellow outfit with the veil. I was to wear no makeup and pin my hair back. The idea was to look simple and plain on this day because I would be made up and look like a beautiful bride on my wedding day. I sat in the room while my friends and aunts fussed over my clothes and fixed my hair. My fiancee's side had left an hour before and were on their way. Ironically, I did not feel nervous. While my aunts made arrangements in the hall to greet their family, I sat with my friends, joking about the cemetery next door.
"They are going to stop dead in their tracks when they see you!"
"I am sure his mom is dying to get you married."
"Your so pale--its looks like you saw a ghost."
We were laughing so hard that my aunt had to come in several times to scold me about not acting like a lady and being too loud. We would quiet down only to start up again.
"Don't ever stop being fun. I mean, don't get all serious after you marry," one of my friends said in a sombre manner.
"My circumstances may change but I am still me," I said. "If I don't laugh now, I will be crying instead." There was a hush amongst my friends and everyone pondered my words.
"They are here," my aunt exclaimed, running over to me to cover my face with the veil. "Stop smiling and look down. If I see you look up, I will hit you behind the head, do you hear me?" she threatened. I nodded and winked secretly to my friends.
The girls formed a grouping around me. Three on the right and three on the left. A large decorative shawl was hoisted above my head as they walked me into the hall when my inlaws arrived. Dutifully, I kept my head bowed and only feet and shoes as I made my way to the stage. The music was loud with my guests playing the tabla and dholki drums and singing wedding songs.
My mother-in-law approached me and pulled up my veil to kiss me on the forehead. She proceeded to put gold bangles on my hands and shove Pakistani sweets in my mouth. I am pretty sure I consumed five pounds of sweets that night with all the women feeding and lifting my veil to comment on my looks. I listened in silence, growing tired of all the gawking and food shovelling.
Fresh henna was applied to my hands and feet while I watched the girls from my side and his side dance the night away. I was not allowed to get up and dance. I had to sit, the demure bride-to-be: simple, unadorned, chastely looking down and pretending to be innocent. Since I was not used to the cultural expectations, I was told constantly to stop laughing, smiling, looking up or talking to anyone by my elders.
When the night was over and the guests filed out, I threw back my veil and lay back on the sequined pillows, flinging my arm over my face in pure exhaustion.
Tomorrow I would be officially married in my own house. It was time to sign my life away...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)