The meat-eating bride

1973 -- I don't remember the trip to Pakistan that year. Since arriving to Canada, this was the first time home for my mother after being married. I was only three years old and there were dated pictures of me with my relatives; each shot retelling a story related to me by different people. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, older cousins, you name it. They all concluded that I was extremely mischevious. And they all loved me for it. I was, after all, the first granddaughter and niece in the family. A famous Canadian in my own right.

Although he complained incessantly to everyone, my father could not convince his own family about the clumsy, toothless, jibberish--speaking devil he had spawned. I was smothered with love, monopolized and regarded as an angel sent from Canada. My sister was two months old -- sickly, constantly crying and as a result, everyone was too afraid to hold her.

That left me to my own wiles.

The stories are many, however, I will share two events that are considered legendary within my family circle.

Being without most of my teeth may have impaired my speech but nonetheless had no affect on my eating habits. I loved to eat back then and the way to my heart was through my stomach. Pakistan was full of culinary delights. Organic meals made at home were in no comparison to the outside meals found in restaurants. Biryani, kormas, channa and many other treats were at beck and call at home. My family made sure that I ate homecooked meals to prevent inevitable illness from insanitary conditions in the marketplace.

My father's sisters would take turns cooking the meals and asked me daily what I wanted to eat. I was always consulted first. Even their own brother could not sway them to cook his favorite dish. Most of the time, my demands revolved around meat. Every dish had to include either beef or chicken. Yes, at the tender age of three, I was a full blown carnivore, much to the dismay of my father. My mother was just thankful that I ate and it was one less child she had to worry about.

One particular evening, my aunts called us to dinner and we sat together at a large table to accomodate eight family members. My grandparents, two aunts, one uncle, my parents and I. I sat next to my youngest uncle, on a pile of pillows so that I could reach the top of the table. Everyone began taking turns, pouring the rice and meat into their plates while I waited for my mother who ended up filling my plate with more rice than meat. Very quietly, while my uncle looked away absorbed in his story-telling, I reached over and grabbed all the meat in his plate and transferred it to my own.

My aunt was first to witness my debauchery. Astonished, she remained silent at first but suddenly burst into a fit of giggles as I quickly tried to devour the meat, trying not to get caught with the handsome portion on my plate. My uncle stopped talking and turned to my aunt while she shook her head in amazement. With one hand, I stuffed my mouth and filled it with delicious meat curry, juices flowing down the edges of my face, dribbling down my chin, while my other hand protected the remaining meat on my plate. When my uncle looked back at his own plate, he realized that all his meat was gone!

It was then he realized my trickery. He joined my aunt's laughter and then everyone caught onto my deception. My mother grabbed a napkin and insisted I spit out the large quantity of meat that was stored in my cheeks, fearing that I would choke. I turned and smiled at him, swallowing half the meat and muttering through my half-filled mouth.

"Yummmmmmmy," I announced while pointing to my stomach. One word summed it up: Disbelief.

My insatiable appetite was not the only intriguing thing that kept the masses entertained during our trip.

As the demure Pakistani bride

I was entranced with the notion of being a bride. Upon attending a relative's wedding, a day later I insisted that a bride's outfit be made for me as well. Both my aunts got to work and ordered the local tailor to make a replica of the bride's outfit from their cousin's wedding--only in my size.

When the outfit was delivered to the house, my aunt stole me away and dressed me in the gharrara. It came complete with its own veil. Once prepared, I immediately took on the character of a bride. I lowered my head and pretended to act demure. She was flabbergasted. I would not look up and insisted on sitting on the bed, head down, arms folded in front of me. She called the rest of family to witness the scene. My father was so amazed, he thought he would test me.

"Who is your husband if you are the bride?" he asked.

Without skipping a beat, I named his youngest brother to come sit next to me, all while maintaining  my innocence. My bemused Uncle sat next to me and tried to peek under the veil. I pulled on the end and covered my face.

Everyone laughed and my uncle ran to grab his camera. One word summed it up: Actress.

At the meek age of three, my audience was eating out of my hand...while I was eating all their meat ;)

Tears from Heaven

The rain always brings me down. But at the same time, it allows me to reflect and write. Today's rain made me remember an event long ago and I had to capture the moment now. Like most of my memories, as the years go by, they are being washed down the stream of life; a distant thought that will travel like water, through the fingers of time and be lost forever.

When I was young, I used to sit in the bay window of our home to watch the 'tears come down from heaven.' My mother would try to soothe me by turning the bad weather into an idea that was less terrifying to me.

"Why is God crying? Does he get sad too?" I asked. My mother smiled thoughtfully, trying to come up with an answer to my philosophical question.

"God is not crying, the clouds are. He is squeezing the water out of them so they are dry the next day for the sun." I didn't buy it.

The thunder always scared and titillated me at the same time. There was something about inclement weather that excited me insofar that my emotions became intertwined and the end result was a euphoric feeling that I could not put my finger on. Until today, thunderstorms awaken some raw being inside of me. I always watched from the inside looking out, but that day, I wanted to be a part of Nature--to be outside and experiencing the rain.

I ran downstairs and opened the door that led to the garage. My shiny bike was beckoning me. I turned around and went back to grab my rainboots and jacket. My parents were no where in sight. Freedom.

I tugged at the handle of the garage door and let it swing open. The rain was coming down hard. I felt the mist and dewy smell absorb into my senses. Hugging myself with pure joy, I jumped on my bike and hesitated, sitting between the garage and the opening of the sky. And then I heard it. The deep rumbling of a male voice, just steps behind me. At first, I mistook it as thunder. My father's voice was undeniable.

"Where do you think you are going?" he demanded. I turned ever so slightly to see him standing with his arms folded. Caught.

My foot was ready, on the pedal. It only needed one push. I felt my hands tighten on the handlebars. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I pondered my options. What could he really do if I drove out into the rain? I judged the distance from where he stood to my current position. I smiled.

"I am going into the tears of heaven!" I exclaimed and pushed off on my bike into the rain. Summer rain had to be the most glorious weather to be caught in. It was cool in the damp air and my hair was soaked immediately. As I whipped down the sidewalk, I glanced sideways to see my father standing at the opening of the garage, with his hands on his hips. He was not happy.

I splashed through puddles, drenched until my clothes stuck to my skin, laughing and speeding down the street, while letting the heavens cry upon me. The clouds were dark, foreboding and I waited to be sucked up into the sky. And then it thundered. I felt the crack rip through my entire body and it sent me to a screeching halt. I stood helplessly alone in the middle of the street and became utterly terrified. There was no one. Not a soul. Not even a car driving by. The second clap of thunder was more severe.

And then I began to cry. What a stupid idea, I said to myself. Immobilized with fear and a sudden urge to pee, I remained in the same spot for five minutes. I hugged my bike with the sinking feeling that the end was near. Suddenly, I felt someone grab my arm. I thought it was God. He had come for me--and now was taking me up to heaven!

Turns out God looked very much like my father. He was standing with his black umbrella and beige trenchcoat. His expression was stern however, I could have been mistaken. And as I shivered in the cold, with the rain falling on my head and the water dripping off my nose, scared out of my wits, praying out loud for God not to strike me with lightning, it was unmistaken. My father's eyes were smiling.

He held the umbrella over my head while I cried and cycled back slowly, under his shelter. The garage had been left open so I glided back in with a rush. My strong father grabbed the garage handle and pushed the door in. I got off my bike but it took me several attempts to bring down the kickstand. I was shaking like a leaf. He put his warm hand on my shoulder and guided me back indoors.
Protected.

"How were the tears from heaven?" he asked as he took a towel and wrapped it around my entire body. I was not facing him, guilt-ridden from my impetuous joy ride.

"Oh, I don't know, Daddy! There was so much water I don't know if they were God's tears or my own!"

Since I was facing the opposite direction, I did not know if the shaking was from my father drying me off or from his uncontrollable laughter.

PS My mother told me many years later that although he felt bad about my whole experience in the rain, my line about the tears was a joke he proudly shared countless times with their friends in social gatherings...

PhD of Ear Infections

In 1975, my father flew to Pakistan, leaving behind my mother with three children. Myself at age five, my sister who was three and my brother who was just two.

I do not remember him leaving but I remember my mother scrambling for help when I fell ill.

It all started one cold November evening as I cycled to my friend's home. We spent a cozy evening in her family room watching a movie. I was extra fidgety that night, constantly rubbing my ear. There was a ringing tone and slight discomfort but I brushed it off. Nothing was going to ruin my night. But an hour in, I started to feel the pain. Two hours later, I excused myself, jumped on my bike, and rode furiously home, with an agony in my ear that would not subside.

Three hours later, I was beside myself. My mother made me a hot water bottle, covered with a towel and pressed it against my swollen ear but I moaned in pain. It felt like someone was jabbing a knife into its core.

The next thing I remember, we were transported to our family friend's home. The mother was a pediatrician. I cried in pain and in the middle of the night, she took me to the hospital. My mother could not accompany me because she had to watch my siblings. I remember calling out her name as I sat on the cold hospital operating table. I was frightened out of my wits.

This was it. They were going to cut out my ear. No mother or father to witness the horror. Our family friend had changed into a lab coat and was holding a large syringe.

"I stole my neighbour's Barbie," I cried out, hoping that this last minute confession would absolve me from the punishment I had received from God. My father had given me multiple warnings that my late night escapades were considered a huge sin and that I would be punished somehow, someway.

I covered my ear and begged her that I could not get my PhD if I only had one ear.

She stepped back in surprise. "Who wants you to get a PhD?" she exclaimed, putting down the syringe.

"My father said that I better get a PhD or else," I sobbed, still holding my damaged ear. At this point, pus was now oozing out. My ear drum had finally erupted and I felt an eerie feeling of peace.

She placed both her hands on my shoulders and laughed. She laughed so hard that her whole body shook and vibrated into my body. Dumbfounded, I looked at her and thought she had gone crazy. Great, a nutjob was about to operate on me....

"I think you are a little too young to be worrying about your degree. Right now, we need to clean out that nasty infection in your ear. This syringe is full of water and it will flush out the pus and wax from the canal." Another doctor walked in to assist her.

"You mean my dad did not ask you to cut out my ear?" I asked.

She looked over at the other doctor who must have been smiling behind his mask.

"No, my dear. But you should return the Barbie back to your neighbour," she replied and she inserted the syringe into my ear. The surge of water was very painful. There were two sizes of syringes and each time they inserted the large one I begged them both to use the small one.

When the procedure was done, she picked me up and carried me into her office. She gave me a lollipop and then proceeded to whisper something into my healing ear.

"Did you hear me?" she asked. I smiled and nodded, sucking loudly and wiping my nose with the back of my hand.

When my father returned from Pakistan, I excitedly relayed the entire story to him as I sat on his lap and wrapped my arm around his neck. I made sure my good ear was close to him in case my 'damaged' ear grossed him out.

"So.....she did not cut off your ear? She should have cut it off. It got infected because you went out late that night." He looked at me sternly, waiting for my response.

I shifted uncomfortably in his lap but then I remembered what our family friend had whispered to me in her office after the whole incident.

"She said how could she cut off my ear if I was waiting for my father to come back and tell me how much he loves me?"

I have to say my father was rendered speechless for a good five minutes and while I sat on his lap, he inspected my ear...both of us smiling, each for our own reasons.....