My mother-in-law was relentless. She called many a night, wanting to know where we stood in the proposal. They had made it official (asking for my hand in marriage) the last time we went to dinner at their house in early December. My father was putting it off. Figured. On the surface, he presented himself as petty and self-serving when it came to his hesitation. But deep down, he was a complicated man with mixed emotions and indecisiveness. His response puzzled me and my husband's family.
"We are going to Pakistan to visit my wife's family. When we return, you will have our decision." Needless to say, they were not happy, having to wait yet another month to know whether or not we would accept their proposal. When his mother called prodding me to give her a hint, I could feel the eggshells crunching beneath my feet. I wanted to reassure her yet at the same time, I did not want to betray my father by revealing my true feelings. But I had already made up my mind. Out of all the suitors that had shown any interest, this felt right. He was right. I had received my sign after I prayed the Prayer of Guidance twice. Another story...
"We are going there to meet my mother's family. Not seek out someone for marriage," I told her. Her worry was loud enough to hear, even though she remained silent on the phone after my attempt at reasoning. It felt odd reassuring her--I should have been speaking to her son. He was absent from the equation altogether during these 'negotiations'. This is how it felt. Like a transaction. And my father was halting the proceedings to take time and review. True to his typical form. Never one to make a hasty decision.
"I am ready. I give my consent. We should tell them before we leave for our trip," I told my father.
"We need not rush into this. And I certainly do not want to push you. This is your sole decision. Our trip to Pakistan will give you room to think and reflect. Take the time there and make up your mind. When we come back, you can tell me how you feel," my father told me after we hung up the phone. He had been sitting next to me while I spoke to my mother-in-law. I understood the chaperoned visits to their house, but screening my phone calls was a bit too much! I sensed that he was guarding me, afraid that anything politically incorrect would fly out of my mouth. Worried that I may incriminate myself and he would need to jump in and exonerate me.
Squeeze me?
"Have you told them about my broken engagement?" I asked, quite innocently since I was not privy to the living room conversations at either house.
My father looked at me with disbelief. I shifted nervously in my seat. He folded his newspaper in silence. This was executed in a most exact manner. Alphabetically he would return the sections to their previous state and organize the pile in garage by date. This act of cataloging back then was a strange event and we always questioned why. As I reflect back today, I realized that his role in our house was complete, soverign control over all of us. When this dominion was out of his reach, he needed to be able to deflect his frustrations elsewhere. Today this would probably be recognized as OCD but growing up, it was a chore that made us roll our eyes and scratch our heads with incomprehension.
Every six months, he would gather his children and make us sit with him to go through the pile of newspapers, ensuring that the sections were returned in order and each paper, according to month and day of the week would create its own unique pile. When we would question why we had to go through this exercise, that very same vein in his forehead would pulsate and he would tell us calmly that he needed to go through the papers to clip out any articles he deemed current and educational. We would look at each other in dismay and continue the ritual. Questioning him about my called off engagement was seen as a huge rustling of the newspapers.
"Why would I tell them about an engagement that never was an engagement? There was no ceremony, no celebration, no exchange of rings. This does not need to be mentioned. Do you understand? Am I clear?" He was now looking at me sternly from the other side of the table. Was he stalling? Was he scared there would be reprecussions if we agreed too quickly. I was trying to figure out his strategy but for now, I knew better than to open up old wounds.
My last trip to Pakistan was in 1987. It was the best trip of my life. There was no political instability, no war, no Taliban and certainly no security threats in the streets. I had stayed two months in the summer with my mother and sister, taking turns living with my paternal and maternal families. My mother had gone back after eight years and cried immediately when the plane touched down in Lahore. I knew what it meant for her to be home with her family. She did not go frequently like my father who had returned by himself on many occasions. When it was time to return to Canada at the end of the summer, my mother would remain for another eight months. I insisted and argued with my father over the phone to let her stay and he finally accepted. It was a good thing because that would be the last time she would ever see her family again.
We ended up in Pakistan by mid-December and it was bittersweet. To see my mother's extended family after her death was hard. Especially after meeting my aunt, her elder sister, who looked almost like her. My mother was the baby in her family of three brothers and one sister. The year my mother died, we were tested another two times. My mother died July 1989. October of the same year, my paternal grandfather passed away. And then to top it off, at the end of the year, my mother's mother died. She was sick when she heard of my mother's death. And her will to live disappeared knowing that her youngest child was no longer alive. It broke her heart and in the end, it broke her too. For her family, who did not experience her death first hand, they had problems accepting the fact that she was gone. Hence, the mourning was bound to occur once again.
When a week passed, we began to enjoy ourselves. We ate, drank and laughed together, reminiscing about our trip in 1987 and fond memories of my mother. My father seemed to relax as well--a little too much.
And it was not until a little later, did I find out about his hidden agenda...
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