Family friends of ours were holding an engagement party for their son. They were from Pakistan but the thing that differentiated them from the rest of the community was that they were Christian.
This difference was what made them special. They were the only ones to call every Muslim in the community on Eid day to wish them a Happy Eid. No other family was known to do this. They were also one of the first couples my parents met when they immigrated from Pakistan back in 1969. They always met us with hugs and Salaams--no different from our other Muslim families. The only thing I noticed that made me think they were different was the picture of Jesus Christ that hung in their living room. Otherwise, they spoke the same language, ate the same food and wore the same festive clothing.
That afternoon, as women hurried around me while I sat in their living room, I looked at the picture of Jesus on their wall. The engagement was being held in their basement and the women in the community were helping Aunty prepare the food for her son's celebration. No one asked for my help even though I offered many times. I had two suspicions: one was that I was a bride-to-be myself and secondly, shortly after my mother died, their first grandchild from their eldest son had died as well. It was an extremely sad time for both of our families and we lost ourselves in each other's grief the last time we met. Aunty became a mother figure to our family, understanding the essence of being motherless.
I sat alone on the sofa watching as the women hurriedly prepared the numerous dishes on the dining room table. Alone I thought I was, but not really. Jesus was before me, looking down kindly while I folded my hands on my lap. Jesus and someone else. I only took notice of him in the picture because he was smack-dab in front of me. He had sad eyes and he was raising his right hand. Like he wanted me to high five him. I quickly erased the thought, admonishing myself for thinking about such a thing. It would be blasphemy to even mention doing it. After all, even though I didn't believe that he was the son of God, I knew he was a great Prophet with healing abilities.
And at that very moment, I wanted to be healed. Inside and out. Mind and body. Appendix and ovaries. I looked at him and started to speak telepathically.
Jesus, if you can hear me, please help me. Help me get through the next couple of weeks. Help me be honest with myself and everyone around me. I wish I was like you --release me of my anger, bitterness and contempt. I just want to get through life without all this strife. With pleading eyes I looked carefully into his.
What I neglected to notice was a woman sitting in a chair, almost directly opposite to me, in the corner of their dining room. She was watching me intensely with a small smile on her face. An older woman, with dark very hair that was evidently dyed black and thick kohl eyeliner. I turned my attention from Jesus to her. Despite the drastic contrast of colours from her hair to her makeup to her clothes, she had the same kind face as in the picture before me. I jumped when she called out my name.
"Come sit with me," she motioned to the chair next to her. I froze momentarily, trying to assess if I knew her from somewhere. I was drawing a blank.
"Don't be shy. I don't bite," she continued with a slight Urdu and British accent. I slowly rose and walked over to her. She was looking at me from head to toe and her smile indicated approval.
"So you are his daughter! Do you know that my daughter works with your father at the Aid Society? That is how we know each other. I am invited to your wedding. It will be a splendid event, no?" She now had her hand clasped over mine. I looked at her more closely. Still, no recognition.
She was eyeing my pakistani suit and jewellery. I crossed my arms in a self-conscious moment. I had lost another five pounds from the surgery and my clothes now hung loosely on me.
"You are a very beautiful girl, just like your mother. I met her a few times. She was a quiet one. But like her, the fair skin, dark hair and long fingers...." her voice trailed off and she continued to size me up. Before my fiancee's family met me, I was used to this banter. It signified the inquisition that every young pakistani girl endured before marriage--a ritual whereby a prospective mother-in-law dug deeper to know if you were 'on the market' or not. However, she already knew I was spoken for and was even invited to the wedding!
I looked around the room to see if anyone was listening. The room was crowded but no one paid attention to our conversation.
"You had surgery last week, right?" she asked. Bells were ringing and suddenly I was on high alert. How did she know? I nodded slowly, unable to speak. She leaned in closer to me.
"Do not fret my dear. Your doctor is a quack. Don't believe everything they tell you." She crossed her legs and tugged at her ear to prevent her clip-on earring from slipping. I did not know how to respond. What did she know? Who told her? Why was she telling me this.
We were interrupted by Aunty who announced it was time to eat dinner before the actual ceremony. I rose slowly only to be pulled down again beside her.
"Are you scared?" she asked.
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. Instead, large tears welled up in my eyes. She nodded and patted my hand. People were coming by, asking us to get dinner. But she refused and insisted that we would wait until after the rush.
"Who are you?" I finally asked in a weak voice.
"Your father's friend. You see, he came to me and told me about your surgery. Don't worry, I know this is a very private matter. But you see, I am the best person to talk to for a second opinion. I am a gynecologist and I can assure you, that you will have many, many children for years to come," she smiled as she slipped her arm through mine. "Now, let's go and put some meat on these bones so you can fill out your wedding dress!"
Stunned, I stood up with her and walked over to the dining table. Many people were talking, laughing and acknowledging her. It seemed that after our conversation, everyone wanted a piece of her. She was the center of attention. I turned to my right to find another family friend piling food on her plate.
"Do you know who that lady is?" I asked.
"Oh yes! She is very well known in the community. But moreso, she is a leading physician and lecturer at the University. She is one the top doctors in the province!" she cried while biting into tandoori chicken.
I watched her from afar as I sat by myself to eat dinner. There were a crowd of women surronding her, all of whom were leaning in to listen to her wise words.
I looked up and realized I was sitting in front of Jesus again. He looked down at me with the same sad, kind eyes. This time, I smiled back and gave him an imaginary high five...let my healing begin.
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