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...
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