My mother was a subtle discipliner. Whenever I went down the wrong road, she would quietly nudge me back to where I belonged. When I tried smoking cigarettes and I thought I had covered my tracks, she asked me to change my clothes before my father came home because she could smell the smoke. Or in Grade 4, when I ate bacon and hot dogs at a friends house, later that evening when we went grocery shopping, my mother threw everything pork-related into the cart. I cried all the way home with guilt. And when my fiancee called one day and my mother picked up the phone, I found out, after she had died, that she had had a conversation with him.
Squeeze me?
She knew the entire time of his existence. And one day, when I wasn't home, she answered the phone and flat out asked if he was my friend, even though he had not spoken a word. When he conceded, she had a pleasant conversation with him. She did not reprimand him or ask anything about the nature of our friendship but she finished their neutral discussion saying this: "I am her mother. But she is her father's daughter. So I am not the person to impress. You have my blessing as long as YOUR mother knows." She swore him to secrecy but when she had passed away, he told me the whole story.
I spent the next few days trying to analyze her dream. The times I saw her at night were getting fewer and fewer. But when she came to me, there was always a reason. This was the first time I sensed her unhappiness. Usually she would try to lift my spirits. What did she want me to stop? She had already given her blessing. What was she trying to tell me? Why was she warning me? I decided not to tell anyone about my dream.
Ironically, as I walked around in a frustrated daze, trying to interpret her message, my father's demeanor had changed and he was in a great mood. When he came home from work, he insisted we take long walks after dinner. I obliged for two reasons: one to gauge his feelings towards my impending engagement and second to cement my plans moving forward. We set out one particular warm, breezy evening. As we were walking, my father reminisced about my birth.
"When you were born, you lit up our lives. That is why I gave you this name. It means, light of a candle. It had taken over a year to adjust to this country and it was a dark road, especially for your mother. But when you came into our lives, we were complete and you guided us. Now I am here to guide you."
I pondered over what he said in silence. He continued. "When you get married, you will understand what I mean and it will be your turn to start off on that dark road." I stopped walking but my father continued ahead of me without stopping.
"What do you mean, when I start that dark road? Why is it dark?" I had to run to catch up with him. Without looking at me and still staring straight ahead, he made a statement, disguised as a question. "But you really don't know him. You think you do but young hearts can be deceived." I stopped walking again.
"That's not fair, Dad. You are judging without knowing all the facts. You don't know what I know. And from what I know, I think I am making the right decision!" My father continued walking but slowered his pace. I stood still on the sidewalk. My father stopped ahead as well. He turned around so we were facing each other. I folded my arms in front of me and raised my eyebrow. As I watched him, my father raised his palms up towards the sky. "Only He knows better." He turned around and started walking back home. I followed slowly, about ten paces behind him. He did not slow down nor did I increase my pace. We walked like this all the way home.
When he reached the front door, he turned to me and asked, "Does your mother come to you in your dreams?" I abruptly stopped in my tracks, with my mouth hanging open.
"She always looked beautiful in her saris," he smiled wistfully. And with that, he walked in and closed the door as I stood shaking on the porch.
Checkmate.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
The Romantic Elliptical: Part 8, Silence is louder than words
I put the phone down and smiled. Finally, we were getting somewhere. I immediately called my best friend and divulged all the details to her, all within earshot of my father. She was overjoyed and offered to help me plan for the engagement. Traditionally, it was be done in our home so we began planning the food, decor and what I would wear. My father folded his paper and went upstairs. In the morning, my brother asked what I had said to upset him. "He was talking in his sleep all night," remarked my brother. I told him that I had spoken only to my friend over the phone about my engagement plans. I mulled over what my brother said the next day and realized that my father was concealing his true feelings. He did not want this to happen. But why was he going along with it? I moved my player on the board.
From all my friends, only my best friend knew about my engagement. It was odd but I didn't or couldn't talk about it to others until it was legitimate. Within my own extended family, as everyone gushed about my actual engagement, I chattered along with them, devoid of emotion. What was wrong with me? I should be happy - an exciting chapter in my life was about to begin. What I did note was that I attributed it to the fact that my mother was not there to share in my joy. A diversion? A mask? Only she would have been able to decipher the truth. But she was not there to explain the lingering feeling that nagged me as if someone was tapping on the window of my soul.
The silence of my father was the only thing I could hear. It was loud but not clear. Growing up with an opinionated parent was what I was used to. I was used to his arguments and I would keep quiet out of respect. But as he watched me quietly, I became louder to block out his wordlessness. Occasionally I caught him looking at me with a sad smile. When I would smile back confidently, he would sigh and return to what he was doing. I moved another player.
My fiancee's sister called me to get my measurements. Her mother was in Pakistan preparing my dowry. We talked about the colour of my engagement gown and how to match the decorations. She told me that I made her brother happy. I smiled bashfully into the phone, not knowing what to say next. As she babbled about other details, I swallowed a lump in my throat as I looked at my parent's wedding picture on the wall. My mother stared back at me. A perfect China doll, with porcelain features, red lips and a small petite smile, hands folded dutifully in front of her, standing inches away from my stern-looking father. I stared back at the picture. And then I dreamt of her that night.
She came to me, standing at the top of our stairs, wearing a blood-red sari. She looked sad and she stood alone. Her arms were folded in front of her and she called my name. I tried to answer back but I didn't have a voice. She continued to speak but I couldn't hear what she was saying. I tried to read her lips and I realized that she was repeating a word. Over and over again. I strained to hear her and I tried to climb the stairs to come closer but my legs were like lead and my voice was inaudible.
I woke up in the middle of the night, gasping for air and wildly looking around my room. When I realized it was all a dream, I lay back down. My pillow was wet and I realized I had been crying. The lump was still in my throat. And as I calmed down and lulled myself back to sleep, it wasn't until the morning when I understood what my mother was saying.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
From all my friends, only my best friend knew about my engagement. It was odd but I didn't or couldn't talk about it to others until it was legitimate. Within my own extended family, as everyone gushed about my actual engagement, I chattered along with them, devoid of emotion. What was wrong with me? I should be happy - an exciting chapter in my life was about to begin. What I did note was that I attributed it to the fact that my mother was not there to share in my joy. A diversion? A mask? Only she would have been able to decipher the truth. But she was not there to explain the lingering feeling that nagged me as if someone was tapping on the window of my soul.
The silence of my father was the only thing I could hear. It was loud but not clear. Growing up with an opinionated parent was what I was used to. I was used to his arguments and I would keep quiet out of respect. But as he watched me quietly, I became louder to block out his wordlessness. Occasionally I caught him looking at me with a sad smile. When I would smile back confidently, he would sigh and return to what he was doing. I moved another player.
My fiancee's sister called me to get my measurements. Her mother was in Pakistan preparing my dowry. We talked about the colour of my engagement gown and how to match the decorations. She told me that I made her brother happy. I smiled bashfully into the phone, not knowing what to say next. As she babbled about other details, I swallowed a lump in my throat as I looked at my parent's wedding picture on the wall. My mother stared back at me. A perfect China doll, with porcelain features, red lips and a small petite smile, hands folded dutifully in front of her, standing inches away from my stern-looking father. I stared back at the picture. And then I dreamt of her that night.
She came to me, standing at the top of our stairs, wearing a blood-red sari. She looked sad and she stood alone. Her arms were folded in front of her and she called my name. I tried to answer back but I didn't have a voice. She continued to speak but I couldn't hear what she was saying. I tried to read her lips and I realized that she was repeating a word. Over and over again. I strained to hear her and I tried to climb the stairs to come closer but my legs were like lead and my voice was inaudible.
I woke up in the middle of the night, gasping for air and wildly looking around my room. When I realized it was all a dream, I lay back down. My pillow was wet and I realized I had been crying. The lump was still in my throat. And as I calmed down and lulled myself back to sleep, it wasn't until the morning when I understood what my mother was saying.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
The Romantic Elliptical: Part 7, Checkmate
After she passed, he called me. I was in a terrible state and felt vulnerable. The family was a mess and everyone tried their best to console each other. But we were all weak and I needed a rock.
Our calls started up again and this time he did not hide the fact that we needed to legitimize what was going on. He wanted to do the right thing and insisted I tell my father. It was not until a year later where I got the guts to do this and it leads us back to my post when I revealed it all to my father.
This happened in the summer of 1990. After my father grilled him about our past, present and future, the chess game began. What was my next move? After the talk, my father sat me down and asked me point blank if this was what I wanted. I slanted my eyes and looked him squarely in the face. "Why do you ask? You already know this is what I want." He sat in silence and just stared at me. No expression on his face.
"Then if this is your decision, we need to start the ball rolling. I need to contact his parents." My father got up and left the room. I sat motionless for the next ten minutes. Did I hear him right? Did he just agree to it? It was completely anti-climatic. I expected yelling, arguing, him convincing me not to go through with it. But instead, he gave in. Too fast. Without a complaint and much worse, with the intent to push forward! I felt blindsided. I felt unsettled. It was the first checkmate.
My father called his friend and he contacted the parents. They invited us to come and visit. His mother lived abroad but we met his father and younger sister. Nice family from humble means. They lived in a modest home and prepared a simple meal. But there was already a difference in language. Although they spoke our native tongue Urdu, they conversed amongst themselves in Pushto. Their family was from the Northern part of Pakistan where many dialects were spoken in the Sindh province. It didn't bother me but my father made a point of highlighting this fact. Their customs would be slightly different from ours. He slyly moved one player on the board.
He called me the next day to tell me that his family approved. I was elated but something troubled me. But I could not figure it out. It was more a feeling than anything logical in terms of a thought. I didn't know why I was bothered. I knew I was making a huge decision but I knew it was the right thing to do. I knew him, he knew me so what was the problem? I was resigned to the fact that if I married someone else, someone of my father's choosing, I would not know that person as much as I knew him. It was the fact that I knew him which supported my decision to marry. If I was going to have an arranged marriage, I wanted to know my spouse before I married him: his likes, dislikes, ambitions, his personality and his mindset.
My father's friend spoke to me the following week. He congratulated me on the phone, confirming that he spoke to their family and that a verbal agreement for marriage had been finalized. All that we needed to do was to have a formal engagement. As I nodded in approval, I glanced up and found my father watching me from the living room. He was looking over his newspaper with only his eyes visible.
It was unmistakable. Although I could not see the expression on his face, his eyes were laughing.
Our calls started up again and this time he did not hide the fact that we needed to legitimize what was going on. He wanted to do the right thing and insisted I tell my father. It was not until a year later where I got the guts to do this and it leads us back to my post when I revealed it all to my father.
This happened in the summer of 1990. After my father grilled him about our past, present and future, the chess game began. What was my next move? After the talk, my father sat me down and asked me point blank if this was what I wanted. I slanted my eyes and looked him squarely in the face. "Why do you ask? You already know this is what I want." He sat in silence and just stared at me. No expression on his face.
"Then if this is your decision, we need to start the ball rolling. I need to contact his parents." My father got up and left the room. I sat motionless for the next ten minutes. Did I hear him right? Did he just agree to it? It was completely anti-climatic. I expected yelling, arguing, him convincing me not to go through with it. But instead, he gave in. Too fast. Without a complaint and much worse, with the intent to push forward! I felt blindsided. I felt unsettled. It was the first checkmate.
My father called his friend and he contacted the parents. They invited us to come and visit. His mother lived abroad but we met his father and younger sister. Nice family from humble means. They lived in a modest home and prepared a simple meal. But there was already a difference in language. Although they spoke our native tongue Urdu, they conversed amongst themselves in Pushto. Their family was from the Northern part of Pakistan where many dialects were spoken in the Sindh province. It didn't bother me but my father made a point of highlighting this fact. Their customs would be slightly different from ours. He slyly moved one player on the board.
He called me the next day to tell me that his family approved. I was elated but something troubled me. But I could not figure it out. It was more a feeling than anything logical in terms of a thought. I didn't know why I was bothered. I knew I was making a huge decision but I knew it was the right thing to do. I knew him, he knew me so what was the problem? I was resigned to the fact that if I married someone else, someone of my father's choosing, I would not know that person as much as I knew him. It was the fact that I knew him which supported my decision to marry. If I was going to have an arranged marriage, I wanted to know my spouse before I married him: his likes, dislikes, ambitions, his personality and his mindset.
My father's friend spoke to me the following week. He congratulated me on the phone, confirming that he spoke to their family and that a verbal agreement for marriage had been finalized. All that we needed to do was to have a formal engagement. As I nodded in approval, I glanced up and found my father watching me from the living room. He was looking over his newspaper with only his eyes visible.
It was unmistakable. Although I could not see the expression on his face, his eyes were laughing.
The Romantic Elliptical: Part 6, The Ultimate Rebellion
My friend/fiancee/confidante was a strange relationship. Albeit strange within a non-Muslim environment. I attended high school with no pressure to date, initially. Most of my friends were male because I clicked with the boys more than the girls. And I credit it to my "as-a-matter-of-fact" personality. I don't beat around the bush. I daresay women are complicated beings. Girls in high school were like cats on the prowl. Some were your friends, some were your enemies, others pretended to be your friend, complimenting you on how skinny you looked while feeding you sweets. They purred in contentment and lashed out when you crossed their imaginary lines. Hey, back then, I am just telling it like it was.
But with my male friends, they meant what they said and said what they meant. No complication, no innuendos, no trickery. Straightforward. And I liked that because there was no confusion. So I became one of the guys while maintaining my friendship with the female population. How? Because they all knew I couldn't date the guys! I did not hide the fact that my culture and religion dictated no dating. Even as a minority in my school (there were in fact only 4 muslims), I was not shamed to talk about my heritage or my beliefs. In fact, I still remember the cafeteria conversations on comparative religions that went on for hours -- we even skipped classes when the discussion became interesting.
Why do I go into all of this? Well, I am a great listener. And when boys and girls alike came to me with their relationship issues, I was an unbiased counsellor who gave them my point of view. Imagine, a girl, never in a relationship, never went on a date, dishing out advice! But since I was friends with both sides, I saw each story and tried to resolve the issue with a compromise. The only thing was... I couldn't apply these practices to my own life!
A few months before my mom passed in 1989, I stopped speaking to my friend. He was devastated when I stopped writing back and distanced myself from our conversations but my reason was simple. He cared for me more than I did for him. I saw where our friendship was going and it scared me. What was unique about our situation was that we only met once, in a public gathering. He never asked me to meet him in secret even though he lived in the next city. He respected my beliefs and understood my reasons not to meet -- more to protect me if I was ever seen with him anywhere. Now this may seem strange to the average person reading this but even with him, I tried to comply to my religion. My father had successfully wired me with a conscience although a part of me tried many years to unwire his hold on me. Except for the secrecy, I felt I did nothing wrong. I had seen much worse. And so had my father who was active in the Pakistani community. Back in the 80s for a girl to "be" with a boy was looked down upon as she brought shame not only to herself but her family.
But this secret was the only thing I could 'own.' It is hard to articulate this today but back then, it was a rite of passage I needed to experience. I lived too many years, nodding in obedience, doing the RIGHT thing, complying to everything and everyone; sacrificing my happiness for others. The repression was too much. The obedience was too much. My family was too much. And I became selfish. And I had to legitimately escape. Sounds like a typcial teenage trial. Not so enticing for the average person but really...I was committing the ultimate rebellion.
But with my male friends, they meant what they said and said what they meant. No complication, no innuendos, no trickery. Straightforward. And I liked that because there was no confusion. So I became one of the guys while maintaining my friendship with the female population. How? Because they all knew I couldn't date the guys! I did not hide the fact that my culture and religion dictated no dating. Even as a minority in my school (there were in fact only 4 muslims), I was not shamed to talk about my heritage or my beliefs. In fact, I still remember the cafeteria conversations on comparative religions that went on for hours -- we even skipped classes when the discussion became interesting.
Why do I go into all of this? Well, I am a great listener. And when boys and girls alike came to me with their relationship issues, I was an unbiased counsellor who gave them my point of view. Imagine, a girl, never in a relationship, never went on a date, dishing out advice! But since I was friends with both sides, I saw each story and tried to resolve the issue with a compromise. The only thing was... I couldn't apply these practices to my own life!
A few months before my mom passed in 1989, I stopped speaking to my friend. He was devastated when I stopped writing back and distanced myself from our conversations but my reason was simple. He cared for me more than I did for him. I saw where our friendship was going and it scared me. What was unique about our situation was that we only met once, in a public gathering. He never asked me to meet him in secret even though he lived in the next city. He respected my beliefs and understood my reasons not to meet -- more to protect me if I was ever seen with him anywhere. Now this may seem strange to the average person reading this but even with him, I tried to comply to my religion. My father had successfully wired me with a conscience although a part of me tried many years to unwire his hold on me. Except for the secrecy, I felt I did nothing wrong. I had seen much worse. And so had my father who was active in the Pakistani community. Back in the 80s for a girl to "be" with a boy was looked down upon as she brought shame not only to herself but her family.
But this secret was the only thing I could 'own.' It is hard to articulate this today but back then, it was a rite of passage I needed to experience. I lived too many years, nodding in obedience, doing the RIGHT thing, complying to everything and everyone; sacrificing my happiness for others. The repression was too much. The obedience was too much. My family was too much. And I became selfish. And I had to legitimately escape. Sounds like a typcial teenage trial. Not so enticing for the average person but really...I was committing the ultimate rebellion.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
The Romantic Elliptical: Part 4, cont'd, Faith
You could say I lost my faith in science and progress
You could say I lost my belief in the holy church
You could say I lost my sense of direction
You could say all of this and worse but
If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do
I never saw no miracle of science
That didn't go from a blessing to a curse
I never saw no military solution
That didn't always end up as something worse but
Let me say this first
If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do
--"If I ever lose my faith" by Sting
There was a time when I lost faith. Of course it happened at the times when my life sucked. But there was always a force that picked me up and resolved my misery. I was inevitably given a sign to renew that faith. My mother received her sign. She knew three months before she lost her life that she would be taken away and I didn't believe her. I fought all the signs but like the song says, science got me no where. And I had to give believing a chance...
When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. When life gave me lemons, I tried to peel them with my fingernails. And as it stands today, I always tackle every problem in the most complicated way. It was the way I was raised. If something didn't take a lot of effort, I wasn't trying hard enough or working hard at it. It was an age-old debate with my father about work ethic. Coming as an immigrant, it was engraved into his eternal being that we would have to work very hard to attain the luxuries in Canada. That meant whenever we were working towards any goal, it meant showing him that we worked hard for it. I wasn't smart enough back then to show him the 'perceived value' like most of my friends. According to father dearest, there were no short-cuts, cutting corners, cheating the system or finding a simple solution. Hence, that was how my brain was trained. The point to this tirade was that I had other ideas, and rebellion was not what I planned -- it just happened.
I was indeed engaged to someone else. Well sort of. And to boot, it was with someone of my own choosing. God forbid! The worse thing, back twenty years ago, was the knowledge that I escaped the traditional binds of my culture to find my future husband. And let me tell you, this didn't pan over very well with my father who was more concerned about my reputation. Imagine! The nerve of her; choosing her OWN husband. And that I did.
It never was formalized but remained a verbal agreement without a ceremony, exchange of rings or a trading of dowry. But it existed and it soon became a reality that I didn't seriously consider. He was a friend I knew for many years and when the going got tough in my life, he was there at my most vulnerable state. Somehow, we had to legitimize this friendship and when I announced it to my father, he was dismayed, stunned, stoic, flabbergasted--a mix of volcanic emotions. Just writing about it conjures up images of that one blue vein that used to pop in the middle of his bald forehead when he was angered. Silence and the vein.
I wasn't sure what angered him more: my rebellion, the concealment of the relationship or my frank ability to outsmart and outwit him. I presented the topic of my potential mate during a non-chalant conversation while watching 60 minutes. I will never forget him turning off the television and facing me with the statement:
"You robbed me of my duty of finding you a husband."
In my eyes, with a pure, unadulterated strategy, my future fiance was presented to him on a platter. It was the "take that" action I committed that left my father reeling. He knew very well that I was about to embark on the next chapter of my life without his help. I thought I was smart. I thought I was in love. I thought I had the strength and faith to carry it out. And no one was going to stop my bus. Get out at the next stop if you can't handle it!
Little did I know, the invisible umbilical cord was about to be yanked--not by Mommy, but...Daddy. A hundred lemons hit my Freedom Bus and I was frantically pulling the cord so I could jump off at the next stop!
If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do
You could say I lost my belief in the holy church
You could say I lost my sense of direction
You could say all of this and worse but
If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do
I never saw no miracle of science
That didn't go from a blessing to a curse
I never saw no military solution
That didn't always end up as something worse but
Let me say this first
If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do
--"If I ever lose my faith" by Sting
There was a time when I lost faith. Of course it happened at the times when my life sucked. But there was always a force that picked me up and resolved my misery. I was inevitably given a sign to renew that faith. My mother received her sign. She knew three months before she lost her life that she would be taken away and I didn't believe her. I fought all the signs but like the song says, science got me no where. And I had to give believing a chance...
When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. When life gave me lemons, I tried to peel them with my fingernails. And as it stands today, I always tackle every problem in the most complicated way. It was the way I was raised. If something didn't take a lot of effort, I wasn't trying hard enough or working hard at it. It was an age-old debate with my father about work ethic. Coming as an immigrant, it was engraved into his eternal being that we would have to work very hard to attain the luxuries in Canada. That meant whenever we were working towards any goal, it meant showing him that we worked hard for it. I wasn't smart enough back then to show him the 'perceived value' like most of my friends. According to father dearest, there were no short-cuts, cutting corners, cheating the system or finding a simple solution. Hence, that was how my brain was trained. The point to this tirade was that I had other ideas, and rebellion was not what I planned -- it just happened.
I was indeed engaged to someone else. Well sort of. And to boot, it was with someone of my own choosing. God forbid! The worse thing, back twenty years ago, was the knowledge that I escaped the traditional binds of my culture to find my future husband. And let me tell you, this didn't pan over very well with my father who was more concerned about my reputation. Imagine! The nerve of her; choosing her OWN husband. And that I did.
It never was formalized but remained a verbal agreement without a ceremony, exchange of rings or a trading of dowry. But it existed and it soon became a reality that I didn't seriously consider. He was a friend I knew for many years and when the going got tough in my life, he was there at my most vulnerable state. Somehow, we had to legitimize this friendship and when I announced it to my father, he was dismayed, stunned, stoic, flabbergasted--a mix of volcanic emotions. Just writing about it conjures up images of that one blue vein that used to pop in the middle of his bald forehead when he was angered. Silence and the vein.
I wasn't sure what angered him more: my rebellion, the concealment of the relationship or my frank ability to outsmart and outwit him. I presented the topic of my potential mate during a non-chalant conversation while watching 60 minutes. I will never forget him turning off the television and facing me with the statement:
"You robbed me of my duty of finding you a husband."
In my eyes, with a pure, unadulterated strategy, my future fiance was presented to him on a platter. It was the "take that" action I committed that left my father reeling. He knew very well that I was about to embark on the next chapter of my life without his help. I thought I was smart. I thought I was in love. I thought I had the strength and faith to carry it out. And no one was going to stop my bus. Get out at the next stop if you can't handle it!
Little did I know, the invisible umbilical cord was about to be yanked--not by Mommy, but...Daddy. A hundred lemons hit my Freedom Bus and I was frantically pulling the cord so I could jump off at the next stop!
If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do
The Romantic Elliptical: Part 5, Spidey Senses tingling...
Now I know what you all are thinking. The purpose of the "Romantic Elliptical Saga" is to present my viewpoint about arranged marriages. And here I go off on a tangent, talking about my rebellion. But let me explain. In my eyes, I did not sin. To my father and the rest of the Muslim world, I erred by concealing my relationship. However, in the end, I did reveal it to my father so he may arrange the marriage with this boy's family. I could have run away, eloped and married him without my father's consent but I never had the guts to entirely betray my only living parent.
I do have a point to all of this and its about faith and kismet. In the end, I did not have control, although I thought I did. In my tumultuous relationship with my father, he was used to having the upper hand. Not that it was my goal to upstage him. I just wanted to do something MY WAY. To show him it was the RIGHT WAY. And boy, was I wrong!
The friendship I had with this fellow was just that - a friendship. And it was formalized over the phone and through letters.
Squeeze me?
That's right. My friend only knew me through telephone conversations and letter writing. He remembered seeing me at a youth conference way back in 1985. I was friends with a mutual friend. We exchanged pictures and wrote each other letters. Of course, this was all secretive. My family thought the calls and letters were from a girlfriend. My siblings soon found out but were sworn to secrecy. My mother suspected something but never said a word. In retrospect, I think she knew I needed to do this despite the wrongs associated with my decision. That was the type of parent she was. Learn from my mistakes. Whereas my father was the ruler of the house. His way or the highway--except I had no way to get to the highway!
We agreed to tell our families. I told my father, who after hearing about how long I corresponded with my fiancee (2 years) and without his knowledge, refused to speak to me for a week. When he came to his senses, he called his brother, to come and meet his future nephew-in-law. So he suited up, came to my house and was raked over the coals for two hours by my father and uncle. I remained unseen, furiously biting my nails and rocking back and forth at the top of the stairs. When I spoke to him afterwards, he likened the meeting to a police interview in an examination room and it all went wrong, from the minute he walked in. This was not a suitor that was chosen by my family. He was being examined under a microscope because of me. He had just dropped out of 2nd year university and was working at a men's clothing store. WRONG ANSWER. Was he going to go back and finish his education? Not yet. WRONG ANSWER. How was he going to support me when I continued my studies? He would get another parttime job. WRONG ANSWER. What were his ambitions? He wanted to start his own business. WRONG ANSWER. I sat quietly listening as he expressed his fear about my father. Welcome to the club.
And as he continued to speak, something in the pit of my stomach ignited. It was ever so slight but there was something brewing.
And I'm not talking indigestion.
I do have a point to all of this and its about faith and kismet. In the end, I did not have control, although I thought I did. In my tumultuous relationship with my father, he was used to having the upper hand. Not that it was my goal to upstage him. I just wanted to do something MY WAY. To show him it was the RIGHT WAY. And boy, was I wrong!
The friendship I had with this fellow was just that - a friendship. And it was formalized over the phone and through letters.
Squeeze me?
That's right. My friend only knew me through telephone conversations and letter writing. He remembered seeing me at a youth conference way back in 1985. I was friends with a mutual friend. We exchanged pictures and wrote each other letters. Of course, this was all secretive. My family thought the calls and letters were from a girlfriend. My siblings soon found out but were sworn to secrecy. My mother suspected something but never said a word. In retrospect, I think she knew I needed to do this despite the wrongs associated with my decision. That was the type of parent she was. Learn from my mistakes. Whereas my father was the ruler of the house. His way or the highway--except I had no way to get to the highway!
We agreed to tell our families. I told my father, who after hearing about how long I corresponded with my fiancee (2 years) and without his knowledge, refused to speak to me for a week. When he came to his senses, he called his brother, to come and meet his future nephew-in-law. So he suited up, came to my house and was raked over the coals for two hours by my father and uncle. I remained unseen, furiously biting my nails and rocking back and forth at the top of the stairs. When I spoke to him afterwards, he likened the meeting to a police interview in an examination room and it all went wrong, from the minute he walked in. This was not a suitor that was chosen by my family. He was being examined under a microscope because of me. He had just dropped out of 2nd year university and was working at a men's clothing store. WRONG ANSWER. Was he going to go back and finish his education? Not yet. WRONG ANSWER. How was he going to support me when I continued my studies? He would get another parttime job. WRONG ANSWER. What were his ambitions? He wanted to start his own business. WRONG ANSWER. I sat quietly listening as he expressed his fear about my father. Welcome to the club.
And as he continued to speak, something in the pit of my stomach ignited. It was ever so slight but there was something brewing.
And I'm not talking indigestion.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
The Romantic Elliptical: Part 4, Don't judge me until you know me
My last blog posited the fact that I had no control over the events happening in my life. But since the passing of my mother, I opened my eyes beyond sense, lost faith in science and progress and enveloped everything around me...to come to the realization that there were unseen forces that ruled the Earth. Sounds very spiritual, coming from a nineteen year old. But tribulation brings the onset of revelation.
The small detail I left out while relaying my story about my current husband? While I was entering the contract of a non-traditional pact with him...
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
|
|
|
|
V
....I was engaged to another man.
Its incredibly hard to write a blog posting when lying down - my back is killing me!
You guessed right. You will have to wait until the next posting to know the shock, the horror and immorality of it all...
The small detail I left out while relaying my story about my current husband? While I was entering the contract of a non-traditional pact with him...
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
|
|
|
|
V
....I was engaged to another man.
Its incredibly hard to write a blog posting when lying down - my back is killing me!
You guessed right. You will have to wait until the next posting to know the shock, the horror and immorality of it all...
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The Romantic Elliptical: Part 3 cont'd, "The Father Proposal"
During my exams, my father, who knew I was tired of the living room parade of potential suitors, told me to serve tea to his friends who were coming over one evening. I was in typical studying mode - sans makeup, track pants and goggles. My suspicions were alerted when he asked me to change and brush my hair - although social mores dictates hygiene and presentation when entertaining guests. For some strange reason, my sixth sense was tingling again.
When they arrived, it was an older couple. As I came into the room to serve the tea, my father innocently asked where their son was. Turns out there was a party on my street and he was sent two blocks down to park the car. I then realized I was part of a ruse. Another 35 year old? An immigrant? What was I being sucked into?
I hid in the kitchen and peeked through the door partition. When their son arrived and enter my house, I blinked twice. I could not believe my eyes. It was him. The guy from the events. In my living room, with his parents, talking with my brother. I gasped. I paced the kitchen and could not make a run for my room without him seeing me, in my most natural state, without makeup and the frumpiest outfit known to man. Ok, here goes nothing, I thought as I entered the room with a serving tray. I kept my eyes focused on the floor as my father introduced him to me. And the whole time, I could not look up. I heard him ask my brother about me, my studies but I could not muster the courage to speak to him, with my father only a few feet away and his mother's perpetual gaze on me. Chastity and demureness are key -- the minute you eye anyone's son or vice versa, tis' a big NO NO. And I had to play by the rules or else I would be subjected to a two hour lecture about my insolence and disobedience. Yes, this happened regularily.
Fast forward. We met three times at each other's homes. Chaperoned. My brother and sister with his brother in the room. At least we got away from the elders. But I was still tongue-tied. Nothing I said came out right. We both were trying too hard to make a first impression and it was hell! I would drive home and consult my brother who could not offer anymore insight into his impression of my suitor. I was perplexed when my father would ask what I thought. What was there to say? I really knew nothing about him and was too scared to ask anything personal with my family sitting in earshot of everything word we spoke.
While I attended my classes at University, my Canadian girlfriends were flabbergasted. You haven't been alone with him? You are not allowed to date? You are chaperoned? As I meekly smiled back at their astonished faces, my mind raced for justifying the situation I was in. On one hand, I was completely and utterly unsure about marrying him. But then there was a settling in my heart that reassured me that I was about to make the best decision in my life. It was a strange duel ensuing within me. But it was a different battle I was undergoing when it came to the former suitors. I KNEW they were not the ones. But this one was different and the signs had come to me before I had even met him. Seeing him twice before he landed in my living room perplexed me but also left me with a sense of destiny. I can't explain it but I, who was always taught sense and sensibility was being ruled by my heart and not my brain. It was not love, it was not even a crush. The feeling was devoid of emotion yet I was unexplicably drawn to him without any reason. And it was a force I could not reckon with -- out of my hands, out of my control and yet I allowed it to lead me.
But as always, there is a twist to the story. One small detail I left out...
Squeeze me?
When they arrived, it was an older couple. As I came into the room to serve the tea, my father innocently asked where their son was. Turns out there was a party on my street and he was sent two blocks down to park the car. I then realized I was part of a ruse. Another 35 year old? An immigrant? What was I being sucked into?
I hid in the kitchen and peeked through the door partition. When their son arrived and enter my house, I blinked twice. I could not believe my eyes. It was him. The guy from the events. In my living room, with his parents, talking with my brother. I gasped. I paced the kitchen and could not make a run for my room without him seeing me, in my most natural state, without makeup and the frumpiest outfit known to man. Ok, here goes nothing, I thought as I entered the room with a serving tray. I kept my eyes focused on the floor as my father introduced him to me. And the whole time, I could not look up. I heard him ask my brother about me, my studies but I could not muster the courage to speak to him, with my father only a few feet away and his mother's perpetual gaze on me. Chastity and demureness are key -- the minute you eye anyone's son or vice versa, tis' a big NO NO. And I had to play by the rules or else I would be subjected to a two hour lecture about my insolence and disobedience. Yes, this happened regularily.
Fast forward. We met three times at each other's homes. Chaperoned. My brother and sister with his brother in the room. At least we got away from the elders. But I was still tongue-tied. Nothing I said came out right. We both were trying too hard to make a first impression and it was hell! I would drive home and consult my brother who could not offer anymore insight into his impression of my suitor. I was perplexed when my father would ask what I thought. What was there to say? I really knew nothing about him and was too scared to ask anything personal with my family sitting in earshot of everything word we spoke.
While I attended my classes at University, my Canadian girlfriends were flabbergasted. You haven't been alone with him? You are not allowed to date? You are chaperoned? As I meekly smiled back at their astonished faces, my mind raced for justifying the situation I was in. On one hand, I was completely and utterly unsure about marrying him. But then there was a settling in my heart that reassured me that I was about to make the best decision in my life. It was a strange duel ensuing within me. But it was a different battle I was undergoing when it came to the former suitors. I KNEW they were not the ones. But this one was different and the signs had come to me before I had even met him. Seeing him twice before he landed in my living room perplexed me but also left me with a sense of destiny. I can't explain it but I, who was always taught sense and sensibility was being ruled by my heart and not my brain. It was not love, it was not even a crush. The feeling was devoid of emotion yet I was unexplicably drawn to him without any reason. And it was a force I could not reckon with -- out of my hands, out of my control and yet I allowed it to lead me.
But as always, there is a twist to the story. One small detail I left out...
Squeeze me?
Sunday, November 28, 2010
The Romantic Elliptical: Part 3,"The Father Proposal"
I was nineteen. And like the cliche, we saw each other across a crowded room.He claims not to have seen me, but you know when you are spotted. I spotted him as he did me. And it was then I had that sixth sense -- you know, the one I keep talking about. It knaws away at you until you cannot brush it away. I was drawn to him as I stood with my girlfriends, giggling and checking out the decor (code meat market language).
It started out as a trip to Toronto in August 1990, with my father to a cultural event symbolizing Independance Day for Pakistan at the Ontario Science Center. I wasn't interested in going but since the passing of my mother the year before, my father was lonely and wanted my company. I could not turn him down. Friends of mine had called earlier in the day to let me know they would be there too. If I was going to be bored by the festivities, I could at least hang out with the girls.
In the main hall, he stood there with a crowd of his friends, in his tweed jacket and khaki pants. Even though there were other proposals coming, I dismissed them all and told my father to let me continue my studies at University. But my sixth sense made me twitch as I watched him that evening. And then the irony of it all it happened, AGAIN. I saw him two months later at another cultural event. I was with my siblings and he was with the same crowd of friends. Again, he claims to not have seen me. But his father did.
So the hunt was on, for lack of a better word. His father contacted a mutual family friend who knew my father. And the call was made to meet our family. Unbeknowst to me, of course...and the non-traditional romance was about to begin.
It started out as a trip to Toronto in August 1990, with my father to a cultural event symbolizing Independance Day for Pakistan at the Ontario Science Center. I wasn't interested in going but since the passing of my mother the year before, my father was lonely and wanted my company. I could not turn him down. Friends of mine had called earlier in the day to let me know they would be there too. If I was going to be bored by the festivities, I could at least hang out with the girls.
In the main hall, he stood there with a crowd of his friends, in his tweed jacket and khaki pants. Even though there were other proposals coming, I dismissed them all and told my father to let me continue my studies at University. But my sixth sense made me twitch as I watched him that evening. And then the irony of it all it happened, AGAIN. I saw him two months later at another cultural event. I was with my siblings and he was with the same crowd of friends. Again, he claims to not have seen me. But his father did.
So the hunt was on, for lack of a better word. His father contacted a mutual family friend who knew my father. And the call was made to meet our family. Unbeknowst to me, of course...and the non-traditional romance was about to begin.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
The Romantic Elliptical - Part 2, "Kismet"
I write this next post with trepidation. I'm about to embark on the story of how I met my husband, much to his dismay. But there is a point I want to make here and its about "kismet".
Squeeze me?
I am a firm believer of fate and I can honestly say that I was fated to meet him and it took many twists and turns towards the end result --an arranged marriage.
SQUEEZE ME?
Yes. Whenever you mention the two words, arranged marriage, side by side, the Western world recoils at the notion. Let me clarify this idea as I get jaw-dropping, eyeball popping reactions when I tell people about my own marriage. For most that know me well, they would not fathom me agreeing to it in the first place.
According to Wikipedia, arranged marriage is: a marriage arranged by someone other than the couple getting wedded, curtailing or avoiding the process of courtship. Such marriages had deep roots in royal and aristocratic families around the world, including Europe. Today, arranged marriage is largely practiced in South Asia, and the Middle East and East Asia. The match could be selected by parents, a matchmaking agent, matrimonial site, or a trusted third party. In many communities, priests or religious leaders as well as relatives or family friends play a major role in matchmaking.
Let's look at my own checklist:
*match was selected by parents
*match was referred to by a third party
*match avoided courtship
*match was arranged by family friends and conducted by a religious priest
*match was predestined (I added that one because I saw the sign even before everything was mapped out)
The one thing I must point out - in Islam, if you do not consent to the marriage, the woman has the right to refuse the proposal. If you hear anything different (forced marriage, childhood engagements, really old men marrying teenage girls), this is culturally imposed. It has nothing to do with religion.
Rewind 20 years ago when I was eighteen --I was adamant against arranged marriages. Who were they kidding? I was going to meet my own mate and make that decision myself. But my trajectory in life was not heading in that direction. When my mother passed away that year, everything spun out of control. I lost my bearings and had could not grasp onto the unfolding events. That is why its "kismet" -- a fated force that pulled me towards my husband, no matter how hard I tried to avoid the inevitable.
And if I were asked if I could go back in the past and have the control to change those events, I would not. Ask my non-Muslim friends who attended my wedding, begging my father to find them a husband like mine ;)
Stay tuned for Part 3, "Father Proposal"...
Squeeze me?
I am a firm believer of fate and I can honestly say that I was fated to meet him and it took many twists and turns towards the end result --an arranged marriage.
SQUEEZE ME?
Yes. Whenever you mention the two words, arranged marriage, side by side, the Western world recoils at the notion. Let me clarify this idea as I get jaw-dropping, eyeball popping reactions when I tell people about my own marriage. For most that know me well, they would not fathom me agreeing to it in the first place.
According to Wikipedia, arranged marriage is: a marriage arranged by someone other than the couple getting wedded, curtailing or avoiding the process of courtship. Such marriages had deep roots in royal and aristocratic families around the world, including Europe. Today, arranged marriage is largely practiced in South Asia, and the Middle East and East Asia. The match could be selected by parents, a matchmaking agent, matrimonial site, or a trusted third party. In many communities, priests or religious leaders as well as relatives or family friends play a major role in matchmaking.
Let's look at my own checklist:
*match was selected by parents
*match was referred to by a third party
*match avoided courtship
*match was arranged by family friends and conducted by a religious priest
*match was predestined (I added that one because I saw the sign even before everything was mapped out)
The one thing I must point out - in Islam, if you do not consent to the marriage, the woman has the right to refuse the proposal. If you hear anything different (forced marriage, childhood engagements, really old men marrying teenage girls), this is culturally imposed. It has nothing to do with religion.
Rewind 20 years ago when I was eighteen --I was adamant against arranged marriages. Who were they kidding? I was going to meet my own mate and make that decision myself. But my trajectory in life was not heading in that direction. When my mother passed away that year, everything spun out of control. I lost my bearings and had could not grasp onto the unfolding events. That is why its "kismet" -- a fated force that pulled me towards my husband, no matter how hard I tried to avoid the inevitable.
And if I were asked if I could go back in the past and have the control to change those events, I would not. Ask my non-Muslim friends who attended my wedding, begging my father to find them a husband like mine ;)
Stay tuned for Part 3, "Father Proposal"...
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