He turned the key to the hotel room door and walked in. I remained at the threshold of the door. Come in, he waved at me and I reluctantly followed. The room was decorated with rose petals--all over the floor, on the bed and around the bed posts. There were bouquets and flower arrangements everywhere. The sight left a dizzying affect on me but I was enthralled.
We stopped at the foot of the bed and he motioned me to sit down. I remained standing and turned to leave the room but he caught my hand and pulled me back into his arms. He held me for what seemed a long time. I could hear his heart pounding as I buried my head in his chest. I was too nervous to look up. I could feel his taut muscles through his shirt as my hands moved down from his shoulders to his arm. I turned my head to the right and saw our reflection in the mirror. I did not recognize her. She was all grown up, ready to embark on a new chapter in her life, looking scared but willing to take things as they would come.
I felt uneasy but willed myself to comply. He sat me down at the edge of the bed and removed my veil. He gingerly removed each hairpin slowly and took my hand to place each one in it so he would not lose any on the bed. I watched him as he did and studied his face. It was young but very handsome. He avoided eye contact. I stared without blinking. When he took my veil from my head, he opened my hair and let it fall around my shoulders. He caught me staring back and again, averted my gaze. Then he stood up and removed his jacket and tie. I too, got up and walked over to the dresser and removed all my jewellery. I looked in the mirror and he was watching. It sent shivers down my spine. My heart was in my throat. My chest was heaving with deep breaths as he walked over to me and put his arms around me from behind and kissed the nape of my neck. I knew what was coming and I thought I was ready. Until.
Until...
I woke up with a jolt. I was sweating despite the air blowing on me from oscillating fan near my bed. It seemed so real. I was breathing heavily and feeling strange. I looked around the room and realized I was in my bedroom at home. It was 7am. I was not there...in that hotel room. There were no flowers. I sat up and steadied myself. It took me a good minute to understand that it had all been a dream.
It took another good minute for my breathing to slow down...only to start hyperventilating once again. I got up, threw on my bathrobe and ran downstairs to the front door. I went outside and gulped the early morning air while pacing the front porch...my mind was deliriously going in circles but resting only on one thought...
One thought.
"Its 7:30am in the morning on a Saturday! You are like one of my kids--not letting me sleep in!" Yvonne exclaimed. I did not know who to call. She had expressed her doubts in the beginning when I told her about my arranged marriage, in between lectures and breaks at night school. But as she heard more, she fell in love with the idea and embraced the notion completely.
"It's ok. These feelings are natural. Everyone gets cold feet," she assured me.
"You are not listening to me. It's not like I have cold feet. Its just...well, I have barely had a complete conversation with him and now I realize that I...I will be...in one week...you know...I had this dream and I don't think I can do this," I whispered.
Yvonne was confused. And rightly so. I made absolutely no sense and was speaking in some secret language without letting her in on the secret. There was no other way. I just had to come out and say it.
"How do you sleep with a man you don't know?!!?" I yelled into the phone. The startled newspaper boy, instead of leaving the paper on the porch, dropped it at the end of the driveway and walked away slowly. He was scared but intrigued by the sight of a young, petrified girl, dressed only in a bathrobe, with dishevelled hair, pacing frantically and yelling into phone on a early Saturday morning.
Yvonne paused and chose her words very carefully. "Now you realize this? I have been wondering from the time I met you when you were going to come to this epiphany. Listen, even I waited until I was married. It's no big deal. You have your whole life ahead of you," she said calmly. I could feel the bile rising in my throat. I had my whole life ahead of me--with this one man who I had not even kissed, let alone held hands with. I stopped pacing and sat in the wicker chair next to the garden.
My decision to have an arranged marriage was so much bigger than me. It enveloped me whole without chewing or digesting the idea. And it was only now that I grasped the reality of my situation.
"Did you have a bad dream," she asked. I paused and reflected.
"No, it was not bad at all. But it felt real. The emotions were real and I felt everything...the look, the touch, everything," I sighed. It hit me that waking up from the dream was the worst part--it made me overanalyze it all.
"Darling, you made your decision long ago. You married an idea...a notion...a concept. You took it for face value. Now is the time to live it, accept it and move on with it. You don't need me to validate it or talk you out of this. You have pre-marriage jitters and it's...it's ok. You will find every excuse in the book not to go through with this but in essence, even though its an arranged marriage, you are going through the most normal feelings any bride would be going through. I am here for you. Just try calling me after 9 next time," Yvonne joked.
I hung up the phone, went back upstairs and climbed back into bed. I fell back asleep, exhausted and hoped that the dream would continue. It did not come back to me for those few hours. No matter how hard I willed it.
Yvonne was right. I had to let the dream become a reality. It was time to accept the inevitable, the expected. I was no different than any other girl entering an arranged marriage.
And the problem became apparent. I was sleeping with the enemy. And the enemy was me.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 57: Two head tables and a lot of hot air in between
The entire family left to my fiancee's house that weekend. I was left behind to plan for my mehndi which was occuring Friday August 31st. I was ordering the food and arranging for the decorations. We decided not to have the function at home as originally planned. Ironically, my father found a church to have my mehndi at! I nearly bowled over with laughter when he told me that he booked the church for that evening. When we went to see it, there was a cemetery right beside it. I turned to him incredulously.
"Dad! Are you kidding me? You want my mehndi next to a graveyard?!" My knuckles were turning white as I clutched the car door handle.
"Let's go in and speak the pastor. The rate is cheap and we are allowed to bring our own food," he said excitedly as we went in. The hall portion to the church was rather large and would house the 100 women that were invited. The pastor was very kind and inquisitive about our traditions and culture. Personally, I think he wanted to make sure we would not be having any seances or holy muslim rituals in the middle of his church.
What both my father and I forgot to ask was about the air conditioning. Or lack thereof! As you will learn, his mehndi would prove a much hotter affair!
With the church booked, my father, along with his brother and wife, my aunt who was visiting from Pakistan (his younger sister) and my siblings all headed over to my inlaws to discuss details about the actual wedding day and reception.
I finished up my tasks and moped around the house waiting for them to come back. Around 10pm, they waltzed in the door but every face I saw was gloomy. My heart immediately sank and I was scared to ask. I didn't need to. My aunt unleashed a tirade of compliants before I opened my mouth.
"I cannot believe these people! The nerve of them. How dare they ask the questions they asked!" she exclaimed while flopping herself on the sofa beside me. My father's sister was wringing her hands and clucking her tongue. My father and uncle were in a sombre mood and kept very quiet.
"Ok, I am sure it was not that bad," I reassured, trying to lighten the mood and lower their collective blood pressure. My father furrowed his brow and I saw that vein pulsating on his forehead.
"Not that bad you say? His father wants us to have TWO HEAD TABLES! I have never in my 30 years of living here seen TWO HEAD TABLES at a Pakistani wedding! He wants one for his family and one for our family! Aren't we all becoming one family with the marriage of our children? The community will arrive and laugh when they see two separate tables! They will talk about it for years," he cried while throwing his hands up in the air. They were so loud that I cringed every time they yelled because their voices carried out through the open windows and into the street.
My aunt joined in his frustration. "And his mother...Oh my Goodness! What can I say about her? She is a clever one, my dear! You have to watch out for that lady! She had the nerve to ask us what we are giving you before you marry! It is none of her business. Your dowry from your father is not her right. She should have told us what she is giving in your dowry so we do not duplicate it before we marry you off! When your father said he was thinking of buying you a car and giving you his Royal Albert china, she was smiling and asking..'what else?' UGH! We did not go there to discuss this!" She turned to my father who shook his head.
"I should have stayed quiet," he remarked. "Now I am not happy with these turn of events!"
I sat with my jaw dropped. I looked at each one of them, one by one and was mortified with what I heard. I could not keep quiet. Weeks of built up stress and anxiety that had been brimming at the surface could no longer be contained. I stood up and let everyone have it.
"I AM NOT FOR SALE! You are all treating me like there is a dollar sign on my head! Is this what Pakistani marriage is all about? Marry me off and see what dowry I get from his family wait in anticipation for my dowry. This is not the Islamic way! The only thing Islamic here is the maher (before marriage, the couple agrees with an Imam about what the husband will give his wife at the time of divorce--a sort of prenuptial agreement). We have never discussed our dowries to each other nor anything about money, clothes, jewellery, furniture or cars! We just want to get married and get it over with! They want two head tables...then GIVE THEM TWO HEAD TABLES. Just make sure he and I are at the SAME TABLE!" I roared and then ran upstairs. I threw myself on my bed and could not stop the tears from flowing. I could feel myself being emptied out and it carried on like this for the next two hours.
No one dared to come to my room that night and let me be. I heard muffled voices downstairs for many hours and then silence. As I lay there in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling, I wondered what he was thinking after hearing his family and my family argue about the wedding. I am sure he was in earshot of the whole situation. I wanted to call him and get his feedback but I knew it would cause more problems. It was not for us to get involved. It was for the parents to sort out. To arrange. Hence, THE ARRANGED MARRIAGE.
And if I was going to take part in this arranged marriage crap, then I made up my mind to leave it to the parents to work themselves out of this mess!
"Dad! Are you kidding me? You want my mehndi next to a graveyard?!" My knuckles were turning white as I clutched the car door handle.
"Let's go in and speak the pastor. The rate is cheap and we are allowed to bring our own food," he said excitedly as we went in. The hall portion to the church was rather large and would house the 100 women that were invited. The pastor was very kind and inquisitive about our traditions and culture. Personally, I think he wanted to make sure we would not be having any seances or holy muslim rituals in the middle of his church.
What both my father and I forgot to ask was about the air conditioning. Or lack thereof! As you will learn, his mehndi would prove a much hotter affair!
With the church booked, my father, along with his brother and wife, my aunt who was visiting from Pakistan (his younger sister) and my siblings all headed over to my inlaws to discuss details about the actual wedding day and reception.
I finished up my tasks and moped around the house waiting for them to come back. Around 10pm, they waltzed in the door but every face I saw was gloomy. My heart immediately sank and I was scared to ask. I didn't need to. My aunt unleashed a tirade of compliants before I opened my mouth.
"I cannot believe these people! The nerve of them. How dare they ask the questions they asked!" she exclaimed while flopping herself on the sofa beside me. My father's sister was wringing her hands and clucking her tongue. My father and uncle were in a sombre mood and kept very quiet.
"Ok, I am sure it was not that bad," I reassured, trying to lighten the mood and lower their collective blood pressure. My father furrowed his brow and I saw that vein pulsating on his forehead.
"Not that bad you say? His father wants us to have TWO HEAD TABLES! I have never in my 30 years of living here seen TWO HEAD TABLES at a Pakistani wedding! He wants one for his family and one for our family! Aren't we all becoming one family with the marriage of our children? The community will arrive and laugh when they see two separate tables! They will talk about it for years," he cried while throwing his hands up in the air. They were so loud that I cringed every time they yelled because their voices carried out through the open windows and into the street.
My aunt joined in his frustration. "And his mother...Oh my Goodness! What can I say about her? She is a clever one, my dear! You have to watch out for that lady! She had the nerve to ask us what we are giving you before you marry! It is none of her business. Your dowry from your father is not her right. She should have told us what she is giving in your dowry so we do not duplicate it before we marry you off! When your father said he was thinking of buying you a car and giving you his Royal Albert china, she was smiling and asking..'what else?' UGH! We did not go there to discuss this!" She turned to my father who shook his head.
"I should have stayed quiet," he remarked. "Now I am not happy with these turn of events!"
I sat with my jaw dropped. I looked at each one of them, one by one and was mortified with what I heard. I could not keep quiet. Weeks of built up stress and anxiety that had been brimming at the surface could no longer be contained. I stood up and let everyone have it.
"I AM NOT FOR SALE! You are all treating me like there is a dollar sign on my head! Is this what Pakistani marriage is all about? Marry me off and see what dowry I get from his family wait in anticipation for my dowry. This is not the Islamic way! The only thing Islamic here is the maher (before marriage, the couple agrees with an Imam about what the husband will give his wife at the time of divorce--a sort of prenuptial agreement). We have never discussed our dowries to each other nor anything about money, clothes, jewellery, furniture or cars! We just want to get married and get it over with! They want two head tables...then GIVE THEM TWO HEAD TABLES. Just make sure he and I are at the SAME TABLE!" I roared and then ran upstairs. I threw myself on my bed and could not stop the tears from flowing. I could feel myself being emptied out and it carried on like this for the next two hours.
No one dared to come to my room that night and let me be. I heard muffled voices downstairs for many hours and then silence. As I lay there in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling, I wondered what he was thinking after hearing his family and my family argue about the wedding. I am sure he was in earshot of the whole situation. I wanted to call him and get his feedback but I knew it would cause more problems. It was not for us to get involved. It was for the parents to sort out. To arrange. Hence, THE ARRANGED MARRIAGE.
And if I was going to take part in this arranged marriage crap, then I made up my mind to leave it to the parents to work themselves out of this mess!
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 56: He is my Ying
We drove home from the engagement that night and I looked out the car window to see my own reflection. I was tired. It was only three weeks before my own wedding and we were running around to last minute functions and finalizing details. Aunty's son's wedding was only four days before mine. The bride and groom were in a rush to be married because I found out later that they were moving to Japan.
I booked an appointment that week with my new celebrity doctor and met up with her while my father waited out in the hall. She gave me a clean bill of health and insisted that I would make my father a grandfather many times over. I sat obediently in the chair in front of her mahogany desk and smiled politely while simultaneously looking around at her office. Plaque after plaque of degrees, awards, certifications and distinctions covered her office without any indication of a wall beneath it!
She was impressive and kind. She put me at ease and until this day, I will always remember her support and encouragement. Before I got up to leave, she left me with this:
"Although your father may never say this to you, he IS very proud of you. After the death of your mother, he despaired. But you stood up at the plate and left your goals, ambitions and hopes behind to be there for him and your family. You are now embarking on a new stage in your life. Just remember, it will be very hard on him--for you to leave him behind, just only a year and half after your mother left. So keep him in your life even after you move forward and bond with your new husband." She put her hand on mine and watched me intently as I left the room.
I went out to the hall and my father stood up. I did not speak a word but only nodded to indicate that everything was fine. I waited outside the office while he spoke to her alone and pondered her advice. I had never thought about my life in this light.
The whole time I was fretting about getting married, living with someone I really did not know, ready to move forward and start a new life. What I forgot to do was look behind me to see what I was letting go. A somewhat easy life, with a father that knew me and siblings who were not yet adults. Could they survive without me? It was true--they were losing two matriarchs in a span of two years. And I had not given it one thought until now. They were all happy for me, or at least I thought. But would they be able to let go? Would I be able to let them go?
The next morning my fiancee called and I prayed that his mother was not breathing on the other line. He had learned and started calling me from work.
"Spain trip has been booked. I am not going with a tour. I figure we get there and make our way through the country by train. I will book the first three or four hotels in advance and then we just go with the flow," he proclaimed.
Reality was beginning to settle in. Our wedding would encompass three days:
Friday August 30th was my mehndi (a ceremony where only the women from the bride and groom's side attend and apply henna to the hands and feet of the bride--the groom is not present)
Saturday August 31 was our official wedding day at my home but that evening the men would return and celebrate his mehndi (traditionally both sides of the bride and groom attend a function thrown by the groom's side--I was not allowed to be there)
Sunday Sept 1 was a joint wedding reception traditionally known as the Barat. Typically the Barat is thrown by the bride's family and the next day, the groom's family throws a Valima. However, both our families decided to modernize it and combine both functions into one night. Our flight to Spain was booked for Sept 3rd, only one day after our reception.
"Go with the flow," I slowly repeated while thinking about all the logistics in my head.
"So have you been working out before the wedding?" he asked. He was playing tennis every night with friends after work. I laughed to myself. Since my surgery, I was instructed not to participate in anything strenuous. My nerves got the better of me so the sight of food allowed me to shave off another few pounds. My dress would be altered for the fourth time. My seamstress stared at my scar, shook her head in dismay and threatened to stop altering my clothes if I lost anymore weight.
"I will eat on the honeymoon. I hope me being vegetarian doesn't pose too many problems," I reminded him. He laughed it off and insisted that his mother would fatten me up.
Oh yes, I forgot to add that after my marriage I would be living with him AND the family. Something in the back of my mind but nothing I could wrap my brain around at this point!
"I may have not worked out but I have certainly shopped for the honeymoon," I joked. I was waiting for the obvious answer but he was too shy to say it. And instead of returning the joke, he reminded me that my family was meeting his in a few days. His demureness won me over, time and time again. My friends asked me why I was attracted to him, besides the obvious physical traits. I was already falling in love with his patience and shyness. He was my Ying.
The parents wanted to resolve some issues and finalize details but I was not allowed to come. Now that we were down to the wire, they did not want us seeing each other before the wedding--possibly the only non-traditional thing we practised.
And those days before this meeting were the calm before the storm...
I booked an appointment that week with my new celebrity doctor and met up with her while my father waited out in the hall. She gave me a clean bill of health and insisted that I would make my father a grandfather many times over. I sat obediently in the chair in front of her mahogany desk and smiled politely while simultaneously looking around at her office. Plaque after plaque of degrees, awards, certifications and distinctions covered her office without any indication of a wall beneath it!
She was impressive and kind. She put me at ease and until this day, I will always remember her support and encouragement. Before I got up to leave, she left me with this:
"Although your father may never say this to you, he IS very proud of you. After the death of your mother, he despaired. But you stood up at the plate and left your goals, ambitions and hopes behind to be there for him and your family. You are now embarking on a new stage in your life. Just remember, it will be very hard on him--for you to leave him behind, just only a year and half after your mother left. So keep him in your life even after you move forward and bond with your new husband." She put her hand on mine and watched me intently as I left the room.
I went out to the hall and my father stood up. I did not speak a word but only nodded to indicate that everything was fine. I waited outside the office while he spoke to her alone and pondered her advice. I had never thought about my life in this light.
The whole time I was fretting about getting married, living with someone I really did not know, ready to move forward and start a new life. What I forgot to do was look behind me to see what I was letting go. A somewhat easy life, with a father that knew me and siblings who were not yet adults. Could they survive without me? It was true--they were losing two matriarchs in a span of two years. And I had not given it one thought until now. They were all happy for me, or at least I thought. But would they be able to let go? Would I be able to let them go?
The next morning my fiancee called and I prayed that his mother was not breathing on the other line. He had learned and started calling me from work.
"Spain trip has been booked. I am not going with a tour. I figure we get there and make our way through the country by train. I will book the first three or four hotels in advance and then we just go with the flow," he proclaimed.
Reality was beginning to settle in. Our wedding would encompass three days:
Friday August 30th was my mehndi (a ceremony where only the women from the bride and groom's side attend and apply henna to the hands and feet of the bride--the groom is not present)
Saturday August 31 was our official wedding day at my home but that evening the men would return and celebrate his mehndi (traditionally both sides of the bride and groom attend a function thrown by the groom's side--I was not allowed to be there)
Sunday Sept 1 was a joint wedding reception traditionally known as the Barat. Typically the Barat is thrown by the bride's family and the next day, the groom's family throws a Valima. However, both our families decided to modernize it and combine both functions into one night. Our flight to Spain was booked for Sept 3rd, only one day after our reception.
"Go with the flow," I slowly repeated while thinking about all the logistics in my head.
"So have you been working out before the wedding?" he asked. He was playing tennis every night with friends after work. I laughed to myself. Since my surgery, I was instructed not to participate in anything strenuous. My nerves got the better of me so the sight of food allowed me to shave off another few pounds. My dress would be altered for the fourth time. My seamstress stared at my scar, shook her head in dismay and threatened to stop altering my clothes if I lost anymore weight.
"I will eat on the honeymoon. I hope me being vegetarian doesn't pose too many problems," I reminded him. He laughed it off and insisted that his mother would fatten me up.
Oh yes, I forgot to add that after my marriage I would be living with him AND the family. Something in the back of my mind but nothing I could wrap my brain around at this point!
"I may have not worked out but I have certainly shopped for the honeymoon," I joked. I was waiting for the obvious answer but he was too shy to say it. And instead of returning the joke, he reminded me that my family was meeting his in a few days. His demureness won me over, time and time again. My friends asked me why I was attracted to him, besides the obvious physical traits. I was already falling in love with his patience and shyness. He was my Ying.
The parents wanted to resolve some issues and finalize details but I was not allowed to come. Now that we were down to the wire, they did not want us seeing each other before the wedding--possibly the only non-traditional thing we practised.
And those days before this meeting were the calm before the storm...
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 55: The Juxtaposition of Brides
Aunty's son was marrying a Canadian girl. They weren't too happy about this turn of events. The thing was she was not Pakistani. But he had fallen in love and asked her to marry him. The old fashion way, by Canadian standards. They dated, had courtship, romance and he asked her father for her hand in marriage. When he told his parents, they threw a fit. But he was adamant about marrying her, and I was jealous.
Squeeze me?
Not of her. Not of him. Of the way it happened. Even though they were not Muslim, his elder brother got married the old fashion way, by Pakistani standards--like me. His marriage was arranged and he met his wife briefly in Pakistan before she was sponsored and brought to Canada. And he was happy. They are the couple whose son passed away a few months after my mother did. They now have three grown up children and their story is complete. But during this time, I was still pondering my own fate.
After the ceremony in their basement, the women got up to dance. There were about 30 of us, lined around all four walls, as she sat in the middle on a beautifully decorated chair next to her fiancee. She was stunning--light blond hair, alabaster skin and a small sculptured nose--the exact antithesis of the token Pakistani girl. That is why she garnered so much attention. She wore a dark red lehnga (long dress) and bright red lipstick. We could all see why he was so enthralled in her. She loved the clothes, the food and our culture. She wore the clothes proudly and had no qualms carrying out the traditions required in the ceremony.
One part entailed eating many Pakistani sweets (that were shoved into her mouth by a gazillion people) and the rubbing of oil into her scalp with the same hands that fed her the sweets. Yes, she was a trouper. And as I watched from the corner of the room--how he held her hand and leaned against her side, I sighed deeply, wishing this was the case with me and my fiancee. We had bumped knees briefly during our own engagement party and this was enough foreplay for one night.
Aunty came around to all the girls and pulled them up to dance when they started the music. When she approached me, I smiled but shook my head. She did not relent.
"No my darling, you must get up! This is a time to celebrate!" she said, tugging at my arm. I looked over at my father and saw he was not looking. As I got up and started to dance, Aunty's future daughter-in-law squealed in delight. Aunty had announced that I too was about to get married. However, when these words reached my father's ears, he called out my name. I stopped abruptly when I saw his stern look and when he jumped from his seat and made his way over.
He was smiling but I knew it was coming.
He whispered in my ear, "Sit down right this instance. You are about to be married and you are shaking your hips in front of all these men??!"
Aunty shot over to us like a torpedo.
"Oh bhai Sahib! Let her dance! She is so good at it...the kids are here to have a good time. Soon she will be married too!" she laughed as she grabbed both my father's arm and mine and pushed them up into the air.
Needless to say, my father was not impressed. He excused himself from the melee and shot me another dirty look. I quickly obeyed and feigned a cramp in my side. The lady doctor I had spoken to earlier rushed to my side.
"Bhatee,(my daughter) are you ok? Stitches still bothering you?" she asked. I had forgotten that I was on surgerical table only two weeks prior.
"No, no. I am fine. Daddy is a little protective you know," I smiled back.
She put her hand on my chin. "Come and book an appointment with me. I want to evaluate you in a post-surgical appointment. Forget the other doctor."
I nodded obediently and returned to my seat. My father relaxed and nodded in approval. He then pointed to the other side of the room. One of their cousins was videotaping. I got the hint.
Aunty's son and his fiancee posed for pictures. After we had tea and dessert, she approached me.
"Hi, my name is Sophia." She extended her hand. I smiled and hugged her instead.
"Congratulations. You will make a beautiful bride," I told her.
"You are a great dancer. You will have to teach me your moves," she smiled kindly as she held my arm. "Are you nervous about your wedding? I am getting married before you are and I am pretty nervous!"
"Naw, piece of cake," I lied. "You will do great! You already look like a pro."
"Really?" she gushed. "You look so calm. That's why I wanted to talk to you. I am really nervous! No clue about your traditions. Every corner I take, its something new," she confessed.
I looked her square in the eye. "If you love him, there is no reason to be nervous. You are doing the right thing."
She pondered for a moment and then hugged me tightly. I was surprised by her reaction. "Thank you! I knew the moment I saw you, that you would be a friend!" Someone grabbed her hand and off she went dancing in the middle of the basement, poorly emulating the dance moves Aunty was teaching her.
Go figure. Here I was giving her marital advice.
Now, could I take my own advice?
Squeeze me?
Not of her. Not of him. Of the way it happened. Even though they were not Muslim, his elder brother got married the old fashion way, by Pakistani standards--like me. His marriage was arranged and he met his wife briefly in Pakistan before she was sponsored and brought to Canada. And he was happy. They are the couple whose son passed away a few months after my mother did. They now have three grown up children and their story is complete. But during this time, I was still pondering my own fate.
After the ceremony in their basement, the women got up to dance. There were about 30 of us, lined around all four walls, as she sat in the middle on a beautifully decorated chair next to her fiancee. She was stunning--light blond hair, alabaster skin and a small sculptured nose--the exact antithesis of the token Pakistani girl. That is why she garnered so much attention. She wore a dark red lehnga (long dress) and bright red lipstick. We could all see why he was so enthralled in her. She loved the clothes, the food and our culture. She wore the clothes proudly and had no qualms carrying out the traditions required in the ceremony.
One part entailed eating many Pakistani sweets (that were shoved into her mouth by a gazillion people) and the rubbing of oil into her scalp with the same hands that fed her the sweets. Yes, she was a trouper. And as I watched from the corner of the room--how he held her hand and leaned against her side, I sighed deeply, wishing this was the case with me and my fiancee. We had bumped knees briefly during our own engagement party and this was enough foreplay for one night.
Aunty came around to all the girls and pulled them up to dance when they started the music. When she approached me, I smiled but shook my head. She did not relent.
"No my darling, you must get up! This is a time to celebrate!" she said, tugging at my arm. I looked over at my father and saw he was not looking. As I got up and started to dance, Aunty's future daughter-in-law squealed in delight. Aunty had announced that I too was about to get married. However, when these words reached my father's ears, he called out my name. I stopped abruptly when I saw his stern look and when he jumped from his seat and made his way over.
He was smiling but I knew it was coming.
He whispered in my ear, "Sit down right this instance. You are about to be married and you are shaking your hips in front of all these men??!"
Aunty shot over to us like a torpedo.
"Oh bhai Sahib! Let her dance! She is so good at it...the kids are here to have a good time. Soon she will be married too!" she laughed as she grabbed both my father's arm and mine and pushed them up into the air.
Needless to say, my father was not impressed. He excused himself from the melee and shot me another dirty look. I quickly obeyed and feigned a cramp in my side. The lady doctor I had spoken to earlier rushed to my side.
"Bhatee,(my daughter) are you ok? Stitches still bothering you?" she asked. I had forgotten that I was on surgerical table only two weeks prior.
"No, no. I am fine. Daddy is a little protective you know," I smiled back.
She put her hand on my chin. "Come and book an appointment with me. I want to evaluate you in a post-surgical appointment. Forget the other doctor."
I nodded obediently and returned to my seat. My father relaxed and nodded in approval. He then pointed to the other side of the room. One of their cousins was videotaping. I got the hint.
Aunty's son and his fiancee posed for pictures. After we had tea and dessert, she approached me.
"Hi, my name is Sophia." She extended her hand. I smiled and hugged her instead.
"Congratulations. You will make a beautiful bride," I told her.
"You are a great dancer. You will have to teach me your moves," she smiled kindly as she held my arm. "Are you nervous about your wedding? I am getting married before you are and I am pretty nervous!"
"Naw, piece of cake," I lied. "You will do great! You already look like a pro."
"Really?" she gushed. "You look so calm. That's why I wanted to talk to you. I am really nervous! No clue about your traditions. Every corner I take, its something new," she confessed.
I looked her square in the eye. "If you love him, there is no reason to be nervous. You are doing the right thing."
She pondered for a moment and then hugged me tightly. I was surprised by her reaction. "Thank you! I knew the moment I saw you, that you would be a friend!" Someone grabbed her hand and off she went dancing in the middle of the basement, poorly emulating the dance moves Aunty was teaching her.
Go figure. Here I was giving her marital advice.
Now, could I take my own advice?
Sunday, May 22, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 54: Muslims can high five too
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.
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.
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 53: Winging it
"Did you put Mom's picture in my bag?"
My father stared at the road before him as we drove home from the hospital.
"Yes," he replied. "I thought it would cheer you up."
My father had a knack of doing things that could be interpreted either way. Since the discovery of the picture coincided with my dream of her, I interpreted it as a postive sign. But had I not seen and heard her message that scary night in the hospital, I would have felt worse looking at a picture of my mother with a child in her arms, who happened to be me, staring back into the camera lens, adoringly.
I had hugged the nurses goodbye and opened the drawer to look at The Bible one last time. Strange that this one book gave me solace during my ordeal at the hospital but when I flipped through the pages and read many passages, there were many similarities to the Koran. These passages calmed me down and made me ponder about my situation.
Three weeks and my wedding day would be here. My fiancee had booked our flight to Spain. We did not book with a tour or an all inclusive package. Ironically, we decided to only book three hotels in the first three cities we would be staying in and then travel south by train for the rest of the trip. The honeymoon journey mimicked reality: we were about to embark on a route less travelled--winging it all the way.
Our voicemail machine was flooded with calls. I had a dozen messages strictly from Yvonne inquiring about my health. She told me that the final exam was brutal and that she had problems concentrating while worrying about me. My exam was deferred until early October--they would not let me write it now while the material was still fresh in my mind. Instead, I would have to return after marriage to get my credit.
She began asking a million questions about the wedding--what to expect, what to wear and wedding gift ideas. She was over-the-moon excited to be invited. In total, I had 15 work colleagues and schoolmates attending the wedding and they were all anticipating an exotic event. All I cared about was being so nervous as to hurl at the head table in front of 450 guests. Yes, 450 people.
Did I know all of them? No? Did I want to know who was invited? No. All I cared about was getting through the ceremony and the reception afterwards. Without interruption, without being physically sick, without wedding crashers, and without anyone finding out about my secret. Sad but true.
Every call, every conversation with him ended up with me revealing nothing. Don't get me wrong. I certainly tried. But without us knowing much about each other to begin with, broaching the subject of my ovaries was not going to be easy.
August 1991 was particularily a hard month. No job or school to keep me busy. Most of my friends were vacationing or working. Everyone was busy.
And I had no one to confide in...until one interesting day.
My father stared at the road before him as we drove home from the hospital.
"Yes," he replied. "I thought it would cheer you up."
My father had a knack of doing things that could be interpreted either way. Since the discovery of the picture coincided with my dream of her, I interpreted it as a postive sign. But had I not seen and heard her message that scary night in the hospital, I would have felt worse looking at a picture of my mother with a child in her arms, who happened to be me, staring back into the camera lens, adoringly.
I had hugged the nurses goodbye and opened the drawer to look at The Bible one last time. Strange that this one book gave me solace during my ordeal at the hospital but when I flipped through the pages and read many passages, there were many similarities to the Koran. These passages calmed me down and made me ponder about my situation.
Three weeks and my wedding day would be here. My fiancee had booked our flight to Spain. We did not book with a tour or an all inclusive package. Ironically, we decided to only book three hotels in the first three cities we would be staying in and then travel south by train for the rest of the trip. The honeymoon journey mimicked reality: we were about to embark on a route less travelled--winging it all the way.
Our voicemail machine was flooded with calls. I had a dozen messages strictly from Yvonne inquiring about my health. She told me that the final exam was brutal and that she had problems concentrating while worrying about me. My exam was deferred until early October--they would not let me write it now while the material was still fresh in my mind. Instead, I would have to return after marriage to get my credit.
She began asking a million questions about the wedding--what to expect, what to wear and wedding gift ideas. She was over-the-moon excited to be invited. In total, I had 15 work colleagues and schoolmates attending the wedding and they were all anticipating an exotic event. All I cared about was being so nervous as to hurl at the head table in front of 450 guests. Yes, 450 people.
Did I know all of them? No? Did I want to know who was invited? No. All I cared about was getting through the ceremony and the reception afterwards. Without interruption, without being physically sick, without wedding crashers, and without anyone finding out about my secret. Sad but true.
Every call, every conversation with him ended up with me revealing nothing. Don't get me wrong. I certainly tried. But without us knowing much about each other to begin with, broaching the subject of my ovaries was not going to be easy.
August 1991 was particularily a hard month. No job or school to keep me busy. Most of my friends were vacationing or working. Everyone was busy.
And I had no one to confide in...until one interesting day.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 52: The Dark Hall of Regret
As they filed in, I shrunk under the covers. My fiancee, his brother and both parents came shyly into the room and met with my sister, brother and father. My brother ducktailed out with his brother as per my instructions. My father walked out with my fatherinlaw into the hall near the nurse's station. Only my fiancee and his motherinlaw were left. She came over and picked up my hand.
"You poor thing. What timing. I hope you will be ok in time for the wedding?" she asked.
I nodded meekly, not returning her gaze. My fiancee pulled up a chair next to my bed and shooed his mother away with his eyes. She looked dismayed but left obediently.
"Wow, if you wanted some attention, you sure got it," he joked.
I gave him a half-smile and looked back at the television. He clearly looked uncomfortable and I could see he was forming his words carefully.
"So you should be ready to go by end of August right?" he asked.
"Go where?" Where did he want me to go?
"On our honeymoon. Remember? We decided Europe and I was thinking of Spain but I need to book the trip now."
He was thinking more about the honeymoon than the wedding, I thought. Of course, he wanted to know if I could travel.
"I have to check with my doctor but I think I should be ok," I reassured him. "Go ahead and book the trip."
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "You will be ok to travel and do other things, right?"
My God. Now I understood what he meant. I grabbed the railing of my bed and accidently pushed the button for the bed to elevate my legs. My timing could not be any better. His impatient mother heard the noise and came back in, wanting to be a part of our conversation. My fiancee sat upright and looked embarressed. I wanted to hug her right there and then.
"Ok, we should leave. You need your rest, " she smiled and put her hand on my head.
I tried to speak but I did not know where to begin. I felt depressed with regret.
Everyone came back in the room to bid me farewell. My tongue followed my brain. Dead and exhausted from the last few weeks. I wanted to tell him but not in front of everyone. It was too late. I should have told him when we were alone but something held me back.
They left that night and my father looked in on me before departing. He stood by the doorway as the nurse turned off the lights and asked all visitors to leave. I pretended to be asleep but with one eye slightly open, I watched him from afar.
He lifted one hand to his face and wiped away what seemed to be a tear... and then he turned away into the darkness.
"You poor thing. What timing. I hope you will be ok in time for the wedding?" she asked.
I nodded meekly, not returning her gaze. My fiancee pulled up a chair next to my bed and shooed his mother away with his eyes. She looked dismayed but left obediently.
"Wow, if you wanted some attention, you sure got it," he joked.
I gave him a half-smile and looked back at the television. He clearly looked uncomfortable and I could see he was forming his words carefully.
"So you should be ready to go by end of August right?" he asked.
"Go where?" Where did he want me to go?
"On our honeymoon. Remember? We decided Europe and I was thinking of Spain but I need to book the trip now."
He was thinking more about the honeymoon than the wedding, I thought. Of course, he wanted to know if I could travel.
"I have to check with my doctor but I think I should be ok," I reassured him. "Go ahead and book the trip."
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "You will be ok to travel and do other things, right?"
My God. Now I understood what he meant. I grabbed the railing of my bed and accidently pushed the button for the bed to elevate my legs. My timing could not be any better. His impatient mother heard the noise and came back in, wanting to be a part of our conversation. My fiancee sat upright and looked embarressed. I wanted to hug her right there and then.
"Ok, we should leave. You need your rest, " she smiled and put her hand on my head.
I tried to speak but I did not know where to begin. I felt depressed with regret.
Everyone came back in the room to bid me farewell. My tongue followed my brain. Dead and exhausted from the last few weeks. I wanted to tell him but not in front of everyone. It was too late. I should have told him when we were alone but something held me back.
They left that night and my father looked in on me before departing. He stood by the doorway as the nurse turned off the lights and asked all visitors to leave. I pretended to be asleep but with one eye slightly open, I watched him from afar.
He lifted one hand to his face and wiped away what seemed to be a tear... and then he turned away into the darkness.
Monday, May 16, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 51: Lying in Silence
Going in and out of surgery did not bother me as much as it does today. As you get older, the fear of death is more imminent. At age 20 and four weeks before I was to be married, I was not scared of dying. Instead, my fears were founded in the unknown. Would I be able to conceive? Would I ever have children? Would I be one of those women on TV, crying about infertility? And the most fearful thought of all....would he still marry me after knowing my secret? My diagnosis had left me reeling and begging for answers. And it had left me trying to figure out what to tell my future husband.
After showering, I phoned my father at work, wanting to know when my sister was to be dropped off at the hospital to bring me more of my things. My father had no idea what to pack for me. Clearly, things were missing: my hairbrush, deodorant, toothpaste (although he had packed my toothbrush), extra undergarments, etc. I did not blame him--after all, being a father, how the heck would he know what a girl needed? It was hard enough maintaining eye contact after my surgery.
The dream about my mother the previous night left a dark cloud that interrupted my thoughts. She wanted me to be strong yet she offered no guidance on how.
My sister came with my father late afternoon. She had collected my belongings after hearing that I would be in the hospital another two days. My father announced that my inlaws were coming later that evening to visit me. I asked him what transpired when he told them about my surgery.
"Well of course, your motherinlaw asked why you had surgery," he said as a matter-of-factly.
I waited for him to respond. I always thought my girlfirends were the drama queens and masters of story-telling. Long pauses, slow starts, and forever getting to the point. I realized long ago, my father had won that contest. After 10 minutes of his rambling, I was about to lose it.
"To make the long story short, I told her it was your appendix. I did not go into detail and neither should you," he warned, giving me a sidelong glance. I knew what that look meant. My father never endorsed lying but I was well aware of his ability to withold the truth.
"Its not lying. You are just not revealing the whole truth. If no one asks then why volunteer everything?"
For me, a half truth was as monumental as a fullblown lie. Unintentionally, my father had taught me the art of circling around a lie... and I practised these tactics on him many times. But the 'truth' was, I could never lie to my mother.
When I was in Grade three, I used to go to my friend's house for lunch. Each time, her mother would serve hotdogs. However, for me, she was instructed to make a peanut butter sandwich--by my mother. The hotdogs were made from pork and I grew up knowing that I was not allowed to eat it. I watched as the other kids would slather ketchup and mustard on their dogs and look at me pitifully while I ate my boring, lacklustre sandwich. But I knew one day, I would eat the forbidden. Who would know? How would they find out? My logical thinking skills at eight years of age were deferred as I succumbed to my insatiable appetite.
On one particular day, I went for lunch and proclaimed that I was allowed to eat hotdogs--that my parents no longer deemed it unlawful. She raised one eyebrow and questioned me. "Are you sure?" she inquired. I nodded profusely and stuck out my plate for a hotdog. My stomach growled as I eyed the jumbo sausage, delicately tucked into a monstrous bun. I sat with my friends who squealed in delight, and I finally felt like I was part of the lunch group now. The hotdog was delicious and I skipped back to school with absolutely no remorse. When I returned after school, my mother had asked me what I ate for lunch. I shrugged, the usual Mummy...peanut butter and jam. She smiled and patted me on the head. "Good girl." I ran upstairs and thought to myself how easy it was to get away with lying.
Until later that night....
My mother took me for her weekly grocery shopping. At the store, she pulled out her flyers and coupons. As I helped push the cart, along with our regular groceries, she threw in every pork-related food item possible! Bacon, ham, hotdogs, pork ribs, sausages, bologna, salami--you name it. I halted and stood astonished. "Mummy, why are you putting all this food in the cart?!" I exclaimed. She did not look at me and continued to shop. As we were nearing the checkout line, I prevented the cart from moving any further. She tugged it forward while I pulled it back.
"Mom! We cannot buy this pork!"
She looked at me quietly. "Why not?" she asked.
"Because we are not allowed to eat it," I rolled my eyes and put my hands on my hip.
"Are you sure about that?" she demanded. Suddenly, it dawned on me. I looked sheepishly at my feet, not daring to look her in the eye.
"Tara's mom called me after lunch. She told me that you ate the hotdog," my mother fired back in rapid Urdu. "So if its ok, then let's buy it all tonight, go home and cook it for your father." I looked at the pork in the cart and then up at her. She was not angry but the look on her face showed disappointment.
"The worst lies are the ones you tell to yourself. Remember, God is watching all the time."
Without yelling, creating a scene or scolding me in public, that one sentence she uttered took a hold of me and was etched onto the walls of my soul.
And with that, she made me return all the items to their original places and never brought up the incident again. From then on, I could never lie to my mother again and found it difficult to lie in general.
Here I was, no mother to guide me and my father preventing me for disclosing the truth. But I had already made up my mind to be honest. Nothing good could come out of keeping this secret. I practised what to say to my fiancee, but it kept coming out wrong. I needed my mother. My sister was a poor substitute and was of no help as I cried for the remainder of the day.
By the time they came to see me, my eyes were swollen and my heart was heavy. And my burden turned into silence.
After showering, I phoned my father at work, wanting to know when my sister was to be dropped off at the hospital to bring me more of my things. My father had no idea what to pack for me. Clearly, things were missing: my hairbrush, deodorant, toothpaste (although he had packed my toothbrush), extra undergarments, etc. I did not blame him--after all, being a father, how the heck would he know what a girl needed? It was hard enough maintaining eye contact after my surgery.
The dream about my mother the previous night left a dark cloud that interrupted my thoughts. She wanted me to be strong yet she offered no guidance on how.
My sister came with my father late afternoon. She had collected my belongings after hearing that I would be in the hospital another two days. My father announced that my inlaws were coming later that evening to visit me. I asked him what transpired when he told them about my surgery.
"Well of course, your motherinlaw asked why you had surgery," he said as a matter-of-factly.
I waited for him to respond. I always thought my girlfirends were the drama queens and masters of story-telling. Long pauses, slow starts, and forever getting to the point. I realized long ago, my father had won that contest. After 10 minutes of his rambling, I was about to lose it.
"To make the long story short, I told her it was your appendix. I did not go into detail and neither should you," he warned, giving me a sidelong glance. I knew what that look meant. My father never endorsed lying but I was well aware of his ability to withold the truth.
"Its not lying. You are just not revealing the whole truth. If no one asks then why volunteer everything?"
For me, a half truth was as monumental as a fullblown lie. Unintentionally, my father had taught me the art of circling around a lie... and I practised these tactics on him many times. But the 'truth' was, I could never lie to my mother.
When I was in Grade three, I used to go to my friend's house for lunch. Each time, her mother would serve hotdogs. However, for me, she was instructed to make a peanut butter sandwich--by my mother. The hotdogs were made from pork and I grew up knowing that I was not allowed to eat it. I watched as the other kids would slather ketchup and mustard on their dogs and look at me pitifully while I ate my boring, lacklustre sandwich. But I knew one day, I would eat the forbidden. Who would know? How would they find out? My logical thinking skills at eight years of age were deferred as I succumbed to my insatiable appetite.
On one particular day, I went for lunch and proclaimed that I was allowed to eat hotdogs--that my parents no longer deemed it unlawful. She raised one eyebrow and questioned me. "Are you sure?" she inquired. I nodded profusely and stuck out my plate for a hotdog. My stomach growled as I eyed the jumbo sausage, delicately tucked into a monstrous bun. I sat with my friends who squealed in delight, and I finally felt like I was part of the lunch group now. The hotdog was delicious and I skipped back to school with absolutely no remorse. When I returned after school, my mother had asked me what I ate for lunch. I shrugged, the usual Mummy...peanut butter and jam. She smiled and patted me on the head. "Good girl." I ran upstairs and thought to myself how easy it was to get away with lying.
Until later that night....
My mother took me for her weekly grocery shopping. At the store, she pulled out her flyers and coupons. As I helped push the cart, along with our regular groceries, she threw in every pork-related food item possible! Bacon, ham, hotdogs, pork ribs, sausages, bologna, salami--you name it. I halted and stood astonished. "Mummy, why are you putting all this food in the cart?!" I exclaimed. She did not look at me and continued to shop. As we were nearing the checkout line, I prevented the cart from moving any further. She tugged it forward while I pulled it back.
"Mom! We cannot buy this pork!"
She looked at me quietly. "Why not?" she asked.
"Because we are not allowed to eat it," I rolled my eyes and put my hands on my hip.
"Are you sure about that?" she demanded. Suddenly, it dawned on me. I looked sheepishly at my feet, not daring to look her in the eye.
"Tara's mom called me after lunch. She told me that you ate the hotdog," my mother fired back in rapid Urdu. "So if its ok, then let's buy it all tonight, go home and cook it for your father." I looked at the pork in the cart and then up at her. She was not angry but the look on her face showed disappointment.
"The worst lies are the ones you tell to yourself. Remember, God is watching all the time."
Without yelling, creating a scene or scolding me in public, that one sentence she uttered took a hold of me and was etched onto the walls of my soul.
And with that, she made me return all the items to their original places and never brought up the incident again. From then on, I could never lie to my mother again and found it difficult to lie in general.
Here I was, no mother to guide me and my father preventing me for disclosing the truth. But I had already made up my mind to be honest. Nothing good could come out of keeping this secret. I practised what to say to my fiancee, but it kept coming out wrong. I needed my mother. My sister was a poor substitute and was of no help as I cried for the remainder of the day.
By the time they came to see me, my eyes were swollen and my heart was heavy. And my burden turned into silence.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 50: Me and my Bible
I had Tylenol 3 once before--after I had bridgework done the previous year. Considering I had never drank liquor in my life, I likened it to being drunk. Everything seemed unreal around me. People were talking to me and then laughing, for no reason. The room would increase in size and then deflate. I felt exhilarated one moment and then sedated the next. I stood trembling in the washroom, looking at my reflection, wondering if I could get through this.
By the time I returned to my bed, I was exhausted. I closed my eyes but the room would spin. I rang for the nurse and when I told her how I felt, she smiled and said that it would take time for my body to adjust to the affects of the codeine. I told her I wanted to visit the maternity ward. She looked at me oddly and tucked me into bed.
"Ring me if you need me," she said. I pressed the button right after she said that. She shook her head and laughed. "You will be fine. Just let yourself go and fall asleep, ok?"
Let myself go. Go where?! I did not want to close my eyes because the shapes, sizes and colours of nothing would appear. I felt like I was at the circus. To keep myself occupied, I opened the drawer next to me and found the Bible. I took it out and randomly opened it up, only to encounter the following passage:
"Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you."
I was trembling again but this time I knew it was not the codeine. The words flew off the page and circled me in the room. How ironic to read this in a book I never had read before, the Bible. It did not matter what religion I was that night. For me, He was there, in the room with me, watching over me, when I thought I was truly alone. I closed the Bible and left it on top of my chest and willed myself to melt away....
She was wearing her red sari and bright red lipstick. She looked beautiful. And she was in my room, at the foot of my hospital bed. She put her hand on my foot.
"Wake up my darling. Don't be scared. I am here with you. You are never alone. Just remember to smile and be brave," she assured me. I looked down at the end of my bed. Craddle in the crook of my legs was a bundle. I jumped when it moved. It was a baby.
"Be brave," she repeated.
I woke up. It was now morning. The Bible was still on my chest and I looked at the foot of my bed. My overnight bag was situated near my legs. Dad must have come in, seen me sleeping, and left it where I could find it, I thought.
I gently put the Bible back in the drawer and eased my way out of the bed. The pain on my side took me by surprised. Hunched over, I took my bag over to the locker. I needed to brush my teeth and take a shower before the inlaws came by.
When I opened the bag, my mother was looking back at me. It was a picture, neatly placed on the top of my things--a picture of my mother, holding me as a baby, beaming proudly into the camera.
...He will never leave you or foresake you....
By the time I returned to my bed, I was exhausted. I closed my eyes but the room would spin. I rang for the nurse and when I told her how I felt, she smiled and said that it would take time for my body to adjust to the affects of the codeine. I told her I wanted to visit the maternity ward. She looked at me oddly and tucked me into bed.
"Ring me if you need me," she said. I pressed the button right after she said that. She shook her head and laughed. "You will be fine. Just let yourself go and fall asleep, ok?"
Let myself go. Go where?! I did not want to close my eyes because the shapes, sizes and colours of nothing would appear. I felt like I was at the circus. To keep myself occupied, I opened the drawer next to me and found the Bible. I took it out and randomly opened it up, only to encounter the following passage:
"Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you."
I was trembling again but this time I knew it was not the codeine. The words flew off the page and circled me in the room. How ironic to read this in a book I never had read before, the Bible. It did not matter what religion I was that night. For me, He was there, in the room with me, watching over me, when I thought I was truly alone. I closed the Bible and left it on top of my chest and willed myself to melt away....
She was wearing her red sari and bright red lipstick. She looked beautiful. And she was in my room, at the foot of my hospital bed. She put her hand on my foot.
"Wake up my darling. Don't be scared. I am here with you. You are never alone. Just remember to smile and be brave," she assured me. I looked down at the end of my bed. Craddle in the crook of my legs was a bundle. I jumped when it moved. It was a baby.
"Be brave," she repeated.
I woke up. It was now morning. The Bible was still on my chest and I looked at the foot of my bed. My overnight bag was situated near my legs. Dad must have come in, seen me sleeping, and left it where I could find it, I thought.
I gently put the Bible back in the drawer and eased my way out of the bed. The pain on my side took me by surprised. Hunched over, I took my bag over to the locker. I needed to brush my teeth and take a shower before the inlaws came by.
When I opened the bag, my mother was looking back at me. It was a picture, neatly placed on the top of my things--a picture of my mother, holding me as a baby, beaming proudly into the camera.
...He will never leave you or foresake you....
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 49: The Mother of all problems
As with any man in this position, without a wife or a mother for his daughter, my father was not equipped to handle the scene before him. I lay on my hospital bed, weeping uncontrollably, praying that what I had heard was in part, due to the drugs that put me out for my surgery.
My father sat on the side of the bed and put his arms around me. He stroked my hair which was now matted with tears and sweat. I was a mess--physically and emotionally and unsure where to turn.
"The nurse told me about the surgery," he said. He purposely announced this so I would not go into detail about ovarian cyst. It was embaressing enough to know that he knew. Ironically the nurse walked in at that particular moment.
"Who was that Doctor that came in to see me," I asked her.
"Oh, he is the staff gyneocologist, Dr. So and So," she smiled as she checked my IV. When she left I turned to my father.
"That man told me I could not have kids," I blurted out, tears welling up again in my eyes. My father froze and looked at me confused.
"Are you sure that is what he said? You sure you didn't dream it? You look pretty groggy to me." I turned my head towards the window. Married in four weeks. All I could think of was how I was going to break this to my husband-to-be.
The nurse came back with Tylenol 3. I told her what the doctor had said. She shook her head and told me not to worry--that it was his job to give me the worst-case scenario.
But it bothered me. Where was his edicate? Was it right to hit someone with a diagnosis just after surgery while they were still coming to? Was it right to reveal information without my general doctor being present? I felt some violation had occured or was it just me trying to recover from the shock of it all?
"Your fiancee and inlaws are coming tomorrow to visit. They will ask about your surgery--only say your appendix was removed. No need to go into detail," my father advised and then announced he had to leave to tend to my brother and sister.
When he left, I pondered over what he said. I wouldn't be lying if I said my appendix was removed but I wasn't telling the whole truth either. If it was embaressing to tell my father about my delinquent ovarian cyst, it would be next to impossible to tell it to my fiance, who I couldn't even hold an entire conversation with! His mother would overhear and then freak out about the possibility of no grandchildren. His father would stamp his foot and declare the marriage off and then he would ask for the ring back and leave with the whole family. I would be left, alone, in the hospital with the evil gynecologist lurking in the hallway, waiting for me to sleep to take out the rest of my reproductive system.
Ok, so my imagination went wild. Tylenol 3 never suited me. And when I slept that night, I was not sure whether the drugs brought my mother to me or my call for help...
My father sat on the side of the bed and put his arms around me. He stroked my hair which was now matted with tears and sweat. I was a mess--physically and emotionally and unsure where to turn.
"The nurse told me about the surgery," he said. He purposely announced this so I would not go into detail about ovarian cyst. It was embaressing enough to know that he knew. Ironically the nurse walked in at that particular moment.
"Who was that Doctor that came in to see me," I asked her.
"Oh, he is the staff gyneocologist, Dr. So and So," she smiled as she checked my IV. When she left I turned to my father.
"That man told me I could not have kids," I blurted out, tears welling up again in my eyes. My father froze and looked at me confused.
"Are you sure that is what he said? You sure you didn't dream it? You look pretty groggy to me." I turned my head towards the window. Married in four weeks. All I could think of was how I was going to break this to my husband-to-be.
The nurse came back with Tylenol 3. I told her what the doctor had said. She shook her head and told me not to worry--that it was his job to give me the worst-case scenario.
But it bothered me. Where was his edicate? Was it right to hit someone with a diagnosis just after surgery while they were still coming to? Was it right to reveal information without my general doctor being present? I felt some violation had occured or was it just me trying to recover from the shock of it all?
"Your fiancee and inlaws are coming tomorrow to visit. They will ask about your surgery--only say your appendix was removed. No need to go into detail," my father advised and then announced he had to leave to tend to my brother and sister.
When he left, I pondered over what he said. I wouldn't be lying if I said my appendix was removed but I wasn't telling the whole truth either. If it was embaressing to tell my father about my delinquent ovarian cyst, it would be next to impossible to tell it to my fiance, who I couldn't even hold an entire conversation with! His mother would overhear and then freak out about the possibility of no grandchildren. His father would stamp his foot and declare the marriage off and then he would ask for the ring back and leave with the whole family. I would be left, alone, in the hospital with the evil gynecologist lurking in the hallway, waiting for me to sleep to take out the rest of my reproductive system.
Ok, so my imagination went wild. Tylenol 3 never suited me. And when I slept that night, I was not sure whether the drugs brought my mother to me or my call for help...
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