Threading My Prayer Rug

by Sabeeha Rehman

  Auntie Hameeda came to visit. She was an unassuming lady with gentle manners and a quiet disposition, and I felt at ease with her around, despite the sensitive nature of her visit. Auntie stayed in Daadee Amma’s—my paternal grandmother’s—room. Short-statured, light-skinned, with a round face and light brown hair tied back, she had a throaty voice and a joyous disposition. Her room was on the ground floor, making it easy for her to get in and out without having to negotiate the stairs. My paternal grandfather had passed away when Daddy was eight. The sunroom on the second floor with an unobstructed view of the valley, bathed in light, was our family room, with Mummy’s sewing machine against the window, a divan with gao takya cushions for Mummy’s repose, and a tea trolley in the corner, adorned with her handmade linen. Next morning, after Daddy left for the office, Auntie Hameeda and Mummy sat down to talk in the sunroom. I rolled out the tea trolley, served them tea, and then discreetly withdrew into my room, giving them the privacy to discuss my future. I, “the girl,” was to be conspicuously absent, was to behave as if I didn’t know what was going on, and whereas it was understood that I knew, decorum required me to act otherwise and be demure. I noticed that Auntie had a big envelope in her hand.

  It must contain photographs of “the boy.”

  An hour later, Mummy came into my bedroom, carrying a stack of photographs. “This is Khalid,” she said, handing me the photographs, and sat down next to me on the bed.

  So his name is Khalid.

  Khalid. Hmmm!

  I like the name Khalid. Wonder if that is fortuitous! Now let’s not get carried away.

  “Look at the smile in his eyes,” Mummy noted.

  “Yes. It’s a nice photo.” I spread the photos on my bed and started examining them, trying to read everything I could from a few images. The 8"x10" close-up was in black and white, a fancy car in the background. I looked closely. He had curly hair like mine, sideburns, gleaming straight teeth, and in those big eyes a hint of a smile. In a color photo, he stood at a distance, hands inside the coat pockets of his mustard-brown corduroy jacket, with the Washington Memorial towering in the background; in another under the cherry blossom trees in full bloom, same corduroy jacket, with a stunning backdrop of the tidal basin.

  He is handsome.

  “Can you tell how tall he is?” I asked.

  “I wonder,” she said.

  “Can you tell if he is light-skinned?”

  “I wonder.” She squinted over the colored photo.

  We pondered over the photos, scrutinizing every detail, reading too much into pictures that didn’t tell a thousand words. If only these silent images could speak volumes. Perhaps they did.

  I am sure he doesn’t drink. They are a conservative family. I hope he doesn’t smoke.

  Auntie Hameeda had gone downstairs and was wooing Daadee Amma. If you can get the elders of the family on your side, you stand a good chance of getting to “yes.” It worked. By the end of the day she had become her ally and was making a case for Khalid.

  “I really like Hameeda,” she said to my parents. “You should say yes to her.” She knew the three golden rules in making a match: family, family, family. If the mother who raised this child was agreeable to you, she must have raised the boy right.

  That afternoon, after siesta, aunts, uncles, and cousins descended on our house for high tea and to pay their respects to Auntie Hameeda—but really, to evaluate my latest marriage proposal. Auntie Hameeda was discreetly interviewed about Khalid by way of conversation, and as she proceeded to answer, a hush would fall over the room as everyone tuned in. They huddled in the drawing room. While Aurangzeb rolled in the trolley serving tea, the afternoon sun changed to crimson, and as the lights came on, they were still huddling over the photographs, handing the photos back and forth, posing questions to poor Auntie Hameeda as delicately as possible. I stayed upstairs in the sunroom, the sounds of laughter and exclamations, whiffs of conversations leaving me to wonder, “Now what that was all about?” Every now and then one of my cousins would race up the stairs to give me a report, and then go scrambling down.

  That evening, Aba Jee called from Multan.

  “Are you going to say yes?” he pressed Mummy and Daddy, impatiently.

  “I have never met the boy,” Daddy protested, stopping short of saying that even his daughter had never met the boy.

  “But I have met the boy.” Implying that is all that matters. No worries if “girl” hadn’t met boy, or the girl’s parents hadn’t met boy. Grandpa knows best.

  Then Khala Jee, Khalid's adoptive grandmother, called. “I practically raised that boy. He is just the right match for Bia.”

  This is a lot of pressure for Mummy and Daddy.

  They found a way to buy time.

  “Ask him to write to us,” Mummy proposed to Auntie Hameeda.

  Auntie was quiet for a moment. Then nodded in assent.

  “I will write to Khalid and urge him to write, but my son is so shy, I don’t know how he is going to write that letter,” Auntie Hameeda confided in Daadee Amma later that night when they were alone.

  I groaned! Too shy to write a letter!

  By the way, my parents and Daadee Amma reported all this to me in near-real time. After every exchange (negotiation), they would come to my room and give me a report, ending with a “So what do you think?”

  “Apa Hameeda is asking for a photograph of yours. Can you find one?” Mummy came into my room the morning Auntie Hameeda was leaving. Auntie Hameeda was older than Mummy, hence the Apa, as in elder sister.

  Oh, my God! Of course they would like a photograph. After all, Khalid has rights too. Right? Now it’s my turn to be scrutinized. Why didn’t I think of it and have one ready? Do I have a pretty picture? I pulled out a passport-size photo—I wish I had smiled for this picture. I look so serious here—it will scare him away. Oh dear! Look hard, you unprepared young lady. OK. Here we go. This will do. A good balance of pretty and sensible, attire that reflects good taste but is not too loud.

  I showed Mummy and Daddy the photos: the serious passport size, and the lovely 8"x10" black-and-white. “Which one should we give?” I asked.

  “Both.”

  I stayed in my room until Mummy had given both photos to Auntie, before I came out to say good-bye. Remember, I am not supposed to know what is going on and certainly should not be seen as “pushing” myself. The entire family—except me, of course—piled into the car to take Auntie to the train station.

  That evening the extended family convened again and had the likes of a roundtable meeting. The agenda: to accept or not to accept the marriage proposal.

  He is a doctor. Plus.

  New York is too far away. Minus.

  The grandparents know the family very well. Plus.

  They say he has a very good temperament. Is very responsible. Is very caring. Plus.

  But we haven’t seen him. Minus.

  What if he decides to settle in America and not return to Pakistan? Huge minus.

  No one has seen him since he went to America over two years ago. Has America changed him? Plus? Minus?

  And where was I in all these discussions? Right in the middle—listening, but also listening to my inner voice. Khalid’s proposal felt right. How irrational is that! I just had the feeling that this proposal was right for me. But I said nothing. I had not learned to trust my instincts, and I respected my parent’s apprehension.

  How can they marry their daughter off to someone they have never met? I have to trust their judgment. They know better than I as to what is good for me. They raised me and know me better than I know myself. And besides, what do I know about Khalid?

  In keeping with Islamic values and Pakistani culture, I had never dated, nor had I ever had a boyfriend. I didn’t even know any boys. How could I have? I was barely twelve when I was told in no uncertain terms that I was a big girl now and was no longer allowed to play with boys. I went to an all-girls high school, an all-girls college, and an all-girls graduate c
ollege. How was I to know any boys even if I had dared to cross that boundary? Just being seen speaking with a member of the opposite sex would have been scandalous for an unmarried girl. I didn’t even speak with my male cousins. So how could I tell one proposal from the other? I left the responsibility to my parents. This is how my friends had gotten married, and this is how it would be for me.

  Due Diligence

  Mummy embarked on the equivalent of a background check. She made inquiries with family members who knew Khalid.

  What can you tell me about him?

  What is his personality like?

  Tell me more. Tell me more.

  Just put yourself in my mother’s shoes and make a list of all the questions you would have about a prospective husband for your first-born. She asked all those, and more.

  The result: glowing references; six-star reviews.

  So where do we go from here?

  “We should go to Multan and pay them a visit in their house—meet the whole family,” Mummy suggested.

  “Who should go?” I asked.

  “All of us, of course.”

  Of course.

  Multan, Pakistan

  My parents, my sister Neena who was home on college break, my ten-year-old brother Salman, the uncles, the aunties, and the cousins all packed into their cars and headed off for a ten-hour drive to Multan, me included. Why should I be left behind?! I was, after all, the potential bride-to-be. All fifteen of us stayed at my grandparents’ in their five-bedroom, sprawling, walled bungalow in Multan Cantonment. Khala Jee, Mummy’s aunt and Khalid’s adoptive grandmother, was there too.

  Little did I realize at the time that our coming to Multan was a huge deal for Khalid’s family. The signal was that we were seriously considering this proposal—which we were. As protocol would have it, Khalid’s entire family first came to visit us, and then invited us to visit them. We sat on the lawn bordered by lemon trees, tea was served, and I finally got to meet Uncle Rehman and all seven of Khalid’s younger siblings. Seven! Masha’Allah. Seven names to remember, fourteen when you factor in the given names and the nicknames, in descending order, starting with Khalid, the eldest. Uncle Rehman was a man of handsome features, slight build, dark skin, thinning hair, and a loud voice. In the presence of the parents, the siblings sat quiet, their heads moving to look at whichever elder was doing the talking.

  They seem to be nice people. Simple, a bit on the conservative side, but nice.

  I, of course, sitting in the midst, said nothing. Protocol called for me to be demure.

  “Please come to our house for tea,” Uncle Rehman formally invited us.

  My parents accepted their invitation. It was quietly understood that I would not accompany them. A young girl visits the boy’s house only after she is wed to him. Going any time sooner would be considered too forward. I should mention that by this time, Khalid had received my photographs.

  I wonder what his reaction was when he saw my photo? What was his first impression?

  I was home alone when they returned. They gathered around me, each raising their voice above the other.

  “Khalid has an eye for photography. We saw the photos he sent.” Uncle, who had indulged in photography, beamed. “He took this photograph of a plane taking off over the Jefferson Memorial, and he caught the jet stream in the photo. It’s stunning!” Uncle, who had lived in Washington in 1956 on an army-training course, knew the terrain.

  “He has beautiful handwriting. They showed us the letters he sent.” Daddy had an appreciation for penmanship.

  “He is also an artist. We saw this beautiful drawing done in charcoal.” My cousin Anjum, a budding artist, proceeded to describe it.

  “He stood first in Punjab University in medical school. We saw his gold medal.” Mummy was impressed.

  “The family is so together,” Neena observed.

  “Apa Hameeda said that he sings very well,” Auntie commented.

  He sings! Oh, my God, he sings! Oh, how perfect is that!

  I had a passion for singing. Music was my soul food. I sang my way through high school and college, winning first prize—always—in singing competitions. But I was not allowed to sing professionally. Girls from respectable families didn’t do that.

  He sings!

  Lobbying

  Khalid’s sister Rehana came to visit the next day, sat with me in the bedroom, and began the first in a series of all-day lobbying sessions. Rehana, barely twenty-two, her long hair knotted into a thick braid at the back, bringing out the round contours of her soft face, had the loveliest smile. Her dark eyes danced against her light skin. I sat quietly while she worked on her knitting. Every few minutes, she would pause, hold the outer edge of the knitting needle against her lower lip, look pensively into nowhere, a smile spreading gradually across her face, and reminisce.

  “Bhai Jan has such a nice disposition”—referring to Khalid, who was two years older than her, as “dear brother,” “His wife will be the luckiest woman in the world! He has such a gentle temperament…. He has a tremendous sense of responsibility…. He has such good taste…. He is such a fine person…. He is so caring and considerate…. He never gets angry…. He is so thoughtful … so patient…. Every girl in medical school had her eyes on him.” She would go on and on, and each time she mentioned Bhai Jan, the love and admiration for her brother shone through her shy smile. After each compliment to her brother, she would relate an anecdote, driving home the point.

  Does he stand gracefully like Daddy? Is he light-skinned?

  Rehana came to visit the next day, and the day after that, and every day until I left. The two of us would sit in the bedroom, on the bed. She would talk, and I would listen in silence. I never asked her any questions about Khalid. That would have indicated that I was “interested,” and that was out of bounds. Besides, inquiry was the domain of the elders. So I just listened. I have to admit, lobbying works. Through her I got to know my future husband—although I saw him through the eyes of an adoring little sister; months later I would describe him in precisely the same terms to my parents—except, of course, for the girls-in-medical-school bit—although I don’t doubt it. Soon after, she and I would become very close and remain so until her passing.

  The Letter

  Daddy had to go back to Rawalpindi two days later to return to work. I was still in Multan when Daddy called me long distance.

  “I just received a letter from Khalid.” I could not miss the excitement in his voice.

  That was fast. Maybe Rehana was right after all.

  “It’s a beautiful letter—appropriate, respectful. He has covered all the questions we had, and he seems to be artistic and has an appreciation for beauty. He describes the color of the leaves in the fall. It reminded me of the song ‘The Autumn Leaves.’”

  And Auntie Hameeda thought Khalid would be too shy to write.

  I chuckled.

  “What else does he say?”

  “He says that he has two more years of medical residency, and then he will return to Pakistan.”

  “Good.” I had no intentions of settling in the States.

  “You can see the letter when you come. But I see this as the beginning of a relationship. I will write back to him, and we will see how things develop.”

  I wonder what his voice is like. Is he loud? Soft spoken?

  No sooner had we gotten back to Rawalpindi, when Auntie Hameeda called. She was coming to visit, again.

  But first, the letter.

  I read Khalid’s letter over and over again. And again. And so did Mummy, and Neena, and my aunts, and uncles, and cousins. Every sentence was scrutinized. And when all was said and done, the verdict was issued:

  It was a nice letter.

  Engaged Rawalpindi, Pakistan

  This time Auntie Hameeda arrived with Rehana. Now that Khalid had written the letter, would my parents be willing to accept the proposal?

  Pressure!

  Mummy and Daddy were “undecided.”


  Once again, the extended family convened. The same checklist was reviewed. We played upstairs downstairs. Upstairs, I kept Auntie Hameeda and Rehana company; downstairs, the elders gathered in Daadee Amma’s room. The votes were pretty much lined up, and the “yeas” were outvoting the “undecided.” Uncles, aunties, and grandparents were pushing for a “yes.” Mummy and Daddy were pushing back:

  “But we haven’t seen him.”

  “What if he decides to settle permanently in the States?”

  I would occasionally switch places with my cousins to come down to the meeting. Later, Daddy spoke to me in private.

  “I think Apa Hameeda is here because she expects an answer. What should we tell them?” he asked.

  “It’s OK with me. You can say yes,” I said with confidence.

  “Are you sure?” Daddy was gentle and direct.

  “I am.”

  I was.

  Perhaps I am being irrational; but I am finally trusting my instincts, and this proposal feels right.

  Next morning I went off to college. I returned to find the whole family gathered in the drawing room again. Rehana was beaming a little more than usual. I went straight to my room to put my books away. Daddy followed me.

  “We just said yes,” he told me.

  “You did?” Oh, my God. It’s done.

  “But I asked you and you said it was OK with you.” Daddy misunderstood the tone in my voice.

  “Yes, yes, it is OK with me.”

  And so it was done. I was engaged.

  In the end, I had cast the deciding vote.

  Auntie asked for my measurements and ring size.

  Oooh! This is getting real.

  I had never worn a ring. Mummy used to say that the first ring I wear will be my engagement ring. I had liked the sound of that and had complied. Mummy used a tape band to measure my finger, and I handed over one of my shalwar kameez outfits to them. Now I was minus one outfit. Auntie Hameeda and Rehana said nothing to me about the fact that I was now engaged. All that would be rolled out ceremoniously when an engagement ceremony took place. They departed for Multan the next morning.