I designed and ordered the engagement announcement card. I had gift boxes with ladoo sweets ordered and had Aurangzeb deliver them to family and friends. When he had difficulty locating the home of one of my cousins, I went with him.
“You brought your ladoos yourself?” Engaged girls are supposed to be shy about such matters; celebrating is left to the elders.
Cousin’s mother-in-law peered at the announcement card, reading, “son of Mr. and Mrs. Abdul Rehman,” and asked me, “Who is this Abdul Rehman, very familiar name?” I suppressed a giggle. Abdul Rehman in Pakistan is as ubiquitous as John Smith is in the USA. It was like asking, “Who is this John Smith, very familiar name?” I answered her question, adding the earthquake story of Khalid’s father. She was hard of hearing; I am soft-spoken; and the gossip that got back to my mother was that my parents were marrying me off to an old man, someone who was orphaned in the earthquake in 1935.
My friends at college shrieked when I walked into class, a box of ladoos in my hand, touting the announcement card. I had brought photos of Khalid, and they all leaped up, grabbing the photos from each other’s hands, squealing and screaming.
“Let me see. Let me see.”
“He is so handsome!”
“Look at those sideburns!”
“Do you think he talks with an American accent?”
I certainly hope not.
“Look, he also has curly hair. Your children are going to have the tightest curls.”
I blushed.
Consensus: they approved.
“When is the wedding?”
“No idea. We haven’t talked about a date. I guess whenever he can get time off.”
At that time, only one of my classmates, Qaseem, was engaged. The rest of us were all waiting to get engaged and married. We had each gotten our bachelor’s degree, and the next step was to get married to a suitable boy. So what did we girls do while we were ladies-in-waiting? No, we did not take up a job. This was 1971, and girls of marriageable age had to be in a state of readiness to tie the knot as soon as Prince Charming came along. Taking up a job would put a girl on the career track, and that would chip away at her marriageability. So those who were pushy enough like me were able to convince our parents that we get enrolled in a master’s degree program in English literature in our hometown CB College. We wouldn’t be going away to college, and therefore, whenever the marriage proposal came, we would be around to “be seen” by the boy’s family, and if a proposal were accepted, we would just drop out of college and get married.
“What’s going on?” our English poetry professor asked as she walked in, wearing a sari with her hair in a tight bun.
“Bia is engaged!” A loud chorus.
“I hope you won’t drop out and get married before completing your master’s program.”
“Oh no, of course not.” I didn’t think I would be getting married any time soon.
A month later, I broke that promise. Or rather, it was broken for me.
But first, there was the engagement ceremony.
The Ceremony
Auntie Hameeda and Rehana were back in two weeks, with the engagement outfit, an orange gharara with gold embroidery, and a gold necklace with matching earrings. I was to don the outfit, the jewelry, and have an engagement ceremony without the ring and without the fiancé —not an unusual circumstance when the boy is overseas. I felt hesitant. The whole ceremony bit seemed incomplete without the boy. But the conformist in me complied, and it made everybody happy. It was the first engagement in both families, and they wanted to formalize it with a ceremony.
“We wanted to get the ring, but Khalid said that he wants to pick it out, and will bring it when he comes for the wedding,” Auntie Hameeda said.
He wants to pick the ring himself.
I thought about it over and over again, and I think I smiled.
The family gathered in Mummy’s walled garden, still blooming in October. I wore the orange gharara, was escorted out, seated, with my eyes lowered, looking demure and feeling totally awkward at this lonesome engagement. I missed my fiancé.
Can one get attached to someone in a photo? Was it the idea that Khalid was now my fiancé that made me smile and blush?
That evening, as Mummy and Auntie Hameeda chatted while Rehana and I sat by, Auntie asked, “When would you like to have the wedding?”
Before Mummy could muster a response, Rehana jumped in.
“Bhai Jan says,” she said, referring to Khalid, “that he can either come this November or next year in November.”
This was October.
“This November is fine.” Mummy was decisive as always.
I didn’t pass out. Nor did my heart miss a beat. I don’t believe my jaw dropped either. I had been mentally prepared to get married ever since I passed the milestone of getting my bachelor’s degree. As far as I was concerned, I was ready.
“But November is so close. We haven’t made any preparations,” Auntie Hameeda protested.
“Our preparations are complete. We can have the wedding next month.”
By this Mummy meant that the trousseau was ready. Mummy had been saving gorgeous fabrics for my trousseau, clothes that would be stitched at the time of the wedding, and had bought all the jewelry, which was tucked away in the bank’s locker.
“But our preparations are not done,” Auntie tried to reason.
“Look. She is going away to America. In New York she won’t have the opportunity to wear all that finery that you and I give her. In fact, the airlines won’t allow her to carry more than a suitcase. So don’t worry about getting her new outfits. There isn’t much for you to prepare.”
Auntie Hameeda was quiet. She was not quite ready for this.
And the conversation was left at that.
Had anybody thought of asking me? Daddy did. He spoke to me later that evening.
“This will mean that you won’t be able to complete your masters,” he said.
“That’s OK,” I said.
I loved English literature, and it would have been nice to have a master’s degree, but in my mind, marriage came first. With my bachelor’s degree in hand, my education was complete. The next step was marriage, and nothing in between. Marriage proposals for a girl peak around age seventeen to twenty. Once a girl was over twenty-one, her marriage prospects start declining. Not that I was counting, but I was turning twenty in a month.
Auntie Hameeda presumably spoke with Uncle Rehman, because the next day he called Daddy and said that they had sent a telegram to Khalid asking him to come next month for the wedding.
Four days later, Khalid landed in Pakistan.
You Have Mail
But first, there was the fuss over “the card.” Soon after the engagement, Daddy had brought me home from college, and as I walked up to my room, I noticed Mummy say something to Daddy and he started running excitedly toward the drawing room. I quickly made a U-turn and ran down the stairs after them. They were huddled over a greeting card.
“It’s a card from Khalid!” Daddy exclaimed.
“Can I see it?” It was a reasonable request. After all, he was my fiancé.
“Let me first read it.”
I glanced at the envelope on the mantle.
“It’s addressed to me! Why did you open it?” I turned and faced Mummy.
“I was so excited I couldn’t resist.”
It was a beautiful card. Even today, I smile when I think about the card and how it made me feel. I still remember the script:
Roses are brighter red
Skies are deeper blue
My life is more beautiful
Just after knowing you
Signed: “Love, Khalid.”
My first moment of romance!
“See how boldly he wrote, ‘Love, Khalid’?” Daddy said with a chuckle.
I took the card up to my room and put it by my bedside. A few hours later it was gone.
What on earth!
“I took it,” said Mummy, “
I wanted to show it to your aunt and uncle.”
Excuse me! Can I have some privacy in my one-sided love life?
Of course, I didn’t say that.
That afternoon Mummy’s best friend came visiting, and, naturally, the card was up for display. By the evening, family members in town had paid a visit to see the card. My grandparents in Multan were notified, who in turn told Khalid’s parents, leaving Auntie Hameeda mortified at her shy son’s audacity.
Khalid would later tell me that he had no idea that the card would create such a stir.
He Said
And how was Khalid dealing with all this, by himself, at the other end of the world? After all, it was his marriage too.
It was only after we were married that I got to hear his side of the story. You may wonder how a young man in his twenties, living in America for several years, would readily agree to marry a girl his parents had picked for him. In Pakistan, there was very little opportunity for unmarried men and women to get to know one another, so one relied on the parents’ choice. But in America, where one is exposed to the elements, outlook and mindset can change.
His mother had written to him early on about me. Well, not exactly early on, but soon after they had proposed.
“She is just the right girl for you,” and then had gone on to describe my family credentials: whose granddaughter I was, whose daughter I was, my father’s profession, which college I had graduated from, my sweet temperament, my quiet disposition, how well I will adapt in America—how did she figure that out?—and of course my name—Bia—short for Sabeeha. Did any of this appeal to Khalid? Two things did: I had been a student at the College of Home Economics, and “Bia” had a nice ring to it. He wrote back and gave his consent. A few weeks later, a parcel arrived in the mail: my photographs.
That sealed it. He says he loved what he saw. Remember, I was only nineteen when this photograph was taken. A young woman is at her loveliest at this age, fresh as a flower with a touch of innocence. And if it is a black-and-white photo, one looks even lovelier. The icing on the cake was my short hair—how lucky could he get! He carried the picture around showing it to his friends. That photo sits on his desk today, and often when he looks at it, I find him smiling. To this day, Khalid likes to see me in my curly short hair, and it has to be a side parting, just like the photo.
When his parents asked him to write to my parents, stressing its importance, the dutiful son sat down to compose his thoughts. He had no idea that his letter was going to receive the scrutiny it got, or mean so much to us. He just did what he was asked to do. When he got the news that my parents had accepted the proposal, the first thing that entered his mind was to send me a card. He did not realize how Americanized he had become when, without any hesitation, he wrote, “Love, Khalid.”
Then came the shock! A telegram from his father asking him to come to Pakistan to get married right away. This he was not ready for. He was not about to hop on a plane to get married at moment’s notice. Besides, he had already spent one week of his four-week vacation. He wrote to his parents that he was not coming. This is not how weddings are planned. It was his wedding and he wanted to plan it well, he cannot just get up and come. What’s the rush?
The day after he mailed the letter he had second thoughts. Maybe he had acted in haste.
“Can you all please come over? I need your advice.” He called his friends, all of whom were Pakistani resident physicians.
They gathered in his studio apartment and listened to his arguments.
I don’t have a proper apartment.
I haven’t bought the ring.
I need new clothes.
I have already spent a week of my vacation.
I am not ready for this.
His support group listened to the cons; offered the pros. The verdict: Khalid should go. Rationale: In the larger scheme of things, these concerns are of little consequence and they can be worked out. Once engaged, why delay marriage? Trust your parents’ decision; three weeks of vacation isn’t so bad for a wedding; get your shopping done and go.
So it was decided, and so it was done.
Khalid took his friend Izhar and went shopping the next morning at Macy’s in Herald Square. An engagement ring for me, a couple of suits for himself, and a camera. Then it was off to the Pakistan International Airlines office to get tickets for both of us. He sent a telegram to his parents and got onto the plane.
He Is Coming
Back in Rawalpindi, the phone lines started ringing the minute he landed.
“Khalid is here.” That was his parents.
“He is very handsome, and he speaks with an American accent.” That was my aunt reporting.
“We have to set a date for the wedding.” That was my grandfather.
“Khalid is coming tomorrow to visit you.” That was Uncle Rehman calling Daddy.
Khalid is coming!
I will get to see him before the wedding.
What will it be like?
How will I feel when I first see him?
Will I talk to him? Probably not.
Will he talk to me? Maybe.
I smiled.
A flutter of excitement filled the house. Uncles and aunts, cousins and all gathered to plan Khalid’s arrival.
“Where will he stay?” someone asked.
“At our house, of course.” Uncle, the consummate host, promptly offered his house.
“At our house,” said Daddy decisively.
“No! He cannot stay here,” I chimed in indignation.
“What do you mean, he cannot stay here?”
“It’s not appropriate for the groom-to-be to be under the same roof as the bride-to-be.” I was finally getting nervous.
“Listen to me, my dear old-fashioned daughter. This is our only chance to bond with him. This is no time to get traditional.”
“I guess so. But it is going to be very awkward for me.”
“If you insist, we will keep you in seclusion.” Now Daddy was being funny. “But I want this time with my future son-in-law.”
Should I try to get to know him—at least a little—or wait until after we are married?
How was all this playing out at Khalid’s end?
When Khalid announced that he wanted to go to Rawalpindi to meet my family, Auntie Hameeda was flustered. She was busy with the wedding preparations and told him that she could not go with him.
“I will go by myself,” the so-called shy son responded.
“Go by yourself! It’s not proper. I have to escort you and introduce you to the family.”
“I’ll go,” Rehana readily offered.
“Look. You all are busy with the wedding preparations and you need to be here. I can go by myself and I will be fine. Trust me.”
“But you haven’t met the family. How will you recognize them at the airport?”
“I’ll find them.”
Auntie Hameeda was beginning to see that her shy son wasn’t so shy anymore.
At First Sight
“Who is going to the airport?”
Everyone. Everyone, except me. I stayed home alone at Uncle and Auntie’s house in Lalazar. They had insisted that they be the first to host Khalid for dinner.
The plane must have landed just about now. Has he emerged from the plane? Will they recognize one another? How will they greet one another? How will Mummy and Daddy react when they first see him?
They must have left the airport by now.
Now they must be heading home.
Any minute now.
They came with a bang: horns blaring, headlights flashing, sounds and sights of a happy homecoming, signaling to me that they were not just happy, they were very happy. I held my breath.
From the landing upstairs, I heard the front door open, the pounding footsteps of a mob running up the stairs, and uncles, aunts, cousins, and siblings, all gushing with excitement, surrounded me.
“He is so handsome,” my cousin Anjum squealed.
“He is tall.�
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“He is so Americanized.”
“He has such a groovy personality.”
“He is … he is …”
Voices upon voices, getting louder, pitch rising.
“I am telling her first,” Uncle said, exerting his authority. “Quiet everyone. Your turn will come.” He turned to me: “Bia, your fiancé is handsome, he is an inch taller than me, a shade darker than me, he speaks beautifully, he is graceful, he is friendly, he is confident, and he is cheerful.”
Then everyone was chiming in, my cousins actually jumping and squealing, drowning each other’s voices, giddy.
“Did you recognize him easily? Is he like his photos?” I asked.
“I spotted him right away. I dashed over to him and said, ‘Khalid!’” Uncle was acting like a teenager. “He is even better looking than his photos.”
Then just as soon, they were all gone, downstairs to Khalid, where Mummy and Daddy were keeping him company. I was left to my own devices, or rather, with my thoughts.
It is going to be all right. Somewhere in my subconscious, I must have been worried: What if? They look so happy—they all like him. If he had passed the first line of defense, it is going to be all right.
I smiled, and then I felt my heart thump. Oh dear, what’s next?
There was laughter coming up from below. As I sat in the lounge on the landing, I listened hard, trying to filter out the new voice from the chattering voices. I brought my palms to my hot face and waited for something to happen. I could feel my heart pound.
Daddy walked up the stairs.
I looked up.
He was smiling. He held out his hand, “Come. Let’s go down.”
“No. I am not going.” I cannot handle this.
“It’s OK, come on.”
“I am not going,” I shook my head over and over, a bit too hard.
I cannot deal with this first-encounter business.
I didn’t trust how I was going to react.
What am I going to say? “Hello, you must be my future husband. Pleased to meet you.”
Daddy must have read my thoughts. He very gently put his arms around my shoulder, and eased me out of the seat.
Please, God. Just let me get through this. Let me not make a scene.
Threading My Prayer Rug Page 4