With Daddy by my side, I walked into the drawing room not knowing what to expect or how I would react.
The drawing room was empty.
So much for a grand entrance!
They had all moved into the dining room. Daddy led me there. Everyone was seated at the table.
Oh God, no. That’s him with his back to me. Speak of an awkward entrance! Now what?
“This is Bia,” Daddy announced, with his arm around my shoulder.
Khalid leapt out of the seat, swung around to face me, and almost knocked the seat down. As he looked up, a little startled, our eyes locked for an instant.
Those eyes! The same face, but alive.
“Assalaam Alaikum,” I greeted him with the blessing of peace, with my best smile, and dashed over to the empty seat at the farthest end of the table.
If there ever was a time when Khalid was struck speechless, this was it. But in all fairness, I had the edge. He didn’t know that I was going to be presented, as he would later tease me. We took our seats, as family members looked on, savoring the moment at my expense.
I was seated at the head of the table, Uncle across from me, and Khalid next to Uncle. From my vantage, I had a direct view of Khalid, but he would have to lean forward and turn his head to see me, and everyone would notice—not that there was anything wrong with that. Again, I had the edge, and I blew it big time.
I dug my head in my plate and started eating. I wouldn’t look up and didn’t speak. The elders chatted away with Khalid, and the young cousins just ogled the two of us.
These kids! I know exactly what you are up to. “Is he looking at her? Is she looking at him? Are they looking at each other?” Kids, just cut it out and stop staring. I am not offering you any entertainment.
Khalid was chatty, and his American accent felt foreign. He looked different from his photos: more handsome, well built, with a grace and easy carriage—a lot that the photographs did not convey. He wore a brown tweed blazer, a tie, but I don’t recall the color of his shirt, nor are there any photos of the occasion to remind me. Occasionally, I would steal a glance at him. I was hoping he wouldn’t catch me doing that. I felt my hands shake, and I steadied my left hand in my lap.
Uncle and Auntie had laid out a feast. The aroma of chicken pullao, the crunchy whole spices of the chapli kebabs, and mouth-watering, velvety mutton korma with whole almonds floating in the curry did nothing for me. I would have eaten anything as long as I could bury my head in it.
I got through dinner, and by morning I had gotten past my nervousness. Perhaps it was a combination of Khalid’s easy demeanor and my distraction with the wedding plans. After a while, I stopped being conscious of his presence and went about my business. I had a wedding to plan. Not very romantic, but I was calm and relaxed and for that I was grateful. We would all pack up into the car, Khalid in the front seat, I in the back, as we went from the tailor to the card shop, from the jewelers to the hotel and back to the tailor. I picked out a red wedding card with a gold outline of a bride sitting by her palanquin, with her hands clasped around her knees. I decided that I wanted the inscription to be in Urdu. We walked in and out of the shops together, sat at the same table for our meals, hung around in the same sunroom, and we talked with everyone except one another.
There will be time for that when we are married.
Khalid brought so much joy into our home in those two days. Everyone—and I mean, everyone—fell in love with him. He was at ease, funny, chatty, witty, charming, and with it. He brought a collection of music he had recorded on the spool tape and played the songs for Daddy, introducing him to Englebert Humperdinck and Neil Diamond. Daddy was taken; this young man who grew up in the conservative city of Multan had developed an ear for Western music. When Khalid offered the tape to Daddy to keep, Daddy was beyond appreciative. Khalid helped Mummy pick out colors and designs for my outfit, and Mummy was charmed. He kidded around with Neena, Salman, and my young cousins, humored them, and they just clustered around, monopolizing him. Uncle was enamored by his wit. Khalid had slid right in. The sounds of laughter rang from every room. Everyone was smiling, spirits soared, and my grandparents, all three of them, just beamed with delight and relief. I took it in from the sidelines, feeling that all was well with my world. This Americanized fiancé of mine respected the boundaries of culture, as he made no attempt to talk to me—until one impetuous moment when he crossed the line.
The Ring
“Khalid wants to give you the engagement ring on your twentieth birthday,” Mummy told me.
My moment of romance!
She showed me the ring. A set of two, a wedding band and a solitaire, a round diamond held above the band in platinum prongs, like two fingers holding the stone. I held it, turned it around, admiring the one-of-a-kind design.
“Is his engagement ring ready?” I asked.
“We picked it up today.” Mummy and I had selected Khalid’s ring just a few days ago.
“Let me see.” I looked at the heavy ring with a brilliant round diamond encased in four square platinum studs.
Now I can have a second engagement, this time with the fiancé.
For my birthday/engagement, all of my college friends descended with a bang. This was their chance to meet Khalid and have him to themselves before the surge of the wedding. I wore a midnight blue shalwar kameez over which I had embroidered swirls in silver thread. It was the same outfit in the black-and-white photograph we had sent Khalid.
I wonder if he recognized it.
Khalid wore a purple shirt and tie with the same brown tweed blazer. The whole family was there—of course—and my friends came dressed in colorful shalwar kameez and engulfed Khalid in a wave. He was spoken for, so the boundaries of segregation didn’t apply. They joked, tried to get him nervous, and wouldn’t let up. Each time he spoke with an American accent they would mimic him. He humored them, and the more he humored them, the more liberties they took. The birthday girl was forgotten. Khalid was the center of attraction, and the girls were having a ball. I watched as he laughed with them, the laughter of my friends conveying their approval.
They like him. And he isn’t rattled. This small-town boy can hold his own.
“Let’s do the engagement!” Tallat, my friend, tallest in height and loudest in pitch, had taken over the party. I was thrust onto a settee, and Khalid was placed beside me. This was the first time I sat beside him—close. Someone draped a dupatta over my head. Khalid took the ring from his pocket and slipped it on my finger. His fingers grazed mine, for a second. It was the first time we touched.
Nothing happened. No fireworks, no spine tingling. Mummy handed me Khalid’s ring. I held the ring, turned toward Khalid, he held out his hand, and I started to slip the ring on. But Tallat got a hold of my fingers and slid the ring on for me.
Excuse me! I can handle giving my fiancé his ring.
My only moment slipped out of my fingers.
Thank you, Tallat.
The room had drowned in the shrieking of my friends: Mubarak! God must have felt bad for me, because what happened next doesn’t happen. Khalid reached out, put his arm around my shoulder, and pulled me toward him in a kind-of-sideways hug.
It brought the house down.
Shrieks and more shrieks. Tallat, Ruby, and Khalida all screamed and squealed. Overcome, he had crossed the line, and they loved it. Even the elders suppressed a smile. Did he just give me a hug in public?!
In my shock, I couldn’t even savor the moment. Later Daadee Amma would tell anyone and everyone who came to congratulate Mummy and Daddy, “He placed the ring on her finger, and then he gave her a hug, like this.” She would act it out, her smile urging listeners to give their approval of her prospective grandson-in-law’s demonstration of affection in public. “Isn’t that nice,” they would say, glancing at my beet-red face.
“Let’s have some music,” announced Tallat, the self-proclaimed master of ceremonies. Khalida took her place on the center of the red floral Persian c
arpet, tucked the dholak against her knees, and beat the two-sided hand drum with her hands, rhythmically against the leather skin. All my other friends clustered around in a circle, clapping in unison and, in a chorus led by Ruby and Tallat, singing Urdu wedding songs, swaying with the melody. The elders retreated to the sofas lined up against the wall, relishing the sounds of music and laughter. My friends were center-stage and sang until they were hoarse, laughing and teasing Khalid, and I felt my cheeks warm up.
Did he really hug me!
“Now Khalid has to sing,” Ruby proclaimed.
Oh dear! Poor Khalid. He has done well so far, but I don’t think he is ready for this.
“Khalid is going to sing. Khalid is going to sing,” they chanted. “Bia sings so well. Let’s see if you can get a note out,” they goaded him.
“Sure. I’ll sing.”
Is he serious? Why does he want to give them more fodder? These girls will chew him up.
Khalid started singing “Aashian jal gaya,” a popular contemporary Urdu ghazal sung by Habib Wali Mohammad.
Not bad. Darn good, in fact. Good taste in ghazals.
He sang away with a smile, perched on the chair, and the girls clustered around him on the floor, looking up, making faces at him, trying to get him nervous; in the end they gave up and joined him in chorus, swaying to the tune.
“Now you have to sing an American song.” These girls were not letting up. And Khalid wasn’t going to let them have the last word either. He promptly started singing again, “I am leaving on a jet plane; I don’t know when I will be back again”—John Denver’s composition sung by Peter, Paul, and Mary.
He loves music, he sings ghazals, he sings American pop songs, he can stand up to these girls, he is such a sport, and charming…. I was on cloud ten in my own heaven. And it showed.
“See how she is glowing!” Ami Jan remarked.
“She looks so happy.”
“She is blushing.”
I heard the chatter, and all was well in my world.
Next morning Khalid was to leave for Multan. We were seated at breakfast, and then they were all out in the car headed for the airport, with me seated alone at the table staring at the empty plates.
Until this moment, “Assalam Alaikum” was the only one-sided dialogue I had had with my prospective.
But then there was the hug. But then again, he left without saying goodbye.
I was still sorting out my conflicting thoughts when Khalid walked back in—alone.
“I came to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye.” I looked up to meet his eye.
Just as quickly, he was gone.
He came back to say goodbye.
YES!
Six days later, on November 21, 1971, we were married. Three weeks later, I was in New York.
But first, the wedding.
2.
I Never Said, “I Do”
The Marriage Contract
It was one of those non-technical glitches. In his excitement, Uncle, my appointed guardian for the marriage ceremony, forgot to ask me, “Do you agree to marry Khalid Rehman?” Too submissive to remind him, I signed the marriage contract and was married off without an “I do.”
OK, so let me step back.
Grounded
“We will start your mayoon two days prior to your wedding,” Mummy said to me.
“What’s a mayoon?” Salman, my ten-year-old brother, asked.
“It’s when the bride-to-be can no longer leave the house and stays in the same clothes until her wedding day.”
“You mean Baji Jan cannot change for two whole days?” My younger siblings and cousins called me Baji Jan, as in “dear elder sister.”
“That’s right.”
“Uf!” He wrinkled his nose. “Why can’t she change?”
Daddy took over. “Because when she stays in the same clothes day after day, she starts looking crumply, and then on the wedding day, she is transformed.”
“You mean you make her look icky just so she looks less icky on her wedding day?” Salman teased. “Why does she have to be grounded?”
“Would you like to go out in wrinkled, stained clothes?”
Try explaining to a ten-year-old that the bride-to-be is kept home to get her into the mode, the frame of mind, to fuss over her, and to mentally prepare her.
Mummy gave me an orange cotton shalwar kameez, plain and simple. I was not to change into my pajamas; I was to eat, sleep, and hang out over the next two days in the same outfit. All my married friends had the mayoon. Some of them were grounded for an entire week. Lucky for me, last-minute preparations, such as trips to the tailor, took precedence, and I got away with a two-day sit-in. Salman was having fun at my expense. He would run up to me, sniff, wrinkle his nose, make an “ugh” sound, and run off.
Did I say, “Prepare her?” I should have said, “Embarrass her.”
Embarrassing moment #1:
“Here is some ubtan for you.” Mummy handed me a jar.
Those familiar with ubtan blush away. Let me explain. A concoction of the sub-continent, ubtan is a beauty paste reserved for brides-to-be in preparation for their wedding night. Made of gram flour, turmeric, sandalwood powder, milk, and rose water, it is known to make the skin glow and make it smooth and fragrant. In many families, a masseuse will come to the home and give the bride-to-be a body rub of the ubtan. In my case, I was the masseuse. I don’t know if the ritual did anything for my skin, but it certainly got me thinking and wondering, and made me a slight bit nervous. If that was the idea behind preparing me, it worked.
Embarrassing moment #2:
Uncle walked in and handed me a package.
“Here, start using this.” I heard the excitement in his voice.
I opened the package and took out a bottle. It had green liquid.
“What is this?”
“It’s a new product. It’s called mouthwash.”
No! Keep a straight face.
“Rinse your mouth with it twice a day, and it will make your breath fragrant.”
Subtle!
What are they going to tell me next?! Can we just stop here, please?
It didn’t stop there, and much of it is too embarrassing to put in print. Understand that this was the first wedding in the family in my generation—in both families. Their Bia was getting married, and they loved Khalid. It was their wedding, their big day, and they were going to give Bia the send-off of a lifetime.
Uncle was back, giggling away. “Bia, do you know what your groom-to-be just said?”
No, and I am not sure I want to hear it. He sounded just like he did before the mouthwash incident.
“Your grandmother said to him, ‘Please take care of Bia, she is my little princess,’ and do you know what Khalid said?”
Straight face. Straight face.
“He said, ‘Don’t worry, I will make her my little princess.’” He chuckled.
Phew!
Hmmm! Princess!
Auntie came rushing in. “Bia, do you know what Khalid just said?”
“Yes. I know, I heard.”
“Let me tell you again….”
Khalid was on a roll, keeping the reporters busy.
Whereas my parents had rented a house for Khalid and his family’s stay, as you can gather, they spent most of their time in our home, pushing me into seclusion in my bedroom.
Trousseau: Pakistani Style
Mummy arranged my trousseau in the sunroom, and through the walls I could hear the buzz of appreciation for Mummy’s talent and good taste. She had been saving material for my trousseau for over a decade. It was packed away, and every year she would remove the fabrics and air them. Neena and I would hold them longingly, feel their texture, and know that one day this would be ours. The two of us had already staked out our share. Mummy had carefully picked out the design of the gold and silver embroidery for the shalwar kameez and saris and the trimmings for the dupattas. My favorites were the pink sari with an overlay of gold rib
bon and the red gharara with gold embroidery, which I was to wear at the walima, the reception given by the groom’s family. Mummy had given me a piece from her wedding jewelry, a gold choker necklace put together in squares, with dangling jhumka earrings. But the most creative pieces in my trousseau were the linens Mummy had hand embroidered for me—a patchwork bedspread made with leftover fabrics from our outfits; crochet trolley covers; and a needlepoint wall hanging showing a man serenading a lady in the garden, which still hangs in our bedroom. She had put her heart and labor into creating beautiful artifacts, and it showed. The clothes are all gone, except for the red gharara; the jewelry I gifted to my daughters-in-law; but forty plus years later, Mummy’s linen still adorns my home.
I Never Said, “I Do”
“Bia, we will have the nikah the day before the wedding reception—the same day as your mehndi,” Mummy told me. Mehndi was the henna-painting ceremony. “It’s best to get the paperwork out of the way before the formal reception. All the family and friends will be here for the mehndi, and we can combine both events in one evening.”
Made sense.
“What’s a nikah?” Salman asked.
“It’s the official marriage ceremony,” Daddy answered.
“Isn’t the wedding reception the official marriage?”
Daddy explained that the nikah was the marriage contract—the legal and civil contract that makes the marriage official, whereas the wedding reception was the social occasion when the bride’s parents ceremoniously give away the bride. Until then, despite the nikah, the two remain apart.
“Why don’t we have the nikah the same day as the reception?” Salman was having difficulty processing this.
“If you can get the paperwork done earlier, then you can relax at the reception and enjoy the party.” Salman looked confused, and to this day I remain confused between being married and married-married. What Daddy did not get into was that the marriage contract, which is akin to a prenuptial agreement, can create conflict and requires delicate negotiation. A tricky component is the mahr amount—the cash gift bestowed by the groom to the bride.
If you had been in Lalazar Colony, Rawalpindi, on November 21, 1971, you would have seen the bride’s house from a mile away. With colored lights hanging like garlands from the rooftop, draping the walls, and twinkling into the night, the house was sparkling. It was the night of the mehndi, when henna will be painted on the hands of the bride-to-be and the guests; the girls will sing and dance late into the night; and the men of the family are the only male guests present. That somewhere on the agenda for an evening full of music was also the nikah—the most crucial component of the wedding—was of little consequence to my friends. They were going to get dressed in their finery and have a blast. Formalities such as the marriage contract would be deferred to the elders. On the lawn, the girls besieged Khalid, forming a circle around him, and to the beat of the dholak, danced the luddi. Swinging left, clapping once above the left shoulder, swinging right and clapping over the right shoulder, bending and clapping at the knees, then switching the routine to clicking the fingers, they danced around him. In seclusion, I sneaked a look from the sunroom window and watched Khalid swing his arms and perform a solo in the ring. The girls called out to Daddy to join Khalid, and Daddy, who had never performed the girlie luddi dance, clicked his fingers and joined in. The uncles were pulled in. I pressed my face against the cool sunroom window, overcome. At that moment, one of the girls looked up and shrieked, “Bia is watching,” and everyone, including Khalid, looked up. I quickly stepped back out of sight, but the photographer had captured the moment.
Threading My Prayer Rug Page 5