“Can everyone please come in for the nikah,” called Uncle, summoning the guests in the drawing room. And thus began the first in a series of identity changes for me, this one, from Sabeeha Akbar to Sabeeha Rehman.
In keeping with the requirements of the nikah, both families had early on agreed upon the mahr amount. What remained was the consent of the bride and groom in the presence of two witnesses, the signing of the marriage contract stating the mahr amount, and a public announcement. That would seal it, and we would be legally married. The ceremony would culminate with a prayer led by the maulvi, a cleric—not a religious requirement, but a tradition. Photographs show the bearded maulvi in a Jinnah cap, wearing a white shalwar kameez, seated in the drawing room with Khalid in his brown tweed blazer, purple shirt, and purple printed tie, flanked by the fathers and Aba Jee. Uncle, who was handling the paperwork, is seated opposite—he must have pulled the chair up to the maulvi as they went over the nikah form. My grandmothers, Mummy, and the aunties would have taken their seats at the opposite side. Two witnesses each were appointed for Khalid and me. It is preferred that the witnesses be young men—on the assumption that they will live longer and be around to bear witness. I was seated upstairs in my bedroom, in my crumpled orange outfit. Neena, my cousins, and friends clustered around me—must have been twenty to thirty of them.
I wasn’t present in the drawing room, but I presume that after the nikah form was filled out, the maulvi must have asked Khalid three times, “Do you, Khalid Rehman, son of Abdul Rehman, accept Sabeeha Akbar, daughter of Kazim Akbar, to be your wife?” I am sure Khalid said, “Yes.” (On the other hand, given what happened later with me, who knows?) The maulvi would have asked Khalid to sign the nikah form; in the photos I see Khalid smiling as he signed the form. And then the witnesses would have signed. Next would be my turn to give consent. Since the bride is cloistered in her room with the young ladies, the maulvi would not intrude in their space, and an elder of the bride’s family, serving as a proxy for the officiant, would go to her and ask for her consent. In my case—you guessed it—it was Uncle.
Uncle walked in, and making his way through the crowd of girls, came to me. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, squeezed on either side by Neena and my friends. Someone draped a red dupatta over my head, drawing it down, hiding me from view. I lowered my head. I sensed Uncle coming, and I braced myself for the question: “Do you, Sabeeha Akbar, daughter of Kazim Akbar, agree to marry … ?” and I would shyly nod my head in assent.
Well, I gave this away at the beginning. Uncle walked up to me, gently placed the nikah papers in my lap, handed me a pen, and lovingly said, “Bia, dear, please sign here.”
That is not the way it was supposed to be.
He is supposed to ask for my consent.
I am supposed to cry; then give my consent; then cry again.
I signed the papers.
Uncle left.
Then I cried. I had just signed my life away from my parents. I have photographs with my friends wiping my tears, teary-eyed themselves. I have photographs with my witnesses—my witnesses—signing the nikah form; I have photographs of the maulvi downstairs, saying the prayer and everyone’s hands raised in prayer: prayer for the couple, for a joyful marriage, and for their welfare. My Americanized husband had not brought a skullcap and is seen trying to balance the handkerchief resting on his head.
Mubarak, I heard the cry of congratulations from below signaling that I was officially married.
I am married.
The girls clapped and cheered their congratulations. Mubarak. Someone brought in chowaras and threw them into the crowd. Girls raised their hands to grab the dried dates in their fists. Mummy walked in, and everyone parted as she walked up to me and gave me a hug. “Khush raho,” she said, wishing me a joyous life.
More tears.
What happened next … does not happen. At least not in Pakistan in the 1970s.
Khalid walked right into my bedroom.
Facebook generation would say: OMG.
He was not supposed to be there. He was not allowed in there.
He had enlisted my distant, elder cousin Nasim’s support to escort him through the enemy lines of my friends, pleading that he wanted to see “his wife.” Nasim’s heart melted (I told you Khalid had charm). Believing that as the elder, married woman, she had clout and authority, she led Khalid to my room, made her way through the crowd, walked up to me—Khalid in tow—lifted my veil, exposed my tear-stricken face, and before anyone could count to one, Khalid had leaned down, touched my cheek and was congratulating me, “Bia, Mubarak Ho.”
All hell broke loose.
Someone threw the dupatta over me. Tallat screamed at Nasim, “What are you doing? You have ruined tomorrow’s surprise.”
“Khalid, leave this room, now. You cannot see the bride before the wedding.”
“But she is my wife now. I can see her.”
Khalid’s protests and logic were drowned out by tradition and the screams of my friends. Cousin Nasim was intimidated out of the room, and they both retreated. Under the veil, I chuckled.
He wanted to see me.
No more tears.
Someone lifted my dupatta, and the photographer caught my chuckle.
For a long time I would kid Khalid. “I never said ‘I do.’”
I never let Uncle know that he didn’t ask for my consent. I presume he was overwhelmed with the logistics and excitement and just forgot. A decade later, the Princess of Wales would marry the wrong Charles. Millennials, did that confuse you? Let me explain: while taking wedding vows, the nervous bride Diana repeated Charles’s names in the wrong order—Philip Charles Arthur George. You can catch it on YouTube.
Mehndi: Henna Painting, Music, and Laughter
“Come on down for the mehndi ceremony.”
In a minute, they were all gone—Neena, my cousins, my friends. I heard the beating of the dholak, the clapping, and the singing of the girls Jeevay banra—the mehndi festivity had begun.
“Ready?” Neena and my cousins came to escort me.
Someone adjusted the dupatta, pulling it well over my head and below my forehead to veil my face, and held my hand (I was totally blinded by the veil), while another held me by the arm, and walked me down the stairs. As I started descending, the sound of the singing kept getting louder; I entered the drawing room—all lit up in colored lights; every inch on the rug was taken up by the girls, one playing the dholak, the others clapping and singing wedding songs in Urdu and Punjabi. As I entered, they quickly changed their beat to a chant: “Bia is here; Bia is here.” I lowered my head; my escorts navigated me through the crowded floor, taking care not to step on anyone’s toes, and led me to the sofa, seating me next to what had to be a man. I could tell by the shoes and pants.
Is this Khalid?
The man said something, I can’t remember what. Yes it is. It’s his voice.
Why am I sitting beside him, almost touching, when we are not even married?
Oh, we are married.
Head bowed, I took my place, eyes lowered, and silent.
Now wasn’t I supposed to feel something when our knees touched? Should I pull my knee away or let it rest. If I pull it away, the girls will notice and then have some fun at my expense. Maybe if I let it rest, he will pull away. Right!
Three round trays lit up with candles were placed at my feet. One with henna paste, sprinkled with red and silver foil confetti; the second with hair oil in a small bowl that was hand-painted in a floral design; and the third laden with yellow ladoo sweets displayed on sparkling red paper. Seven married women—the suhagans—from Khalid’s family, lined up to paint my hand with henna, for good luck. I was not able to see through the veil, so upon prompting, I extended my palms, placing them in my lap. The girls started chanting in Urdu, “The bride’s mother-in-law puts henna on her hands,” and clapped to the beat as Auntie Hameeda, the eldest suhagan, opened the ceremony by lifting a pinch of henna from the first tray, and p
lacing it on my palm. She then dipped her fingers in the tiny bowl of hair oil in the second tray and lifting my veil just a little, rubbed the oil on the tip of my hair. Last, she took a pinch of the ladoo—for sweetness and bounty in marriage, and gave me a bite. She opened her purse, pulled out a hundred rupee bill, circled it over my head three times to ward off the evil eye, and placed it in my lap. It would be given to charity the next day. Six other married aunties lined up to repeat the ceremony, and each time the girls would sing out, “The bride’s aunt-in-law puts henna …,” calling out each of the aunties as they repeated the ceremony. If it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t know who was applying henna to my hands. All I saw were shoes and a hand.
This is my husband sitting next to me. Husband. Husband. He sounds happy.
Khalid’s turn: a leaf was placed on his palm to prevent the henna from reddening his palm—imagine the explaining he would have to do when he returned to New York and examined a patient with painted hands. Seven suhagans from my family lined up, starting with the eldest—my maternal grandmother, then Mummy, and then my aunts; and the girls chanting, “The bride’s grandmother … The bride’s mother …” If you didn’t know who was who, now you did. Khalid got the henna—on the leaf, the oil in his curly hair, the ladoo to taste, and, of course, the rupees in his lap.
The aroma of pullao flowed through the kitchen, but with all the ladoo tasting, I had lost my appetite.
The suhagans done, the single girls descended, and everyone got to do the routine. Daddy, uncles, and male cousins—they were there, in the background. This was my bachelorette party, and the ladies commanded the field.
I sat for over an hour now, next to Khalid, my head bent, looking into my lap. My neck was hurting; my back was stiff. And it was not fun watching everyone having a blast, singing and laughing, and me just a prop. The girls were kidding around with Khalid, and he was humoring them. Of course, he couldn’t talk to me—a no-no; we are still not socially married—so, no talking.
I can feel him smile, and he has a nice laugh. I guess he is not a cologne or after-shave guy. I kind of wish I could take a peek at him, but a sideways glance would be too risky. If the girls caught me stealing a glance, they would roar it out to the world, and my in-laws would be mortified, not to mention a scolding by my mother.
No one noticed that I was fidgeting and shifting, trying to stretch. I must have bumped into Khalid. I bet he didn’t mind. And that was the other thing. I was so, so conscious of him beside me, our knees touching. I stole a glance at his knee.
Nice pants.
“Bia, are you tired?” my friend Ruby asked.
Finally!
I nodded.
“Oh, poor thing. Do you want to go upstairs?”
I nodded.
“Oh, sweet!” they cooed. “Come, let’s take her.”
Holding my hands, they led me upstairs, my head bent, deposited me on the makeshift floor mattress that was laid out for me and my friends in the sunroom, and off they all went back down to join the party. Someone brought me dinner, and I sat alone. I had no appetite. Someone kept coming up to check on me and then rushing downstairs to join the fun. I don’t recall if I said my prayers that night. I may have been too distracted. But if I did, I know what I would have prayed for. The singing and laughter continued long after I fell asleep. Sometime late at night, I was awakened when the girls came up to sleep, sardined around me on the floor, and continued their chatter—there was too much adrenaline flowing. I pretended to be asleep. I needed to be by myself with my thoughts.
Tomorrow by this time—Shhh! Just go to sleep.
Sweet dreams—watch it—not too sweet.
The next night, at this time, I was with Khalid.
3.
A Silver Watch
My Splendid Pakistani Wedding
November 22, 1971
I fell in love with my husband on the night we were married.
It wasn’t his looks. He was handsome for sure—tall, dark, no less. It was his manner—the little things; how he talked, and how he felt when he spoke—that put me at ease. He wasn’t romantic; that would have made me nervous. Listening to him talk, I felt myself relax. It was simple as that. Was it his sincerity, his compassionate side, or his thoughtful nature that warmed me to him? It is hard to tell. I remember that in that moment, this was the person I wanted to be with. And that is how it has been for the rest of our lives together. I am relaxed when I am with him, and in his own thoughtful and gentle way, he puts me at ease. I still love listening to him talk; and he loves to talk.
Our wedding was the stuff fantasies are made of. Honest! It was as if God had sat at the drafting board and chiseled out every detail to make it fit for me. It was the perfect gift—of a lifetime.
I wore red. My gharara of tissue fabric gave off a golden shimmer through the red. I wore all my jewelry, as was the custom. My friend Tasneem did my make-up—I was hopeless when it came to makeup. She pinned the tikka string into my hair, letting the gold pendant rest on my forehead. She draped the dupatta—a red-and-gold long veil over my head, tacked it on my shoulder, and showed me how to hold it over my arms. I wore gold bangles on my right wrist and a bracelet on my left. With the tikka on my forehead and the dupatta draped over my head, I now looked the Bride.
Don’t think about the wedding night. Just focus on being a bride.
“Bia, are you ready? The baraat has arrived, let’s go.” The groom’s wedding party had arrived at Hotel Intercontinental, and guests had assembled. Uncle and auntie had come to get me.
Every bride remembers the moment when she made an entrance. I stepped out of the car; uncle and auntie held me by the arms and escorted me through the doors. My head lowered and veiled by the dupatta, I entered the hallway. I heard Daddy’s voice, then Mummy’s. I felt them hold me by the arms on either side and walk me down to the ballroom.
I will miss Mummy and Daddy.
I heard my friends running toward me. “Here she is, here she is.”
I love them. How I will miss them!
I was led through the hallway to the tune of the brass band, down the aisle, and up the stage. I saw a gentleman’s shoes and a pair of pants; and I sensed that person stand to receive me.
That must be Khalid.
I was seated, someone arranged my attire, and I felt Khalid take a seat beside me.
Nice shoes!
I heard Auntie Hameeda’s voice, and felt her put a garland of roses over my bent head, draping down my shoulders. Fragrant and heavy. The next instant, I felt the stage crowded with family and friends.
“Lovely.”
“Beautiful.”
“So innocent looking.”
“She is glowing.”
“May they be happy together. Ameen.”
Cameras snapped—the Kodak film cameras. Khalid had brought a camera with slide film and had charged his brother Arshed with taking photographs. Arshed, with an eye for photography, took beautiful pictures, and for decades, often when we had a gathering, we would put up the slide show. Thank you, Arshed, for your lasting gift. I now have these slides converted into a DVD and they often play on my TV screen. But we have no videos of the wedding—this was 1971. That’s OK.
Someone brought a large mirror to the stage. With our garlands removed, we were made to face one another, the mirror was placed, face up, between us, and we were asked to look down into the mirror. An old tradition, Arsi Mushuf was the ritual where the bride and groom saw one another for the first time through the mirror. Of course, Khalid and I had seen each other, but tradition prevailed. I saw Khalid in a dark blue suit and a dark blue necktie. Arshed took a photo of our reflection in the mirror—Khalid is smiling. To this day, I love seeing Khalid in a dark blue suit.
“Thank you,” I heard Khalid say to my grandparents as they handed him the salami, a cash gift that the bride’s family gives to the groom, to welcome him in the family.
“Thank you,” to my parents.
“Thank you,” to
auntie and uncle.
“Thank you,” “thank you,” “thank you.”
Getting rich? Wait till the next ceremony, Khalid. You will lose your shirt.
Khalid lost his shoe.
Neena and my girl cousins seated themselves on the rug at Khalid’s feet and in the blink of an eye, got hold of his shoe and pulled it off. Now they were demanding ransom. This was Joota chupai—a tradition where the sisters of the bride won’t let the groom take the bride away until he buys back his shoe.
“I will give you a hundred rupees for it,” Khalid said.
Threading My Prayer Rug Page 6