“No way,” my friends had joined the looters. “We want at least a thousand rupees.”
“I will give you five hundred,” Khalid negotiated.
“No way,” they shrieked.
The elders smiled, and the girls bargained away. I was enjoying this, smiling under the veil. Finally, Khalid pulled out an envelope, handed it to the girls, and then handed out tiny jewelry boxes to Neena and my cousins. He had come prepared. My friend Tallat opened the envelope and gaped.
“All this for us!”
Khalid nodded.
She reached out and took his face in her hands and shouted, “I love you!”
Smile.
Somewhere during that time dinner was served. My dear, dear out-of-town-married-friends showed up. One by one, they lifted my veil, peered under it, I saw their face, smiled at them, and then the veil was dropped. I got warm hugs—but I couldn’t tell whom from. All I could see was shoes. I would peek out when I thought no one was watching. Later, looking through photographs, I could tell who was there, what they wore.
Sometimes after dinner, someone lifted up my veil and told me to raise my head.
Thank God.
My neck had started to hurt.
Ah, I get it. Group photos are being taken. Makes no sense if you can’t see the bride’s face. Right!
I, of course, kept my eyes lowered, but unlike many brides, kept my eyes open. I mean, literally.
The band started playing “Auld Lang Syne.”
“It’s time for you to go,” Mummy said, coming up to me.
So this is when I will cry.
I was ready to cry, but the moment never came.
Khalid stood up with me, and Mummy and Auntie Hameeda started escorting me out of the ballroom. Photos show Khalid, Aba Jee, Daddy, and Uncle Rehman behind and all the rest in a procession trailing; my friends lined up showering rose petals as I pass; my maternal uncle, Jedi Mamoon, holding a copy of the Qur’an over my head.
“Slow down,” Mummy said.
I walk too fast. Mummy had been warning me all along that when it is time for my rukhsati—the time the bride departs—I should be mindful and walk, not run. “A bride should walk in dignity and be in no rush to run off,” she had told me.
I slowed down.
We reached the doors on the left, leading out, where I expected a car would be waiting, and before I sat in the car, I would hug my parents good-bye, and break down in tears. Every bride did that. And at every friend’s wedding, I would cry at that “car moment”; and each time I knew that when my time came, I would fall apart, sob my heart out, and not let go of Mummy and Daddy. That dreaded moment had arrived, and my tears had already started to well up.
Mummy turned me right.
What’s going on? The doors are on the left. Where are we going?
The procession stopped at the elevator.
Are they taking me straight up to the bridal suite? Whatever happened to the good-bye in the car? My send-off?
I don’t want to leave without crying!
The elevator door opened, and I was led inside, Khalid too, standing right in front of me.
We are going up. What about my send-off—my tearful good-bye? The car scene!
Doors opened, I was led into the hallway, passed the threshold, into the bridal suite, and deposited onto the sofa.
I guess this is it.
Oh well!
At least I could see around me, with my dupatta no longer veiling my face. There was pitter-patter; someone was checking out the suite; each time the elevator door opened, more family came in; and then all my friends. The suite was full of chatter. In that moment, I felt a longing to be alone with Khalid. I was ready. And in a few minutes, everyone was gone. Daddy was the last to leave.
Khalid was to tell me later that when he saw Daddy to the door, Daddy gave him a bear hug, held him tight, held on, and then quickly left.
Dear Daddy!
Now, I will pause.
If you are looking forward to a detailed description of what followed, you might as well stop reading and go no further. But if you continue, I promise, you won’t be disappointed.
There are moments in your life you never forget.
Khalid walked toward the sofa and sat down next to me.
“Bia, I have a present for you.” He pulled out a watch.
A silver watch.
How much stuff was he carrying in his suit pockets anyhow?
“Thank you,” I remember saying, and smiling.
It was delicate, stylish, and sparkling. I tried to put it on.
“May I?” He leaned forward.
I smiled again. I watched him put the watch on my left wrist, pushing my bangles aside.
“It’s pretty,” I said, keeping my eyes on the watch, too shy to look at him.
Khalid started talking.
And then I looked up. He kept talking, about the wedding, how well it went, stuff like that; and I kept listening, watching his face. He talked about America, what life is like, what it will be like for me, and just—stuff. I don’t remember much of what he said. I only remember how it made me feel. I was charmed.
It must have been hours, or maybe not.
The more I listened to him talk, the more at ease I felt; the more I warmed up to him; and by the end of the evening, I was falling in love. I have loved him deeply since that first night. He is my soul mate, my best friend, my companion; he is my source of energy, inspiration, and motivation; from him I seek comfort, solace, and joy; and with him, I am calm and at ease. We grew together to fill our life with adventure; were blessed with two beautiful sons; and are now basking in the delightful company of four grandchildren. Aba Jee was right; grandpa knows best.
I wore the silver watch for decades. Forty-four years later, when I started writing this chapter, I was startled. OMG! Whatever happened to that silver watch? I stopped typing and went running for my jewelry box. It wasn’t there. Maybe it got used up and I discarded it? I couldn’t have! It must be somewhere.
It was nowhere.
“I will get you another silver watch,” Khalid said.
“But it won’t be the same. I don’t need another watch. I want my silver watch.”
And we left it at that.
Months later, when Khalid needed to replace the battery in his watch, we stopped by the SWATCH store in Grand Central Terminal. While he waited for the technician to put in the battery, I hung around, casually checking the stock. A watch caught my eye, and I held it. I draped it on my wrist. I looked at it again.
“Did you find your silver watch?”
“I just did.”
4.
Marital Advice
Marital advice was coming in droves. This was Pakistan, where unsolicited, free advice is in abundance. The elder ladies of the family, the aunties, friends of aunties, and friends of friends of aunties, impart years and years of earned wisdom to the bride.
“Give a portion of your money to charity every month,” Daadee Amma said.
“Don’t use birth control. It leads to infertility,” auntie pulled me into a quiet room and whispered.
“Here is a recipe book for you”—another auntie.
I am embarrassed to say that I don’t recall most of the pearls of wisdom, but what Khalid’s father had to say has stuck with me. The night before we were to depart for America, he sat us both down. The room was crowded with family—this was no one-on-one counseling.
First, the preamble:
“You are both sensible people, so I trust you to …” I don’t recall precisely, but it had something to do with trusting us to be sensible in our dealing with one another. “And now I want to give you both a piece of advice.” He turned toward Khalid.
“Khalid, my son. Every month when you bring home your salary, hand over the entire amount to your wife.”
“Acha Jee,” Khalid nodded dutifully.
“And second,” he said, looking at us. “Don’t argue with each other.”
Over the decades, I ha
ve pondered over the wisdom of his words. A conservative Muslim man of a patriarchal society, asking Khalid to trust his wife, trust her with all his earnings, his hard-earned earnings from standing on his feet for sometimes thirty-six hours at a stretch, dealing with the stresses of life and death. He was expressing his confidence in me to honor that trust. He was asking us both to put respect for one another above all. He was defining the boundary beyond which words can chip away and diminish the level of respect.
Asking married couples not to argue is not as tall an order as it seems. Try it. When you see the tone shifting from a discussion toward a possible argument, stop. Just stop.
It works.
PART TWO
A Pakistani Muslim in New York
5.
A Pakistani Bride in New York
“I Wouldn’t Do That If I Were You”
December 3, 1971. Amsterdam Airport en route to New York
“War has broken out in Pakistan,” the Pan Am official at the gate informed us. “Your flight was the last to leave the country.”
Did a bomb just drop on me!
Oh God, NO!
What war?
India, she explained.
It can’t be! How did a civil war in East Pakistan lead to war with India? Did Daddy get sent off to war? My uncles too? Will Rawalpindi get bombed? Mummy and auntie must be panicking. Dear God, please, please, please keep them safe. Please end this war. Please.
As we followed the official, I felt myself stagger. I had stepped onto a path without realizing that it was moving—my first step into the world of moving platforms, escalators, and sliding doors. I felt Khalid hold my arm to steer me off the platform. I moved in a daze; my moment of wonder and awe snatched away.
Did I run over to the first public telephone? No. This was December 1971, and this E.T. couldn’t “phone home.” An overseas call had to be booked weeks in advance. I would have to wait to get to New York and hope to receive a telegram.
It was less than seven hours ago that I had left my family standing at Rawalpindi airport, waving good-bye in the morning sun. Then turning back again to wave. Sitting next to Khalid, flying into a new future, my hopes soared as the plane rose. I saw the rooftops descending, my home being pulled away.
Where on top of the world was I when war broke out?
Two years later when I visited Pakistan, Daddy told me that when he waved me good-bye, war had already broken out, and he had known that he was sending his little girl off on the last flight out.
New York, New York
The Pan Am flight descended through the clouds, and the waters of Jamaica Bay glistened in the afternoon sun. Dollhouses appeared, with slanting rooftops, rows and rows of them.
Is that New York? I don’t see the skyscrapers? This looks like the countryside in the movies.
“When we get home, we have to go out and get some groceries for dinner,” Khalid told me as the plane descended into JFK.
That didn’t sound appetizing. Good-bye comfy life in Pakistan; no more Aurangzeb to buy groceries; no more Razia to cook dinner.
Khalid’s friends were at the airport to receive us, one of them with his American fiancée, who quickly put out her hand to show Khalid her ring.
I guess American girls are not shy.
“Hi,” she greeted me.
“Hello,” I replied. “Hi” was too American for the British in me. Did I mention that Pakistan was once a British colony and part of India? In Pakistan, we spoke the Queen’s English.
Looking back at that day, I am grateful for their generosity. They gave up their Sunday, drove to the airport to welcome me and drive us home. They were all resident physicians with a grueling schedule. It was the Pakistani hospitality. The fiancée, she was to tell me later, was also curious—who is this girl who Khalid married without knowing her; she had expected to see a girl with long hair, sweeping to her knees.
The roads are so clean, smooth, and wide…. So many road signs; so many cars moving fast in straight lines; roads turning into bridges over roads; a left light blinking at the tail when a car changes lanes (that’s a great idea); such big cars, but no convertibles as in the movies. No horns honking. Why was there only one person in each car? Such big cars could pack in two families, right? Why don’t I see any skyscrapers? I suppose American girls are not demure—for a fiancée, she is rather chatty.
As we approached what I later learned was Jamaica, it started to feel crowded and the buildings grew taller, but not in a glitzy way—rather drab. The car pulled up in front of a tall building.
“Would you like to come in?” Khalid asked them.
The fiancée declined—something about another engagement. For a fiancée, she is pretty much running the show. I guess that’s America.
It was a walk-up. The stairwells were scribbled with odd designs. But this is America! More civilized. Why are they scribbling on walls?
Khalid opened the door to the apartment, and I froze. Two of his friends had gotten there ahead of us to bring our suitcases and stood there in the apartment with stuff strewn around, trying to make room to place the bags. My face must have said it all; so did their apologetic looks.
No carrying over the threshold for me.
They handed Khalid the keys and said their good-byes. Khalid said something about having to leave in a rush with no time to tidy up. A sofa against one wall; a tiny table with two chairs at the other wall—which I guessed was the dining table; a closet against the third; a kitchen against the fourth; and in the corner, a door leading to the bathroom.
Where is the sleeping area?
The blushing bride was too embarrassed to ask.
This was to be my new home; but at that moment I felt like a guest.
The apartment was warm—actually a bit hot for a December afternoon. How did it get hot so quick—his friends had arrived only minutes before us? Khalid explained central heating to me. What a luxury! And that the apartment had stayed heated all the time he was in Pakistan. What a waste!
“Let’s go get groceries,” Khalid reminded me.
Ah yes, groceries. No rest for the weary bride.
Khalid walked me across the street to what he called the Super Market.
Is this Super indeed! That much food! Even the supermarket is centrally heated.
Khalid pulled out a cart.
“What is this for?” I asked.
“For our groceries.”
That big a cart just for food?
No one welcomed us at the supermarket. There was no owner to greet us. No one saying, “Hello, you are back, this must be your bride….”
All this food!
Khalid sped over to a section that said “Dairy.” “We need milk.”
I picked up a carton. It felt cool. I could feel the blast of cool air coming from the back. It was an open refrigerator.
Beats having fresh milk delivered daily, warm off the cow. But isn’t this open refrigerator such a waste? Daddy always used to say, “Don’t open the fridge door and just stand there; it’s a waste of electricity.”
“Let’s get this one. It has Vitamin D in it.” I tried to impress.
Khalid played along, and put it in the cart.
The eggs are not lying loose in a pile but are in this box with egg holders. That’s smart; they won’t break. But I wonder how one can make use of the boxes after the eggs are eaten.
“We don’t need a dozen eggs,” I said.
“That is how they sell them.”
Oh.
Khalid picked up a couple of onions—perfectly round without blemishes.
How do they make them perfectly round? The apples are labeled “delicious.” All that canned food—potatoes, beets, corn, peas—peas—I won’t have to labor over shelling pea pods.
As I turned around the bend, it suddenly got freezing cold.
Even the sign says “Frozen Section.” An entire wall lined with freezers. So many kinds of ice cream! Now if the frozen section can have doors on the freezer, wh
y can’t the refrigerated section?
Khalid swooped out Butter Pecan.
“My favorite,” he said
Butter?
No one in the supermarket is talking with one another. All these people in one place but shopping alone. Maybe they are in a hurry.
Khalid rolled the cart to a counter to pay the bill.
Why isn’t he bargaining? I guess the marked prices are not negotiable. All the sales people are ladies. The salesgirl isn’t chatting with us; she didn’t even greet us. Rather unfriendly—just got right down to business. Instead of writing out the prices on a piece of paper, she is pressing buttons on a machine, and it’s adding the numbers. Great idea! This way you don’t make mistakes, unless of course you enter the incorrect price. She must have a lot of practice—see her fingers fly.
Putting the groceries in a large brown paper bag, she handed it to Khalid. That was the most silent transaction I had ever encountered.
Who is going to carry the bag home for us?
Dummy, this is not Pakistan.
The war was on my mind when we walked back home. I noticed a woman on the street.
Poor woman, her jeans are torn at the knees. Another woman with tattered jeans! A lot of poor in this neighborhood.
Khalid asked me to freshen up, relax, write my letters, and he will make dinner for me.
He will make dinner for me? But he is a gentleman.
We put away the groceries, and as I took out the carton of milk, I asked Khalid where I could find a large saucepan. Asking no questions, he handed me one. I took the milk carton and tried to open it, as I held it over the saucepan.
“Let me open it for you.” He pulled open the spout.
The carton has a spout!
“We have to boil the milk.” I was taking charge.
Khalid must have smiled.
“Here in America, the milk is pasteurized.”
Oh again.
I sat at the table and wrote to Mummy and Daddy, totally distracted in the presence of a gentleman cooking. This was a first for me—seeing a gentleman peel an onion. Watching him gently, caringly, peel away the layers, crack the eggshells, sprinkle the seasoning, stir the eggs—I loved him.
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