All of his attention overwhelmed me. He was a handsome, educated, accomplished, and sophisticated man who knew how to sing and say romantic things. I suddenly could not focus on my studies. Then I had trouble eating, and I even stopped laughing. Everything seemed a bit surreal to me; I walked around campus in a daze. I was a little girl again, absorbed in a romantic story, but only this time it was my life, not the life of some fictional character. I was young and in love, and filled with crazy but beautiful thoughts.
One day I wrote him a letter—my first love letter. I did not know what to write, so I told him a story. It was long and more than a little melodramatic.
My two friends who were in Islamabad with me kept insisting that Mansoor was actually in love with another friend’s oldest sister. That made sense to me and would explain why she acted jealous at all of Mansoor’s attention toward me. That also confused me. If he were in love with another woman, would he be writing me all of these letters, making these phone calls? I did not understand why he was pursuing another women and me at the same time. In my thinking, reputable men, men like my father, did not do such things.
One day I asked him about his feelings toward my friend’s big sister. He replied that she was only a friend and colleague. We often talked over the phone, but he never once mentioned a future together. But he continued to speak romantically to me.
I may not have known much about men, but I knew what I thought about marriage: that I would only marry a man who I loved who loved me and me alone. I was not interested in a romantic adventure that would lead only to heartbreak.
On a break from college, I returned to Karachi thoroughly confused about what to do with how I was feeling. At home, Mother was worried to see me so thin and weak. I had lost some weight, which shocked her. I did not tell her about Mansoor out of fear it would heighten her worry over me. Instead, I visited my eldest cousin, Farida Baji, a student at Karachi University. She was older and more experienced. She listened to my entire story about Mansoor—how we met, how he looked like the famous movie star, Waheed Murad, his singing and sweet words to me, his letters and phone calls. She then read all his letters and cards.
Finally, she said, “There is not one word here about a future together. I don’t think he’s serious.” She thought he was just flirting with me. She advised me to forget him, to tell him not to call me any longer. “You are just infatuated with a man who reminds you of a movie star. Consider this,” she went on, “he is seven years older than you. He is very sharp and experienced. He is not sincere with you. What if he had a drinking problem too? You never know. I think he sees that you are innocent and can be easily swayed.”
Why would he do that? That is what I did not understand. All during my visit home, I wanted to stop hearing his voice, his sweet words, and musing on his charming memories. But his words and songs played in my mind like a recording. He had stirred something deep in me. Farida Baji thought I was only infatuated, in love with an idea, not a person.
Was that all I was feeling—infatuation?
Then I had to consider my friend’s sister. She had been so gracious to us, allowing us to stay in her home in Islamabad. I had no desire to hurt her. If they were in love, and planning to marry, then I had to put a stop to his calls and letters. I did wonder though why he would be contacting me with such loving letters and calls if he loved another woman. Did he have any intention at all of proposing marriage to me? Or was I just too innocent to understand this man’s true intentions, whatever they were?
I sat down and wrote him a letter. I explained that I did not want to receive cards, letters, or phone calls from him any longer. As hard as it was to write that letter, it was even harder to forget him. It took me a year to get him completely out of my thoughts.
The next year, I heard through a friend that Mansoor had married his longtime fiancée, Lubna, and moved to New York. So he had been toying with two other women while engaged to another. What a big flirt. I was very surprised but glad I had cut off communicating with him.
At my graduation convocation, I was honored by President Zia-ul-Haq, who presented me with a silver medal for academic excellence. President Haq had traveled to Nawab Shah for the convocation ceremony at the college. The national TV broadcast the ceremony live. I felt so proud to be among so many accomplished students and to be honored before my parents with this beautiful medal.
Afterward, I mingled with my peers to say our farewells. We would all soon disburse across the country to various residencies. I packed for home. Some of the Karachi students hired a tanga (horse-drawn carriage) to enjoy for our final ride to the station. I was excited to return to our sweet city of Karachi. On the railroad platform, men from the nearby engineering college waited for their girlfriends from the medical college.
One of the male students had made a habit of waiting for me on the platform whenever I would return to visit home. He would then carry my luggage from the tanga to the train. That day, for the last time, he moved my bags onto the train and set it in the racks above my seat. He then sat in the same compartment right across from me. Though this routine had been going on for a year or more, we never spoke. He never introduced himself, and so I did not think it my place to be forward and offer my name.
He knew we were all leaving for good, and several of his friends had approached me on the platform to tell me he had waited for many hours to see me, so I should talk to him. He was shy around girls, and my silence was out of confusion. I was used to men talking to me, not me talking to men, so I did not have a clear idea of how to open a conversation. For the next eight hours, we sat across from each other in total silence, an excruciating experience. I struggled to think how to begin a conversation with a stranger. Also, Mother’s admonition that I should stay to myself and not get too close to strangers was foremost in my mind. Some of my thoughts also went to Mansoor, who was wise in the way of a woman’s heart, though he had used that knowledge cruelly to enflame my infatuation. This young engineer in comparison was an unformed man, a mere boy who could not even open his mouth to ask me one question. So I felt cautious. If he did not know what he was doing, I did not want to get in another situation like the one I had with Mansoor, opening myself up to a stranger with smooth words.
But if this boy had any smooth words, he was not using them on me. Thinking back, we could have talked about anything—the weather, our plans for the future, becoming a doctor, an engineer, movies, religion, politics—any question from him would have opened the floodgates of our untapped curiosity about each other. Instead, we sat in silence.
Eight hours later, he helped me unload my luggage at the Karachi train station and into a taxi. He then sat in the front seat and directed the driver to my home. On the way there, I wondered what would become of him. Would his shyness cut him off from any chance of happiness? I certainly did not feel that way about my life. My life dripped with happiness. I dwelled on the cusp of great adventures; I felt it in my bones.
After we arrived, he helped me unload my luggage. He looked at me one more time. We watched each other for a few minutes, neither of us speaking. He then turned and got into the cab. As he drove away, I realized if I wanted to look him up later to track his success, it would be impossible. I did not even know his name.
At the door, my youngest brother, Rafhan, saw me with luggage, and he ran to inform my mother. She came and hugged me. “Rafhan told me that a guest arrived our home. It looks like she has a plan to stay with us for long. She has several suitcases with her.” We both laughed. I had been away so long my brother had forgotten what I looked like. But now I was home, and ready for the next step on my way to a happy life.
That evening, Father arrived home from his office. He greeted me warmly, with open arms and a proud smile. “My daughter, the doctor. Welcome home.”
Things had changed in the time that I’d been away. Two of my younger brothers, Rahat and Rasikh, were away, studying at the Cadet College Petaro.
My sister, Pinky, was espe
cially happy upon my return. She was a student at D.J. Science College, and still lived at home. One day soon after my return, we decided to go shopping. She wanted to meet a friend downtown, so we went to Zaibunnisa Street in Saddar Town, which is a very exclusive area. Many of the buildings are from colonial times and are elaborate in their construction and ornate in their decorations. The buildings are filled with clothing and shoe stores, jewelry shops, bookstores, restaurants, and other merchants, all with the finest merchandise.
After we strolled through some of the clothing stores, my sister wanted to visit another friend, who worked as a secretary for a businessman. She met us in the lobby outside her boss’s office. While my sister, Pinky, and her friend talked, three men stepped out of an office and walked toward the door for elevator. One of them stopped in the hallway and stared at me. He was heavyset and well dressed, in a handsome suit and white shirt and tie, and neatly groomed. I began to grow uncomfortable with the man’s gaze on me.
Was there something wrong? Were we in the wrong place? I caught my sister’s friend’s eye, and she noticed the man in the lobby.
“Oh, let me introduce you,” she said to us. “This is my boss, Zia Ullah Khan. This is my friend’s sister, Dr. Raana. She has just completed medical college.”
He looked rather excited and replied, “Don’t let her go,” before he went back to say farewell to his guests. He shook hands with his guests, sent them off, and then ducked back into his office. In a few minutes, workers began entering his room with big packages and then leaving empty-handed. Then he called on the intercom to his secretary to send me into his office.
I was reluctant at first, remembering my mother’s fears. Inside his spacious office, he had jewelry displayed in open boxes, a few dresses laid out on a chair and hung on hangers.
“This is for you,” he said, spreading his hands over his wares.
I had just turned twenty-four, and this man must have been in his late forties, maybe his early fifties. At any rate, he was far from my age. Why would he want to give me these gifts, which were probably worth many thousands of rupees? What was he trying to prove?
“Why are you giving me these?” I asked, wanting to hear his reasons.
“Please,” he said a gracious smile on his face. “Take what you want.” When I hesitated, he said, “You can take everything. Whatever you like, take it.”
I sat down in a chair across from him, trying to understand his generous gesture. It was a bit overwhelming, but I still did not know why he would be making me this offer after I had only met him a few moments ago.
“You are very kind,” I said, “but my mother has always taught me to dress simply. I do not wear much jewelry. These clothes of yours are very expensive and fancy, but not my style.” I normally wore cotton dresses, and the ones he offered were made of expensive silk. On that day, I wore a bottle green dress from a designer called Peter Pan.
“You look very nice in your dress. Give me fifteen minutes, and I will have the dresses you like to wear.” He spread his hands toward the jewelry. “Take what you want.”
I asked him what he meant by his generosity.
“I would like to hire you as my secretary,” he said, unashamed at his request.
I said very calmly, “Fauzia told you I am a doctor.”
He immediately offered a handsome salary of one lakh rupees a month and a car. (One lakh was more than USD $3,000). This amount was beyond what I could ever make as a resident physician every month. My first salary as a resident was about USD $14 a month. As considerable a sum he offered me was, it held no attraction to me.
“Zia Sahib, I have worked hard to become a medical doctor. I’m starting my residency soon, and then I will practice on my own.” I wanted to say, how could you think I would give up my dream for all this? Money had never been a consideration in my becoming a doctor. I wanted to serve humanity. I did not even feel a need to explain myself any further to this man. Without even knowing me, he wanted to purchase me, as if I were another piece of fine jewelry for him to collect.
I needed to leave, and rose from my seat.
“Why are you leaving?”
“I must go. I am going to start my residency soon.”
“How much will you get from your residency each month?”
“It will be a nominal amount, sir.”
He came around his desk and stood beside me, a look of genuine shock on his face that I had turned down all his expensive gifts and a lucrative job offer.
“So many girls would have sold out for only a bottle of perfume, but you won’t take even one thing from me. Why you are showing me this attitude?”
“Go and buy those girls; don’t waste your time with me.” I turned from him in disgust and moved toward the door.
“Please, don’t go. I have something to ask you.”
I hesitated.
“I want to marry you. Will you be my wife?”
“Sir, you are a very mature man, surely you already have a wife.”
He paused. “I will divorce her.”
I smirked at him, trying to hide my revulsion.
“I had already planned to divorce her, but I couldn’t find a beautiful and educated girl like you.”
“Thank you, but I am not interested.”
“Take some of the jewelry to your mother. Maybe she will convince you to accept my offer.”
I started laughing, remembering that incident from my childhood. “Mr. Zia, I learned everything from my parents. I know she will also refuse to take your expensive gifts.”
What is there to think about? You are a married man! I wanted to shout at him. I would never marry a man like him. In my mind, only an educated and loving person, who would be faithful for my entire life, would interest me. If he would divorce his current wife for me after a chance meeting, what would he do to me once he found another young and attractive woman?
I practically ran to the door. I stood in the lobby, seething at this man’s impudence. He followed as I hurried down the hall. Marriage meant little to a man like him. If he saw a woman he wanted, he could buy her and dump his current one in an impulsive moment. What disturbed me most was that he could so easily betray his wife. And then for him to think he could induce me to give up my dream of being a physician, for just some pretty clothes and expensive jewelry, was even more disturbing.
Was everything in my country for sale so cheaply?
Once I settled back in at home, my focus was to search and apply for residencies. I was very excited to receive an interview appointment for a residency from the local Singh government. MQM leader Dr. Farooq Sattar conducted the interview himself, and after asking me many questions, he said, “I would definitely offer you the residency if you are Muhajir. I must admit you are a brilliant doctor.”
“No sir, I am not Muhajir. I am Punjabi.”
“Then I am sorry. This position is only for Muhajir.”
Punjab is a large province of Pakistan with major cities such as Lahore, Faisalabad, and Islamabad, and most people who live there speak Punjabi. My parents moved from Faisalabad to Karachi, which is a cosmopolitan city of Sindh province. While the majority of the population in the area are Sindh, many Muhajir live there too, having emigrated from India after the partition. The Muhajir speak Urdu. Since the Muhajir were a minority with no political power, they were excluded from jobs and government positions. In the early 1980s, Altaf Hussain founded the political party MQM to advocate for the rights of the Muhajir people. Later, the MQM turned to terrorist tactics to implement their agenda. Altaf Hussain fled to London, but he continued as the leader from his party from abroad, becoming a symbol of terror and power.
I was very disappointed with this injustice. But as I arrived home, Father handed me an acceptance letter for a paid residency through the Karachi Metropolitan system.
“I have to start my residency at Abbasi Shaheed Hospital in a month,” I said, reading from the letter. I could hardly contain my excitement at beginning my residency. It
was the beginning of a new era of my life.
CHAPTER 4
Reluctant Wife
I STOOD ALONE AT THE BUS stop near the Abbasi Shaheed Hospital, waiting for a bus to take me home. It was my first time in the North Nazimabad area of Karachi, and I could hardly contain my excitement. I was beginning my pediatric residency at Abbasi Shaheed Hospital. The day before I was to begin, I rode a bus to the hospital to meet the staff, and to view the wards I would work on.
By late afternoon, I had toured all the wards and met the staff, so I left to return home. I had returned to the same bus stop I had used earlier in the day. A crowd had gathered. Since I was new to the area, I just figured the buses were late. An hour passed, and I began to worry how I would get home.
Suddenly, a white car pulled up, and the man inside waved at me. I did not know anyone with a white car, so I ignored him. Finally, he pulled over to the curb, got out, and approached me. He was medium height and build, and dressed in an immaculate white salwar kameez. His olive complexion, thick mustache, and dark, expressive big eyes were very inviting. He smoked a pipe that he held in one hand, and smelled of expensive perfume. He was handsome.
“What are you doing here in the late evening?” he asked, in his heavy voice. “Waiting for the bus? There are no buses, rickshaw, or taxis.” He motioned toward the crowd.
“Why?”
“The transport companies called a sudden strike a few hours ago to protest against MQM workers who have burned some of their buses and taxies.”
It was true that people were milling, waiting. Some were beginning to leave. Buses, which usually came frequently, were nowhere in sight.
“Thank you. I will get a taxi.”
“Nothing is working at this time. And taxis are not safe for you. Sometimes the drivers take women passengers to their own homes.”
I shook my head confidently. “No one would do that to me. I am too brave to let that happen.”
He only smiled. I surveyed the streets, and he was correct. There were no taxis, buses, or even the ubiquitous rickshaws.
Courage to Say No Page 4