At the magician’s office, Nashad introduced me, but I refused to speak to him. I sat and waited in silence. Later Nashad told me that the magician asked her about me, why I wouldn’t speak to him. I didn’t think much of that visit after we left. I had done what she asked.
A few days later, she asked to borrow 25,000 rupees, a large sum for me. She knew I was saving money to make payments on my home, but she insisted she desperately needed the money. She promised to return the sum in one week. When she didn’t repay me on time, I asked her to return the money. But she had already spent everything on designer dresses and couldn’t pay me back. I was shocked at her cruelty and irresponsibility.
The next day when I returned from work, she was not there. She had moved out without saying anything.
I couldn’t believe my dilemma. I had an installment payment due, and I needed the money. I stayed in my room that evening, skipping dinner. My mother came in and insisted I eat. I came to the table, but I was so depressed that I just stared at my food. I faced the loss of the home I had been making payments on. After dinner, Rasikh came to me. He told me not to worry about the money. He knew that Nashad had left without paying me. He lent me the funds to make the installment payment. I was so thankful for such a gracious and kind brother.
I saved every penny and paid him back, and that was the first and last time I ever borrowed money from anyone.
Shortly after that episode, my mother fell ill. As her condition worsened, I took off work to care for her. When my mother eventually passed and I returned to work, I spent many months grieving. A dark cloud followed me everywhere, and I could not shake the sense that I was responsible for her dying so young. Sometimes I heard her voice in the middle of the night: Baby, my daughter, my soul cannot rest in peace until you fulfill your promise. Her voice woke me, and I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night.
My anger festered during those days. The Islam I had come to trust and believe, that I had studied so diligently as a child, had failed me. Erfun and his family, who said they followed Islam, were corrupt and self-centered. My dreams of a happy life, one of peace and fulfillment, were dashed forever. Now my only wish was to survive, to become an independent woman, and take care of my precious son. I was thankful that I had a good job, and I could save my money.
I’m convinced that the majority of people in Pakistan who claim to be Muslim have never read the Quran in their native tongue. I believe that they have only memorized verses in Arabic, the language of the Quran, and have never bothered to study the true meaning of the book. So these men treat women any way they like, and the depraved customs that older men hand down to them are nothing. But the treatment I had received at the hands of those who claimed to practice their religion—treatment that was entirely unethical and abhorrent to Islam—left me bitter. It was unjust and hateful. My life had become a struggle to get beyond this biting anger in my soul.
I had learned to smile as Dr. Uqali had asked of me.
As the days moved on, and the kindness of my colleagues began to work on me, I slowly changed. Once during a company sponsored medical seminar, I engaged my colleagues and even bantered with them as we ate our lunch. I noticed Dr. Uqali in the distance, watching and smiling at seeing me with my colleagues, enjoying their conversation. I knew how to be polite, to listen to others, and to seem interested, even if I had to force myself. On occasion, I even smiled.
Over time, my negative disposition evaporated. My colleagues, our medical director, and the staff were all so helpful, kind, and respectful. I believe they all were on a mission to bring me back from the dead.
I continued saving for my house, frugally wearing the same old dresses and shoes. One day my colleague, Dr. Qaze, laughed at me. “Dr. Raana, I am tired of seeing you wearing the same dresses. What do you do with your salary?”
He even offered to purchase some new dresses for me.
“These dresses are fine, Dr. Qaze. Thank you for the offer.”
He laughed at me.
In a moment of pride, I said: “I’m saving every penny I make because I’m purchasing my own home. When my new house is paid for, I’ll buy some new dresses.”
He gave me an astonished, but respectful, smile, nodded his head, and returned to work.
One day, Taimoor’s teacher called me. She was concerned about his behavior. He was very timid and hardly spoke in class, and never interacted with the other children. She thought maybe he was sick, or had trouble at home. I didn’t tell her about my divorce, but insisted his father treated him well.
I thanked her for her concern, and told her I would address his behavior the best I knew how. I began consulting a child psychologist, who convinced me that Taimoor was depressed and suffered from anxiety, yet he possessed a high IQ. He suggested I find an outlet for his intelligence and to try to socialize him more.
I called his paternal grandfather and asked if he would send Erfun’s younger brother to take him on Fridays and Saturdays to his house. Then he could meet his grandparents, uncles, and other family members. I requested that he never allow Erfun to leave the house with him. I feared he would take Taimoor, and leave him with Shesta, who abused him mentally and physically. He agreed, and that Saturday, instead of Erfun, his younger brother took him. He perked up immediately.
I recalled that during my childhood, my father would take all of us every Sunday for a picnic or to a hotel for brunch, a movie, or the circus. I bought a used Toyota, and every Sunday I took Taimoor to different places, to the seaside at Clifton, to the zoo, wherever he wanted to go. Sometimes I took his friends with us. He started laughing again and focused again on his studies.
One day I arrived home from work, and my younger brother, Rehan, who was a student at Textile Engineering University in Punjab, was visiting. I met him outside our home, and he asked me to come with him. He wanted to show me something very strange. He pointed to Taimoor.
My brother was shocked, pointing at six-year-old Taimoor, “Look at your boy, he is playing with girls!”
My son looked up at me, bewildered. He was with friends his own age, including my brother’s four-year-old daughter. They all gathered around me, waiting for an explanation as what they had done wrong. My son looked especially worried. I shooed them off. “Go play.”
They all ran away, laughing, jumping, and continued on with their games. I feared if I said one word to Taimoor about my brother’s fears, it would destroy his personality and psyche.
I turned to my brother. “They are just kids having fun.” I took my brother aside and told him. “Father never stopped me from playing with boys. All of my school years were coeducational. Please don’t interfere with my son.”
He didn’t like what I told him, but he respected my request.
That night, I sat with Taimoor as usual and we read stories before bed. Before he fell asleep, I set the book down and spoke softly to him. “During your school years, you’re going to meet girls. In college, on your job, everywhere you go. Treat them as sisters and friends. Always be respectful of them as human beings. Do not treat them as inferiors, as some men do, just because they’re girls or women.”
I know he listened carefully to me. I could see the thoughtfulness in his eyes as he tried to make sense of what I was saying. I knew as he grew my words would be very important to him.
Dr. Uqali, ever the considerate man, pointed me toward some potential husbands, but I was not mentally ready for marriage.
At one gathering, I met with a Pakistani International Airlines (PIA) pilot, Mr. Shah. He noticed I sat alone at the event, and came over and struck up a conversation. After a few minutes, he asked about my marital status. I told him I was married. He noted I wasn’t wearing a ring. (I had developed the habit of warding off potential suitors by simply saying I was married.)
He wasn’t put off by my closed-off attitude.
“I’ve traveled a lot and met many people,” he said. “I can see in your face that you’re not happy.”
He then tol
d me his story. He had suffered through a very painful divorce, and he had sat through many gatherings like this, just as I was doing, alone and not speaking with anyone. It took him a while to want to talk to people again.
Changing topics, he asked, “What do you do for recreation?”
I couldn’t think of anything besides praying, working, and taking care of my son.
“But what do you do for yourself?”
I had no answer for him.
“Your hobbies. What are your hobbies?”
I still had no answer for him, as I hadn’t painted in years.
“You must have friends?”
I shook my head. This man was truly trying to help me. What he was saying began to make sense.
“You are still suffering from the trauma of your divorce. Time is a good healer. You will die young if you don’t do some fun things, go to the cinema, take a long drive, go swimming. You must do something for yourself.”
He said many other things, but before leaving, he told me, “One day your pain will go away, then you will be ready for a loving marriage.” With that, he rose and left me.
His words stayed with me. I wanted what he said to come true soon, but I knew I still had a long way to go before that happened.
After my mother passed away, I was introduced to a very nice man named Malik by a physician colleague during an event at a local hotel. He grew up in Pakistan, but he had been in New York for many years; however, he wanted to return to Pakistan to establish a business and settle down. He was well-educated, handsome, and very kind. For the first time in quite a while, I felt attracted to a man. But in my heart, I was hesitant to open myself up to a new life. I often remembered Mr. Shah’s wise words: that when the trauma passed, I would be ready again for marriage.
Malik was interested in me and over the next month, he met my family, and I met his parents. Everyone was very nice and respectful, what I had expected a compatible match would be like all along. Still I felt a hesitancy in my heart.
He must have sensed my reluctance to commit, so one day he asked me what I thought about marriage. So I told him about my abusive ex-husband. I asked him how men can be so abusive and cruel to people they say they love?
He was very patient and understanding. I could tell that he was sympathetic to my feelings. Then he told me his story. He said that women were not the only victims of abuse. That his ex-wife had treated him so horribly, that for a time he had hated women, and thought he could never bring himself to marry again. But as time passed, his wounds began to heal, and he began to feel differently.
Now he wanted a fresh start. As I listened to him, his pain seemed genuine. His story allowed me to understand that men experienced abuse as well. We both had painful pasts.
When he proposed to me, I took his offer seriously. Now it was up to me. I told him I would think it over and give him an answer soon. I wanted to be certain in my heart that I was ready for new love.
Before I met him, I had already contracted for my new home in Chapal. Since it was under construction, I still lived at my parents’ home. I took him to see the new building. He admired that I had done this on my own and liked the apartment. But he said, after we married he would prefer to provide us a larger home, where there would be space for Taimoor, as well as for us.
I did begin to smile more and began to think my life was about to take a turn for the better. My mother’s soul would be at peace in heaven if I married. Malik was so gentle and kind that I decided I would marry him. He would be good for Taimoor, too.
I decided to tell him the very next day that I would marry him. The day I decided, Nashad visited our home.
I had not seen her in many months. She had married a police officer and had all the money she needed. She returned the 25,000 rupees she owed me. Her husband was already married, so she was a second wife. I asked her why she would marry a married man. She said that his first wife had enough time to be a wife and now it was her turn. (Her mother had said the same thing when she married her father.) I was so surprised to hear her explanation. It struck me that she was just manipulating what Islam allowed. Second marriages in Islam are a beautiful concept, if someone has a valid reason, can afford both wives, and treats them both the same, but ignorant Muslims misuse it. After Nashad married this man, he sent his first wife away to live alone with their small children.
Nashad offered her condolences for my mother, and she asked about my life. So I told her about Malik.
The next day she visited me again. She came directly from her magician with a message for me. Her magician advised me not to marry Malik, but to wait. Someone more suitable would come along soon.
How could he know such a thing? I dismissed her advice as the door closed behind her. I became more determined to marry Malik. I would not take counsel from a charlatan. Magic was a superstition of ignorant people, even if they were educated.
That day I phoned Malik’s office, but he already gone for the day. I was very excited to speak with him about my decision. I waited two days for Malik to return my call. When I didn’t hear from him, I called his office again. I was told he no longer worked for the company.
A little disturbed by the sudden changes, the next morning before work, I went directly to his apartment. As I stepped off the elevator to his floor, I found him standing on the landing with all of his luggage. He claimed he didn’t have time to speak to me at that moment. He had an urgent matter in New York and had to leave immediately. He didn’t know when, or if, he would return.
It was the strangest thing; for two months, he put time into our future life, meeting my family and getting to know one another, then to just fly away. All the talk of a future together, our mutual plans, and desires and then in a moment everything just evaporated into thin air. I watched him wordlessly load his luggage into the elevator and the door closed behind him, and on both of us.
I never heard from him again.
CHAPTER 12
The Devil
ONE SUNDAY, I RETURNED HOME with Taimoor from a weekend at the seaside, and I was surprised to see Mansoor Suhail outside my home, waiting for me. He said he had traveled from New York to visit me. I asked him why.
“Are you not going to invite me inside?” He smiled ruefully, as if he could make me fall for him so easily.
“I wasn’t expecting visitors, so I can’t receive you right now.”
He began insisting that he had traveled far to see me, so I asked him, “Why are you creating a scene? Everyone is watching us.”
He glanced around and suddenly became conscious of our surroundings.
“Can you meet me at a restaurant? I’d like to talk for a few minutes.”
I agreed and took Taimoor inside and settled him. A little later I met Mansoor at Furqania, a nice restaurant not far from my home.
“I was sorry to hear about your divorce. I wanted to stop by and see how you were doing. You look very nice. You are so beautiful and attractive, you are just shining. You must be having a good time.”
My anger began to rise as I listened to him trying to sweet talk me, as if what I had gone through in my marriage was nothing. My failed marriage had quickened the death of my mother, then my youngest brother Rafhan’s terrible accident. I had endured four of the most horrible years of my life, and then two years of harassment at the hands of MQM terrorists. I was still heartbroken over the disappearance of Malik, I struggled to make the payments on my Chapal house, and my work had turned into a battle with Dr. Sheela. I was tolerating the selfishness and cruelty of society. And this man in front of me could only think that I was enjoying my single life. I wanted to slap him.
I suddenly burst out, “You came here all the way from New York to ask me if I was having a good time? You shouldn’t have bothered.” I stood to leave.
He apologized and asked me to sit for a moment. I shouldn’t have, but I sat back down. He then told me his story. He had been appointed to the United Nations Pakistan Mission as the press attaché. He was hap
pily married and doing very well, but he had never been able to get me off his mind.
“Years ago,” I said, glaring at him, “when I went to Islamabad to meet President Zia-ul-Haq, and I met you the first time, I was only nineteen. I fell in love with you because you played with my feelings, and I thought you were single. You gave me the impression you were single then. Why didn’t you tell me back then you were engaged? I was so attracted to you; I couldn’t focus on my studies. I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you if I knew you were engaged.”
“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to lose such a nice girl.”
He might have thought that was flattering to me, but those were the exact same words Erfun used as an excuse for not telling me the truth about his relationship with Shesta. I stood, this time determined to leave.
“I came all this way because I want to marry you.”
“You are happily married, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then go away. Don’t ever come back here or send me a birthday card again.”
“But Islam gives me permission to—”
I cut him off. “Stop!” I shouted. “Do not manipulate Islam! I will never marry a married man. Particularly a happily married man.” I turned away from him to leave.
“You’ve become so aggressive, bitter, and rude,” he said to my back.
Yes, I had, I told myself. Pain had made me that way, and I felt no shame in anything I had said to him.
Despite my troubles with Dr. Sheela, my job was very satisfying, and I began working every day with new enthusiasm. I was assigned to work in Karachi Terminal clinic (KT) three days a week, and one day a week in Rimpa Plaza clinic. The KT clinic was surrounded by Sui Gas Co. guard checkpoints, and it was one of the safest places to work. I wouldn’t have to worry about Furqan or Erfun barging in and disrupting my work.
At school, Taimoor began to thrive, studying hard, playing with other children, and otherwise developing into a well-adjusted young man. He wouldn’t let me kiss him any longer in front of other boys, telling me one day, “No, Mom, I am a big boy now.”
Courage to Say No Page 13