This is complete utter crap. I’m so sick of this! He’s lucky he’s not here…because IF he was…I’d deck him. And I’d smile broadly as he lay sprawled at my feet.
3 days ago,I got dropped off by Kamran, the chauffeur who was essentially a mute incommunicative drone.
I’m one of two people who reside currently in this monstrosity of a house.
Of course, how could it be anything else?
Where’s the family? Wasn’t this the time that was to be afforded for me to get to know his family?
As for my roommate, her footsteps barely register. She comes and goes and at times it’s so eerily quiet that I can hear the chiming of the grandfather clock on the main level or the shifting of the wind outside amongst the trees. This house is inhabited by an old hindu woman, a housekeeper, who speaks a bare minimum of Hindi. Communicating with her became the ultimate exercise in futility. Her accent is NOT the type anyone could understand. And mine for her? Forgetaboutit!
2 days ago, Imran came by. I had unpacked, settled in and taken a walk around the house, the gardens and rung my family to let them know all was well. I was left exploring this library that seems to have two sections, politics and Islamic teachings housed within its bookshelves. Neither of these subjects were something that I particularly wanted to read about. But, out of sheer desperation, I did so. Seeing my fire-snapping eyes and the tension in my body, Imran opted to take me on a bit of a field trip.
‘Let’s go.’
‘Where,’ I asked.
‘To show you around our fair city.’
‘Ok, let’s do it!’ Finally, I’ll see SOME action!
Kamran,onceagain at our disposal, chauffeured us into Central London. It was truly a
Whirlwind.
I remember a scarf bought on Bond street. Pictures taken on a ledge overlooking St.Paul’s Cathedral. Bengali men harking lower and lower prices with each sign above showing an “award winning chef” at Brick Lane. I think I bought a belt there also. A big zircon studded one.
At Green Street there was bhel puri…my mouth lights on fire just thinking back on it!
And at SouthHall, there was an exchange between Imran and 2 punjabi men. They seemed angry but I got the CD and the shawls I wanted.
Pictures were taken again in front of Big Ben and then my second favourite, a leisurely tour of all 3 Museums in Central London. Trafalgar Square promised more pictures however no pigeons. The lack thereof made walking that much easier around the Square. And finally, Imran was sweet enough to wait around outside in the car while I popped into the South Kensington Isma’ili Centre to do a quick Du’a for Shukran to Allah.
After my visit to the Isma’ili Centre, Imran and I went to dinner at a Lebanese restaurant that had some great music playing. The food was phenomenal and his stories of University life spent with Farid and their earlier attempts at business were quite entertaining.
‘Gulzar, Farid should really be here with you today.’
I sit back, observe this barrister whose been my tour guide cum babysitter. He’s smart, has a stellar personality, tall,handsome and yet he’s essentially acting as Farid’s lackey. Why?
‘Yes, your right Imran, Farid SHOULD be here.’
‘I’m sorry. This is a bloody piss poor time to leave you, but, I suppose you should know, he’s quite focused when it comes to career. His work schedule is such that you’ll never really see him at home at 5pm… 9pm is more likely.’
‘I’m starting to realize that Farids’ focus and commitment, while quite impressive, is one which may indeed cause issues as far as work/life balance comes in.’
‘You’re a strong,intelligent woman, if anyone can get him to find that balance, I think you can.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,Imran,however, let’s wait and see what the rest of the month has in store.OK?’
‘Most definitely. I have a feeling things are going to be very interesting and positive for everyone.’
I smile but internally I think…we’ll see.
He smiles back.
Day 4:
I’ve opted to do some planting of some garlic and herbs. If I’m going to spend a month here, I’d rather keep myself busy. What better way than to do some gardening and cooking?
There’s a ruckus in the front.I hera it in the outdoor side garden. I take off my gloves and walk inside. It’s two ladies, one has a dupata on her head. She looks to be small, birdlike and she’s darker…definitely Indian. The second is a tall woman, mid 40’s, she’s use to being in charge.Large voice and she’s busy getting all the bags unloaded. She turns around and I see the eyes. The tightness around her mouth. She’s gotta be Farid’s sister. But whose the Indian woman? She’s not old enough to be his mum…so who is she?
‘Gulzar’ says the tallish of the two women.
‘Yes, that’s me.’ I reply
‘Hello, I’m Baaghi Amina, Farid’s eldest sibling.’
I thought he was the eldest, ’Nice to meet you Amina, I’m Gulzar.’
Amina steps aside and slowly walks up the birdlike creature. ‘Salaam beti, I’m Farids ammi. I’ve seen your photos and Farid’s told me about you. I’m so happy to welcome you to our family.’
I walk up and am thoroughly confused. How can this lady be his mummi? She’s not old enough, she’s not at all physically similar to Farid,nor to Amina. What’s going on?
‘Walikum as salaam aunti. I’ve looked forward to meeting you as well.’
Farid’s mum motions for a hug and I bend down to give her one. She can’t possibly be more than a hundred pounds.
We go into the formal parlor and tea is brought around. Farid’s mum catches my questioning look at her and laughs. ‘No, I’m not Farid’s biological mom. His ammi died when he was in his early teens. His father and I married shortly after her death and Farid’s Abbu brought me to Islamabad from Bihar when I was 17 yrs old. I have raised Farid as well as Amina and their other siblings ever since. In return they’ve chosen to call me Ammi.’
I stare. A child-bride no wonder she barely looks old enough. She’s what…5 possibly 7 yrs older than Farid? My goodness, what a tale she must have to tell! I smile and say, ‘Wow that must have been quite a time period.’
She looks over. At first quiet and then smiles…broadly. ‘Yes, you are indeed just what our Farid needs.’
I look at her a bit perplexed but turn my attention in time to Amina. She’s sitting and yet looks as if she’s about to spring up at any moment.
A few more questions are bandied back and forth until the chauffeur comes in. Amina immediately jumps up to ask another new addition, a female one, to have the bags sent up to rooms which I somewhat remember from a tour on my first day.
After Amina and Farid’s mum retire I go back to the garden. We’re to meet for dinner so I’ve a few hours to spend on my own until I need to dress.
Coming down the wide staircase from dressing, I look up to see that Kamran is dressed in a white shalwar kameez. He motions for me to walk to my right, towards what I remember to be a formal dining room. It’s empty in the dining room, however I hear voices in the kitchen. After a few seconds deliberation, I walk into the kitchen. Inside is Amina, her mother and the housekeeper all sitting around the island exploding in laughter. I walk up and say my Salaams. They ask me to join them and we sit in companionable conversation while dinner commences. It’s quite informal and I’m glad that I can let my guard down and observe both women in a more relaxed, natural state. Suddenly, I finally realize why I’ve had such issues communicating with the housekeeper. She only speaks Punjabi, as I don’t speak any, our inability to communicate is now finally understandable!
The three of them however, are able and do communicate. Amina and her mom take the time to translate either in Urdu or in English. I don’t say much, I’m happy enough to observe and watch the interaction.
The next morning as I come down and start to walk outside for my morning run, my future MIL calls my name out. I walk into the study and come upon her sitting with a needle and thread overlooking the front open windows. She looks atme and smiles.
‘Salaam aunti.’
‘Walikum as salaam beti. Have you had your nashta yet?’
‘Not yet. I prefer to get in a run prior to breakfast in the morning.’
‘Just as well, run along then. I’ll have Priya have nashta ready when you get back. An hour work for you?’
‘Yes, that should be sufficient.’
I say Salaam and walk out. It’s quite balmy out for a Sept morning and I’m soaking wet by the time I walk up the front steps. As I turn the doorknob to enter, Imran comes into the foyer.
I’m embarrassed. I’m smelly and soaking wet and he looks dressed for the office. Crap!
‘Good morning Gulzar Jee.’
‘Ah, salaam Imran.’ I don’t meet his eyes specifically trying to sprint upstairs. I wonder if it’ll be too rude of me to just turn and bolt. Frack…I hate situations like these!
Idiot stands with his arms clenched behind him, with that silly smirk on his face. He’s looking at me, I know, I can feel it!
‘Imran, listen, I’d love to continue this conversation, however, I really need to get showered and dressed before my mother-in-law has nashta ready.’
‘Not a problem, I’ll see you when you get back downstairs. Do take your time. We’ll all wait.’
I look at him like he’s grown another head but I don’t have time. I can’t possibly be late to the first breakfast with my future mother-in-law!
I think as I speed downstairs,that must have been the fastest I ever have gotten ready. I can still somewhat smell the burn from the straightener in my slightly damp hair!
‘Hello Gulzar. It’s nice to see such enthusiasm from you at my return.’
I look up shocked.It’s him!
*boom*
OMG please oh please Allah please make me disappear into the floorboards!
Ameen…DOUBLE AMEEN!
‘Oh goodness are you all right?’
I look up. I’m laying sprawled on the marble floor,staring into Farid’s concerned face. His brow is furrowed. Suddenly, my knee burns and I feel warmth around my left elbow.
I’ve, of course, at this point turned BEET red. He’s suppose to be sprawled at MY feet, NOT me at his! WTH!!!
‘Beta, is she all right? Should we call a doctor?’
‘No ammi, I think she’ll be fine. Let me take her to the study. Perhaps we can have brunch served in there?’
Yup, I managed to land in a heaping sprawled mess after tumbling ¾ of the way down the stupid wooden staircase. Damnit! And now, my body is on fire!
Farid helps me to my feet and then helps while I lean on him and hobble to the study. I’m mortified. I wish one could die of embarrassment.
As I settle in on the couch, he raises my foot and puts it above a pillow. I’m now immobile and highly uncomfortable. I look down at the burning and see there is a slow oozing of blood from above my elbow. I gingerly move it and wince. It hurts, a hell of a lot.
Farid notices and takes his kerchief out to apply pressure to my injury. I stare at his fingers and the pressure he’s exerting. I look up and realize not only is he staring at me but so is Imran. Amina’s managed to follow everyone into the room and she and my MIL are standing next to the opposite couch patiently waiting.
My eyes go back to Farid and I realize my eyes have dilated. I’m not angry but I am surprised that he’s back.
He leans in to check on my elbow, ‘I’ll remember never to surprise you when your rushing round. We wouldn’t want you continually injuring yourself on account of me.’
I look back at his face and his smirk and wink have my face turning tamatar red.
*groan* Why o why does this man have such an effect on me?
I look back at him and my eyes narrow, suddenly my elbow is enflamed.
‘OUCH!’
‘Beta,your hurting her, be careful!’ says my mother-in-law.
I look him straight,dead in the eye. He looks back and mutters, ‘Two can play this game. You sure you’vegot what it takes?’ I smile back, ‘Most definitely, bring it on!’
He turns his head around and says loudly, ‘Sorry ammi. I think we need some peroxide and gauze. Gulzar seems to be quite the bleeder!’
Thirty minutes later, we’re all settled and everyone’s enjoying an early brunch. I’ve abstained as I don’t think I could eat much with the headache I seem to have pounding in the back of my head.
‘Beta, do you want Farid to help you with some khana?’
‘No auntie,I think I’ll be fine. I do however think I need to go upstairs and lay down. I seem to be getting quite a headache.’
‘Sure. Farid, take Gulzar to her room.’
I turn red once again. This is going from bad to worse!
Suddenly Farid leans across and puts his plate down. He stands up and pulls me into his arms. I give a slight yelp and feel as if I’m a sack of potatoes.
He looks down at me and smiles. I hang on for dear life. My heads spinning, my arm is burning and my leg feels as if someone’s cut off the blood circulation to it. I close my eyes and realize I’m about to either faint or throw up.
‘Oh dear.’
I look up and say, ‘What?What’s wrong?’
‘Remember stateside when I said that the red on your face wasn’t becoming on you? Well, that particular shade of green that you seem to be enfused with, isn’t quite becoming either.’
I look at him and suddenly I’m beyond pissed off. ‘Well, perhaps if you were a better host, I wouldn’t be here broken,bruised and battered. No thanks to you!’
‘Will you run and tell your mum now?’
My eyes get bigger and suddenly, I throw up. It’s all over me as well as all over his black jacket and his pink shirt.
‘Oh,bloody hell!’
I look up supremely satisfied. I smile and promptly pass out.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Rishta Diaries - Candidate Two, Part Six
'Ready?’
I take a deep breath. I look at this man, my fiancé. I look away.
Am I ready?
No, I’m scared. I have no idea what awaits me there. I don’t have any family and no close friends, however, I’ve made a commitment and I’m a woman of my word.
‘Yes, I’m ready.’
Mummi steps up and gives me a hug. Her words of caution, said in a language that’s suppose to be my mother tongue, is a language that neither Farid nor Imran can understand.
Both stand silently by as I say goodbye to my family.
Mummi’s talking. I watch her mouth. I hear what she’s saying, however, I’m not listening. She’s saying things which should calm me, give me solace, but which only makes me question how much she really loves me.
Why isn’t she coming with me? Why must I go to a foreign country without her. My eyes fill, my nose becomes blocked, but I embrace her a final time and turn to dad.
A hug, his scent envelops me, it’s warm and yet doesn’t offer any of the normal reassurance that’s to be had. He let’s go and the coldness envelops me once more.
He grabs both my hands and gives me a series of Du’a. I bend my head and say Ameen to each Du’a. And yet, I look at him again. I pour over his face, breath in his scent again. I see the lines that age have etched into his features.
Nothing, other than the thought, why? Why must I take this journey by myself?
I step back. I look up. I see the banister. Poking out between the rungs is my fur-ball. I smile, her tail wags faster. I blink, she whines. I look at my sister and ask her to watch over my baby.
I turn around.
‘Bismillah.’
I step out of the house and walk silently to the car.
Imran opens the door. I sit in the back seat. From my side of the window, I see the home which I moved into at the age of 15. I left it once, at the age of 22. Today, I’m leaving, again. I look down at my finger; it’s still there, that colorless 3-carat diamond. Encased in a platinum setting, it winks back at me. Even in this, an inanimate object seems to be attempting to reassure me.
So, why do I feel as if I’m in a dream. A surreal experience which has me in the company of a man, who 3 days ago, I didn’t know would be my future life-partner.
‘If you’d known this was how life would play out, forget the toe, the body should have been under your tires!’
I look back startled. My vision encounters him. His attention is occupied with papers in his hand. He looks up and smiles, his eyes are questioning. I look away and my attention is recaptured by my childhood home.
We’re pulling away. The door is closed. My families already said their goodbyes and walked away. I’m left adrift, hurtling towards something that I’m not sure I have the coping mechanisms to deal with.
I feel alone, anchorless and slowly sinking.
I close my eyes and say my Salwaat, ‘La illah illa Allah Mohamed Rasool Allah’
I repeat my Qalma again and again until I’m back in control.
The door opens. The rush of air hits me and I realize it is time to say goodbye to my home, my base, my country.
Fully…finally…for the last time.
I feel a hand on the middle of my back. I know it’s him. My senses are invaded by his smell. His arm is warm on the middle of my back. I hear his deep clearly enunciated words. My body involuntarily shivers. It responds to him instinctually.
‘We’re ready to board. Come, let’s go take our seats.’
I look back and up. Into his face. His eyes look back at me steadily. Ever the man in charge, he asserts his command by the lightest of pressure. My legs involuntarily move forward.
As I take my seat, he sits down beside me. I sit there staring at nothing in particular.
‘You all right?’
I look at him. I blink. He smiles. His left hand covers my right hand. I realize I’ve been gripping the hand rest and my fingers ease up. His hand slowly eases my fingers into his.
My breath catches. This is too close for comfort. He doesn’t have a right to be so unfamiliar with me. I see a glimmer, a wink. It’s his ring, the one which decorates my third finger on the hand now entwined within his.
My gaze is riveted. I look at his hand. Again, I’m amazed by the blond hair.
‘We’ll be home before you know it. Relax, read, take a kip. The flight will end before you’ve fully settled in. If you need anything just ask.’
I look at his mouth. The lips moving, The perfectly aligned teeth peaking through. I hear the reverberation of his voice throughout my arm. It travels up and settles around my heart. I lean back, close my eyes and will myself to fall asleep.
‘Gulzar, we’re home.’
I inhale. It’s him. He’s even invaded my dreams. I open my eyes. His eyes look back, patient. I look back. His face breaks into a smile. I realize I’ve slept through the entire journey.
‘Would you like to freshen up?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Ok, we’ll visit the loo on the way to the luggage.’
‘Thank you.’
As we disembark, I catch snippets of conversations. Life teems with bodies, voices, lives busy and advancing. Yet, I feel as if I’m in a Monday night football playback. The commentator remarking on individual issues as they occur.
Again his fingers are on my lower back. I follow for my body already recognizes him as the leader.
As we await the driver to retrieve our bags, I look around me. Eyes seem to surround us. They all seem to know that I’m an outsider. Someone who simply does not belong. I inch closer to him, hoping to find the reassurance I so desperately need.
‘Gulzar, I must be off.’
I look up, confused. ‘What?’
‘I’ve got to make a dash if I want to catch the Cairo connection.’
‘I thought we were going to Debden.’
‘No, you’ll be going to my family home in Debden. I’ve got an unscheduled meeting in Cairo I need to attend.’
My eyes widen.
‘Don’t fret, Kamran, here will escort you home. I’ll be back before you’re fully settled in.’ He kisses me on the forehead, turns and walks away.
I’m left at a complete loss. Alone in a foreign country, I stand at the baggage terminal, staring after a man who was my only connection to a sense of security that was at best tenuous.
I take a deep breath. I look at this man, my fiancé. I look away.
Am I ready?
No, I’m scared. I have no idea what awaits me there. I don’t have any family and no close friends, however, I’ve made a commitment and I’m a woman of my word.
‘Yes, I’m ready.’
Mummi steps up and gives me a hug. Her words of caution, said in a language that’s suppose to be my mother tongue, is a language that neither Farid nor Imran can understand.
Both stand silently by as I say goodbye to my family.
Mummi’s talking. I watch her mouth. I hear what she’s saying, however, I’m not listening. She’s saying things which should calm me, give me solace, but which only makes me question how much she really loves me.
Why isn’t she coming with me? Why must I go to a foreign country without her. My eyes fill, my nose becomes blocked, but I embrace her a final time and turn to dad.
A hug, his scent envelops me, it’s warm and yet doesn’t offer any of the normal reassurance that’s to be had. He let’s go and the coldness envelops me once more.
He grabs both my hands and gives me a series of Du’a. I bend my head and say Ameen to each Du’a. And yet, I look at him again. I pour over his face, breath in his scent again. I see the lines that age have etched into his features.
Nothing, other than the thought, why? Why must I take this journey by myself?
I step back. I look up. I see the banister. Poking out between the rungs is my fur-ball. I smile, her tail wags faster. I blink, she whines. I look at my sister and ask her to watch over my baby.
I turn around.
‘Bismillah.’
I step out of the house and walk silently to the car.
Imran opens the door. I sit in the back seat. From my side of the window, I see the home which I moved into at the age of 15. I left it once, at the age of 22. Today, I’m leaving, again. I look down at my finger; it’s still there, that colorless 3-carat diamond. Encased in a platinum setting, it winks back at me. Even in this, an inanimate object seems to be attempting to reassure me.
So, why do I feel as if I’m in a dream. A surreal experience which has me in the company of a man, who 3 days ago, I didn’t know would be my future life-partner.
‘If you’d known this was how life would play out, forget the toe, the body should have been under your tires!’
I look back startled. My vision encounters him. His attention is occupied with papers in his hand. He looks up and smiles, his eyes are questioning. I look away and my attention is recaptured by my childhood home.
We’re pulling away. The door is closed. My families already said their goodbyes and walked away. I’m left adrift, hurtling towards something that I’m not sure I have the coping mechanisms to deal with.
I feel alone, anchorless and slowly sinking.
I close my eyes and say my Salwaat, ‘La illah illa Allah Mohamed Rasool Allah’
I repeat my Qalma again and again until I’m back in control.
The door opens. The rush of air hits me and I realize it is time to say goodbye to my home, my base, my country.
Fully…finally…for the last time.
I feel a hand on the middle of my back. I know it’s him. My senses are invaded by his smell. His arm is warm on the middle of my back. I hear his deep clearly enunciated words. My body involuntarily shivers. It responds to him instinctually.
‘We’re ready to board. Come, let’s go take our seats.’
I look back and up. Into his face. His eyes look back at me steadily. Ever the man in charge, he asserts his command by the lightest of pressure. My legs involuntarily move forward.
As I take my seat, he sits down beside me. I sit there staring at nothing in particular.
‘You all right?’
I look at him. I blink. He smiles. His left hand covers my right hand. I realize I’ve been gripping the hand rest and my fingers ease up. His hand slowly eases my fingers into his.
My breath catches. This is too close for comfort. He doesn’t have a right to be so unfamiliar with me. I see a glimmer, a wink. It’s his ring, the one which decorates my third finger on the hand now entwined within his.
My gaze is riveted. I look at his hand. Again, I’m amazed by the blond hair.
‘We’ll be home before you know it. Relax, read, take a kip. The flight will end before you’ve fully settled in. If you need anything just ask.’
I look at his mouth. The lips moving, The perfectly aligned teeth peaking through. I hear the reverberation of his voice throughout my arm. It travels up and settles around my heart. I lean back, close my eyes and will myself to fall asleep.
‘Gulzar, we’re home.’
I inhale. It’s him. He’s even invaded my dreams. I open my eyes. His eyes look back, patient. I look back. His face breaks into a smile. I realize I’ve slept through the entire journey.
‘Would you like to freshen up?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Ok, we’ll visit the loo on the way to the luggage.’
‘Thank you.’
As we disembark, I catch snippets of conversations. Life teems with bodies, voices, lives busy and advancing. Yet, I feel as if I’m in a Monday night football playback. The commentator remarking on individual issues as they occur.
Again his fingers are on my lower back. I follow for my body already recognizes him as the leader.
As we await the driver to retrieve our bags, I look around me. Eyes seem to surround us. They all seem to know that I’m an outsider. Someone who simply does not belong. I inch closer to him, hoping to find the reassurance I so desperately need.
‘Gulzar, I must be off.’
I look up, confused. ‘What?’
‘I’ve got to make a dash if I want to catch the Cairo connection.’
‘I thought we were going to Debden.’
‘No, you’ll be going to my family home in Debden. I’ve got an unscheduled meeting in Cairo I need to attend.’
My eyes widen.
‘Don’t fret, Kamran, here will escort you home. I’ll be back before you’re fully settled in.’ He kisses me on the forehead, turns and walks away.
I’m left at a complete loss. Alone in a foreign country, I stand at the baggage terminal, staring after a man who was my only connection to a sense of security that was at best tenuous.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Rishta Diaries – Candidate Two Part Five
I roll out of bed groggy. My head hurts. After Farid, Imran and their entourage left last night, I had the “talk”. Everyone, of course, loved him and his family. I think my cousin-sister might be a little bit in love with Imran. But, I still am confused. So much is in my mind. And everyone wants an answer.
So do I, truth be told. But, I can’t seem to find the answers I need. I’m sure I’ll talk to him at some point, but in order for that conversation to happen, I need to know what questions to ask!
I need freedom. I gear up. I lace up my Asics. I leash Zari. And out we go. It feels good. It is slightly cold and it kind of hurts my lungs. But it feels good to feel the wind in my face. To have something to focus on other than the myriad of questions festering in my mind.
It’s hard, I’m tired but as I walk up the pathway towards the front of the house but my mind is at peace. When, if he comes by, I’ll sit and talk things out. What happens thereafter, that’s in Allah’s hands.
Decision made,my heart,my mind and my soul are at peace. I go and shower,change and pray. As I come down I hear voices.
‘Ya-Ali-Madad mummy.”
‘Mowla-Ali-Madad beta.’
I walk to dad’s study to wish him a good morning and talk about the markets. Pour chai and read the Wall Street Journal.
The study is closed. Weird, why’s it closed? And why locked? It’s NEVER locked!
“Mummi, what’s up with daddy’s study?’
‘Beta, he’s discussing some things on the phone. He said he needed some privacy.’
‘But why is the door locked?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t realize it was locked.’
‘Ok.’ I have breakfast with mum in the kitchen. I’m annoyed that my daily ritual is disturbed and that I’ll have to read the Journal on the train.
The door opens, dad comes out. He’s quiet. He’s deep in thought. He goes to get a cup. I watch, waiting for him to clue me into what is going on.
Nothing …absolute silence. He goes back into the study. The door closes, I hear the lock turn.
I turn and look at mom. She looks at me in silence. Never, in my 32 yrs on this Earth has my father, EVER locked the door.
Something is wrong and it’s big!
An hour later, I’m off cleaning the formal sitting room as mummi likes to keep it in pristine condition. Suddenly, dad is at the door. I sense him before I hear him.
“Beti, come into the study. I need to talk to you.’
‘Jee daddy.’ I put down my rag and I take off my gloves. I walk into dad’s study. I sit down. Dad is sitting behind his desk. I hear someone in the side, where the windows are.
‘As-Salaam-Alikum Gulzar.’
‘Walikum-as-Salaam Imran .’
‘Beti, Imran has come over to stand in as Farid’s representative.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what that means.’
‘Gulzar, I’m a Barrister in London. Farid’s asked me to draft a formal pre-nuptial contract. I’ve discussed the particular points with your father and we’ve both finalized the contract.’
‘Beti, we need you to look it over and see if you’d like to add anything or change anything.’
‘A pre-nuptial…but why?’
‘Because, Farid would like to ask for you to join with him in England, to spend a month.’
My mouth drops open!
Dad continues, ‘He wants to ensure you can acclimate to life there. To meet his family and to spend a bit more time to get to know you and for you to get to know him better.
Imran adds, ‘to show good faith, Farid asked me to draft up an engagement offer.’
I look from one man, my father to the other; a lawyer whose standing as a stranger discussing the rest of my life. A life that essentially, if one discusses it as a contract is little more than a business arrangement.
My father gets up, ‘take a moment, look over the contract. Once you are done, come and get me. In the meantime, Imran and I will sit and have come coffee with mom in the living room.’
The door closes, I stare at the document.
My eyes glaze over.
Suddenly, tears flood my vision.
The door opens, I don’t look up because now the tears are flowing freely down my face.
I take a breath. He’s here. I don’t need to look over. I feel him immediately after I smell him. I take another deep breath.
I’m raw and yet I feel hollow.
He comes over, he sits in the chair next to me rather than behind the desk. I don’t move. I can’t,
I’m suddenly tired of this rollercoaster.
‘I was hoping this would show that I’m serious. I’m not looking to waste neither your time nor my own. I didn’t mean to upset you, however. I’m deeply sorry.’
‘I understand, however, this process leaves emotions at the door and has the feel of a business arrangement. That’s not how I want my life to play out.’
‘I understand, however, you’re a businessman’s daughter. I’m a businessman myself. Once you put things into a verbal and written contract, it solidifies the responsibility for both parties. I’m serious about this. About you. I need to know you are as well.’
‘I told you last evening, I need time to think.’
‘You’ve had long enough. I need a decision.’
‘I can’t. I won’t make a rush towards something that I’m not 100% confident in.’
‘So, you’re willing to walk away from something that has an energy that is uncommon to find?’
I’m upset. I’m angry. I want to lash out.
‘If I was, I’d have said no last evening. I don’t understand this insane rush. I just need time.’
‘Time, is the most precious commodity. It’s something I don’t have much of. You’ve my decision in front of you.’
He gets up and walks out. I watch the door to the study close.
I look at the contract. I can’t read it.
I won’t do this. My life will NOT be a contract. It is NOT a business deal!
I get up and I walk out of the study. I pass by the kitchen. It’s vacant. I stand, I remember last night. I’m less mad now. But, I’m still sure.
I walk to the formal sitting room. Everyone is sitting and talking. They’re in the midst of discussing things that I’ve not been a party to. As I stand in the doorway, conversation comes to a standstill.
My mother gets up and walks over to me. She looks at me and smiles. She’s attempting to reassure me. However, I don’t feel reassured. I look over at dad.
Farid walks over. He stands before me. ‘Have you taken a look at the paperwork?’
‘No.’ I feel better. I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
‘I leave tomorrow morning. I’d like to know your decision before I leave.’
‘I know my answer, I don’t need anymore time.’
‘What’s your decision?’
‘Yes.’
I’m in my mother’s arms. My father stands up and smiles. He hugs me. Imran congratulates me.
Farid asks me to give him my hand. I extend it out, not really paying attention. A cold, metallic feeling encompasses my third finger.
I feel as if I’m out of my body. I close my eyes. I open them. I look down. I have a ring on my hand.
I’m no longer a divorcee. I now belong to two families.
So do I, truth be told. But, I can’t seem to find the answers I need. I’m sure I’ll talk to him at some point, but in order for that conversation to happen, I need to know what questions to ask!
I need freedom. I gear up. I lace up my Asics. I leash Zari. And out we go. It feels good. It is slightly cold and it kind of hurts my lungs. But it feels good to feel the wind in my face. To have something to focus on other than the myriad of questions festering in my mind.
It’s hard, I’m tired but as I walk up the pathway towards the front of the house but my mind is at peace. When, if he comes by, I’ll sit and talk things out. What happens thereafter, that’s in Allah’s hands.
Decision made,my heart,my mind and my soul are at peace. I go and shower,change and pray. As I come down I hear voices.
‘Ya-Ali-Madad mummy.”
‘Mowla-Ali-Madad beta.’
I walk to dad’s study to wish him a good morning and talk about the markets. Pour chai and read the Wall Street Journal.
The study is closed. Weird, why’s it closed? And why locked? It’s NEVER locked!
“Mummi, what’s up with daddy’s study?’
‘Beta, he’s discussing some things on the phone. He said he needed some privacy.’
‘But why is the door locked?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t realize it was locked.’
‘Ok.’ I have breakfast with mum in the kitchen. I’m annoyed that my daily ritual is disturbed and that I’ll have to read the Journal on the train.
The door opens, dad comes out. He’s quiet. He’s deep in thought. He goes to get a cup. I watch, waiting for him to clue me into what is going on.
Nothing …absolute silence. He goes back into the study. The door closes, I hear the lock turn.
I turn and look at mom. She looks at me in silence. Never, in my 32 yrs on this Earth has my father, EVER locked the door.
Something is wrong and it’s big!
An hour later, I’m off cleaning the formal sitting room as mummi likes to keep it in pristine condition. Suddenly, dad is at the door. I sense him before I hear him.
“Beti, come into the study. I need to talk to you.’
‘Jee daddy.’ I put down my rag and I take off my gloves. I walk into dad’s study. I sit down. Dad is sitting behind his desk. I hear someone in the side, where the windows are.
‘As-Salaam-Alikum Gulzar.’
‘Walikum-as-Salaam Imran .’
‘Beti, Imran has come over to stand in as Farid’s representative.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what that means.’
‘Gulzar, I’m a Barrister in London. Farid’s asked me to draft a formal pre-nuptial contract. I’ve discussed the particular points with your father and we’ve both finalized the contract.’
‘Beti, we need you to look it over and see if you’d like to add anything or change anything.’
‘A pre-nuptial…but why?’
‘Because, Farid would like to ask for you to join with him in England, to spend a month.’
My mouth drops open!
Dad continues, ‘He wants to ensure you can acclimate to life there. To meet his family and to spend a bit more time to get to know you and for you to get to know him better.
Imran adds, ‘to show good faith, Farid asked me to draft up an engagement offer.’
I look from one man, my father to the other; a lawyer whose standing as a stranger discussing the rest of my life. A life that essentially, if one discusses it as a contract is little more than a business arrangement.
My father gets up, ‘take a moment, look over the contract. Once you are done, come and get me. In the meantime, Imran and I will sit and have come coffee with mom in the living room.’
The door closes, I stare at the document.
My eyes glaze over.
Suddenly, tears flood my vision.
The door opens, I don’t look up because now the tears are flowing freely down my face.
I take a breath. He’s here. I don’t need to look over. I feel him immediately after I smell him. I take another deep breath.
I’m raw and yet I feel hollow.
He comes over, he sits in the chair next to me rather than behind the desk. I don’t move. I can’t,
I’m suddenly tired of this rollercoaster.
‘I was hoping this would show that I’m serious. I’m not looking to waste neither your time nor my own. I didn’t mean to upset you, however. I’m deeply sorry.’
‘I understand, however, this process leaves emotions at the door and has the feel of a business arrangement. That’s not how I want my life to play out.’
‘I understand, however, you’re a businessman’s daughter. I’m a businessman myself. Once you put things into a verbal and written contract, it solidifies the responsibility for both parties. I’m serious about this. About you. I need to know you are as well.’
‘I told you last evening, I need time to think.’
‘You’ve had long enough. I need a decision.’
‘I can’t. I won’t make a rush towards something that I’m not 100% confident in.’
‘So, you’re willing to walk away from something that has an energy that is uncommon to find?’
I’m upset. I’m angry. I want to lash out.
‘If I was, I’d have said no last evening. I don’t understand this insane rush. I just need time.’
‘Time, is the most precious commodity. It’s something I don’t have much of. You’ve my decision in front of you.’
He gets up and walks out. I watch the door to the study close.
I look at the contract. I can’t read it.
I won’t do this. My life will NOT be a contract. It is NOT a business deal!
I get up and I walk out of the study. I pass by the kitchen. It’s vacant. I stand, I remember last night. I’m less mad now. But, I’m still sure.
I walk to the formal sitting room. Everyone is sitting and talking. They’re in the midst of discussing things that I’ve not been a party to. As I stand in the doorway, conversation comes to a standstill.
My mother gets up and walks over to me. She looks at me and smiles. She’s attempting to reassure me. However, I don’t feel reassured. I look over at dad.
Farid walks over. He stands before me. ‘Have you taken a look at the paperwork?’
‘No.’ I feel better. I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
‘I leave tomorrow morning. I’d like to know your decision before I leave.’
‘I know my answer, I don’t need anymore time.’
‘What’s your decision?’
‘Yes.’
I’m in my mother’s arms. My father stands up and smiles. He hugs me. Imran congratulates me.
Farid asks me to give him my hand. I extend it out, not really paying attention. A cold, metallic feeling encompasses my third finger.
I feel as if I’m out of my body. I close my eyes. I open them. I look down. I have a ring on my hand.
I’m no longer a divorcee. I now belong to two families.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Rishta Diaries- Candidate Two, part Four
The door opens. It’s dark. Suddenly a champagne coloured ball hurtles towards the foyer; I hear a shuffling and crying. It’s my baby girl, Zari. 12 pounds and a Pekingese that reminds me of the effable, loveable animal pre-Gremlin change…she skids to a halt a foot before me. Her tail moves like a broom on crack. Suddenly, her attention is riveted to Farid and she stands up on her two hind legs.
He looks down, looks over at me. I stand and watch his reaction. He smiles, bends down and chuckles deeply as she lays down with her head grazing the tip of his shoe.
‘Yours I presume?’
‘Yes, she’s my sidekick.’
‘Chalo Zari. Let’s go.’ Immediately, she launches herself and begins scurrying from the foyer to the back of the house. I turn on the lights as we advance towards to the back. He follows silently yet his presence is felt in every part of my body.
We arrive in the kitchen. I stand at the island and put down my black beaded purse.
I look down thinking…should I take off my shoes. I decide against it as he’s already taller than me. Besides the 4 inch checkered black n’ white patent peep-toe Enzo’s help me to feel tall.
God knows, I need all the help I can get at this point!
His hair, jet black and a typical preppy bank haircut, catches the light. For a man in his late 30's he’s quite dashing. A sun-kissed glow completes a chiseled nose, deep set dark brown eyes. His mouth, full and perfectly shaped captures my attention.
Focus!!! Your alone. For pity's sakes this is a Rishta! Double damn it!
I still can’t tear my eyes away. Suddenly, a memory of his cologne passes through my mind. My knees feel rubbery. Thank Allah that he stands at the desk whereas I stand towards the middle of the kitchen. A rather large island and about 20 feet separate us. However, it’s so quiet that the chime of the grandfather clock striking 10 pm causes me to jump out of my skin. I turn and go to the sink. I begin the prep for chai.
I hear his footsteps but I’m too distracted mentally to realize what he’s doing. Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. He reaches around me to grab the chai kettle. I’m frozen, I can’t move. I’m not even breathing! My dress, beaded, jet black with a red sash under the chest moves under the brush of his caramel blazer. I’m unaccustomed to such closeness, my body involuntarily shivers and my exposed back is flush with goose bumps.
‘Here, let me make the tea.’
I drop the kettle as if burned and move away. I scuttle over to the Island and firmly plant myself on the opposite end. My body is still reeling from the after effects of his proximity to me.
‘Where do you keep the sugar and the tea bags?’
‘Top right shelf should be at eye level.’
‘Yours or mine?’
‘I look up, immediately I’m burning from the eye contact.
‘Can you handle the tea? I just need to pop into the ladies room for a minute.’
‘Sure, take your time.’
I walk to the bathroom, as if I’m walking the plank on an old ship. Why do I feel like I’m walking towards a painful slow death?
I close the door behind me, I run the water. I stare at the face in the mirror. I offer up a prayer to Allah that my time with him is cut short.
I go through the process of washing my hands. I hang and then re-hang the towels. I adjust the pictures. Then I take a deep breath and open the door.
He throws me a look as I enter the kitchen however he doesn’t say anything.
The tea’s ready. He’s pouring it into two cups. I go to the pantry and take out a few sweet biscuits and some spicy snacks. I walk back into the kitchen and take two plates down. I put the biscuits and snacks into platters.
As we both work, I’m aware that we’re a hairs breath away from each other.
‘My sister in Houston said that you’re quite involved in Muslim social projects. Would you like to tell me a bit about them?’
I walk over to the island and put the biscuits and snacks down. I turn around and walk to the other side. I sit down and he comes over with the cups of tea to join me at the island.
‘Well, I work with a global NGO as a Project manager on two goals. Each goal, as well as the overall project is targeted to begin building a foundation that can tackle the rising problems facing the aged Muslim community. Currently our project is geared towards those residing within the United States. Our mandate is to take the project global after year 3.’
‘Is that your concentration then, on the elderly populace?’
‘Yes, I enjoy what I do greatly. How about you, are you involved or do you have an interest in any such endeavours?’
‘Well, yes, I do. My attention is moreso on addressing the growing and existing concern of poor education and low test scores of the Pakistani youth within the United Kingdom. Matriculation rates for Pakistani children are lower than any other immigrant population for both ‘O’ and ‘A’ levels in the UK.’
Fascinated, I had no idea he also was involved in this type of work. I’m no longer nervous, I’m entranced by this man who seems to be too good to be true.
‘How do you go about resolving that? How do you work towards increasing the quality of education that is available and utilized by these young adults?’
‘I’m a governor at a college in London. I speak throughout London and also write frequently on the need for programmes which combat low test schools and to address the need for higher quality of education from primary education through undergraduate programmes.’
‘How much time do you devote to this endeavour?’
‘As much as possible. At least 2 days out of every week. I’ve taken on the college governor’s position is unpaid, and it will remain so, as long as the college continues to serve the ever burgeoning Muslim students in UK.’
‘How do they serve the student population targeting such?’
‘Oh, there are plethoras of ways. For instance, one manner is by creating relationships and targeting students who are doing poorly in the pre-teen populations. Some of these students come from homes where the teachers are concerned about their psychological, physical and mental health. We also have established quarterly meetings their parents, after-school programmes to ensure the children complete homework and get the extra tutorial needed to not fall behind. And when their ready for University, we offer scholarships and work-study programmes that help teach them properly techniques to succeed at the University level. We’ve also created relationships so that these students can easy transfer over to schools such as Kings and University of Manchester.’
I’m impressed. This man not only travels constantly throughout the ME and Europe but also the US. In addition, he’s diligent in his duties to give back to the community.
So…what’s wrong with him?
I ask, ‘How do you unwind?’
‘I fly. I have a friend who owns a charter company. Florida, Caribbean, South America. I take time out 3x a year to go flying. It also ensures my pilots’ license has enough hours to not lapse. I’m a sun seeker. Once a month, I spend a weekend in North Africa, California or somewhere in the pacific to get recharged by the sun and sea. I surf, am quite good actually. And I go home, to Islamabad to visit mum and dad once every 6 weeks.’
So, ok the guy works hard, plays hard and has an insane schedule. Where do I fit in, if I want to?
‘You’re a wanderer, by choice, it seems. With a schedule that would be impossible to maintain by most humans. So, where do you fit in time for a potential wife and eventually a family?’
‘I’m comfortable enough that my future wife won’t need to work. And with the requirements in business, I need to maintain a constant vagabond lifestyle. So, whoever is my begum (he smiles devilishly at this point with a slight wink), will accompany me. I’m specifically interested in you because with your NGO work, you do not need to be tied to a specific city or country.’
I’m appalled. He expects and has stated unequivocally that I am expected to give up my career. What about my hopes, my dreams, my desires?
Immediately the thought comes, he’s selfish. Then why am I so loathe to believe it?
What of his wife’s life? Will it consist of revolving around his? And most important of all…can I, more importantly, do I want to pursue this? Will I sacrifice to this level?
My mind is whirling. My face may be reflective however my mind is off in a million directions. My heart, my mind and my senses feel as if they are all on a crack high.
He sits next to me and waits patiently. He reaches for his tea while my synapses fire rapidly. He puts his cup down, looks back at me and waits. Patiently, assured and without a hint awareness of what is internally happening to me.
If I say yes, I have a meal ticket, a good one at that. Better than any most women will even have an opportunity to secure. Will he be a good husband? Will he be the dream of a nurturer and employ humanistic principles even when in the toughest of times?
What do I know about this man? He’s cheeky, he’s intelligent, possesses a strong magnetic personality, he seems to have an open heart, is truthful and has from what I can ascertain a pretty positive nature. But, for a moderate Muslim woman who was raised in the West and is use to being in charge, can I really make a life and be happy catering to his established lifestyle?
Before I’ve fully processed this revelation, a thought occurs to me. Without realizing, I say out loud, “will this lifestyle continue once children come?’
“Gulzar, I grew up with a father who had businesses in Pakistan and throughout the UK. In addition, he was the attaché from Pakistan to the UK. My siblings and I traveled as did my mother with him everywhere. Once, I was in my teens, I went to the boarding school that my father and grandfather attended. Once my children are in their teens, they will also attend the same prep school. ‘
Again, the decision is made. This man isn’t a moderate, he holds traditional mindsets. He values tradition and is definitely in charge.
Life will not be a partnership. Not with him. There will be no power struggle. Truth be told, he will unequivocally be the leader. Can I handle that? Will I be happy?
So many questions, yet my minds flooded and I have no answers.
‘I’m not sure about this anymore.’
‘Ok. Do you have questions or wish to talk things through?’
‘No, I need time to think first.’
‘Fair enough. Take your time. I’m here for another day. We’ll talk further about it once you’ve had time to think.’
‘Thank you.’
The doorbell saves me from further conversation.
He looks down, looks over at me. I stand and watch his reaction. He smiles, bends down and chuckles deeply as she lays down with her head grazing the tip of his shoe.
‘Yours I presume?’
‘Yes, she’s my sidekick.’
‘Chalo Zari. Let’s go.’ Immediately, she launches herself and begins scurrying from the foyer to the back of the house. I turn on the lights as we advance towards to the back. He follows silently yet his presence is felt in every part of my body.
We arrive in the kitchen. I stand at the island and put down my black beaded purse.
I look down thinking…should I take off my shoes. I decide against it as he’s already taller than me. Besides the 4 inch checkered black n’ white patent peep-toe Enzo’s help me to feel tall.
God knows, I need all the help I can get at this point!
His hair, jet black and a typical preppy bank haircut, catches the light. For a man in his late 30's he’s quite dashing. A sun-kissed glow completes a chiseled nose, deep set dark brown eyes. His mouth, full and perfectly shaped captures my attention.
Focus!!! Your alone. For pity's sakes this is a Rishta! Double damn it!
I still can’t tear my eyes away. Suddenly, a memory of his cologne passes through my mind. My knees feel rubbery. Thank Allah that he stands at the desk whereas I stand towards the middle of the kitchen. A rather large island and about 20 feet separate us. However, it’s so quiet that the chime of the grandfather clock striking 10 pm causes me to jump out of my skin. I turn and go to the sink. I begin the prep for chai.
I hear his footsteps but I’m too distracted mentally to realize what he’s doing. Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. He reaches around me to grab the chai kettle. I’m frozen, I can’t move. I’m not even breathing! My dress, beaded, jet black with a red sash under the chest moves under the brush of his caramel blazer. I’m unaccustomed to such closeness, my body involuntarily shivers and my exposed back is flush with goose bumps.
‘Here, let me make the tea.’
I drop the kettle as if burned and move away. I scuttle over to the Island and firmly plant myself on the opposite end. My body is still reeling from the after effects of his proximity to me.
‘Where do you keep the sugar and the tea bags?’
‘Top right shelf should be at eye level.’
‘Yours or mine?’
‘I look up, immediately I’m burning from the eye contact.
‘Can you handle the tea? I just need to pop into the ladies room for a minute.’
‘Sure, take your time.’
I walk to the bathroom, as if I’m walking the plank on an old ship. Why do I feel like I’m walking towards a painful slow death?
I close the door behind me, I run the water. I stare at the face in the mirror. I offer up a prayer to Allah that my time with him is cut short.
I go through the process of washing my hands. I hang and then re-hang the towels. I adjust the pictures. Then I take a deep breath and open the door.
He throws me a look as I enter the kitchen however he doesn’t say anything.
The tea’s ready. He’s pouring it into two cups. I go to the pantry and take out a few sweet biscuits and some spicy snacks. I walk back into the kitchen and take two plates down. I put the biscuits and snacks into platters.
As we both work, I’m aware that we’re a hairs breath away from each other.
‘My sister in Houston said that you’re quite involved in Muslim social projects. Would you like to tell me a bit about them?’
I walk over to the island and put the biscuits and snacks down. I turn around and walk to the other side. I sit down and he comes over with the cups of tea to join me at the island.
‘Well, I work with a global NGO as a Project manager on two goals. Each goal, as well as the overall project is targeted to begin building a foundation that can tackle the rising problems facing the aged Muslim community. Currently our project is geared towards those residing within the United States. Our mandate is to take the project global after year 3.’
‘Is that your concentration then, on the elderly populace?’
‘Yes, I enjoy what I do greatly. How about you, are you involved or do you have an interest in any such endeavours?’
‘Well, yes, I do. My attention is moreso on addressing the growing and existing concern of poor education and low test scores of the Pakistani youth within the United Kingdom. Matriculation rates for Pakistani children are lower than any other immigrant population for both ‘O’ and ‘A’ levels in the UK.’
Fascinated, I had no idea he also was involved in this type of work. I’m no longer nervous, I’m entranced by this man who seems to be too good to be true.
‘How do you go about resolving that? How do you work towards increasing the quality of education that is available and utilized by these young adults?’
‘I’m a governor at a college in London. I speak throughout London and also write frequently on the need for programmes which combat low test schools and to address the need for higher quality of education from primary education through undergraduate programmes.’
‘How much time do you devote to this endeavour?’
‘As much as possible. At least 2 days out of every week. I’ve taken on the college governor’s position is unpaid, and it will remain so, as long as the college continues to serve the ever burgeoning Muslim students in UK.’
‘How do they serve the student population targeting such?’
‘Oh, there are plethoras of ways. For instance, one manner is by creating relationships and targeting students who are doing poorly in the pre-teen populations. Some of these students come from homes where the teachers are concerned about their psychological, physical and mental health. We also have established quarterly meetings their parents, after-school programmes to ensure the children complete homework and get the extra tutorial needed to not fall behind. And when their ready for University, we offer scholarships and work-study programmes that help teach them properly techniques to succeed at the University level. We’ve also created relationships so that these students can easy transfer over to schools such as Kings and University of Manchester.’
I’m impressed. This man not only travels constantly throughout the ME and Europe but also the US. In addition, he’s diligent in his duties to give back to the community.
So…what’s wrong with him?
I ask, ‘How do you unwind?’
‘I fly. I have a friend who owns a charter company. Florida, Caribbean, South America. I take time out 3x a year to go flying. It also ensures my pilots’ license has enough hours to not lapse. I’m a sun seeker. Once a month, I spend a weekend in North Africa, California or somewhere in the pacific to get recharged by the sun and sea. I surf, am quite good actually. And I go home, to Islamabad to visit mum and dad once every 6 weeks.’
So, ok the guy works hard, plays hard and has an insane schedule. Where do I fit in, if I want to?
‘You’re a wanderer, by choice, it seems. With a schedule that would be impossible to maintain by most humans. So, where do you fit in time for a potential wife and eventually a family?’
‘I’m comfortable enough that my future wife won’t need to work. And with the requirements in business, I need to maintain a constant vagabond lifestyle. So, whoever is my begum (he smiles devilishly at this point with a slight wink), will accompany me. I’m specifically interested in you because with your NGO work, you do not need to be tied to a specific city or country.’
I’m appalled. He expects and has stated unequivocally that I am expected to give up my career. What about my hopes, my dreams, my desires?
Immediately the thought comes, he’s selfish. Then why am I so loathe to believe it?
What of his wife’s life? Will it consist of revolving around his? And most important of all…can I, more importantly, do I want to pursue this? Will I sacrifice to this level?
My mind is whirling. My face may be reflective however my mind is off in a million directions. My heart, my mind and my senses feel as if they are all on a crack high.
He sits next to me and waits patiently. He reaches for his tea while my synapses fire rapidly. He puts his cup down, looks back at me and waits. Patiently, assured and without a hint awareness of what is internally happening to me.
If I say yes, I have a meal ticket, a good one at that. Better than any most women will even have an opportunity to secure. Will he be a good husband? Will he be the dream of a nurturer and employ humanistic principles even when in the toughest of times?
What do I know about this man? He’s cheeky, he’s intelligent, possesses a strong magnetic personality, he seems to have an open heart, is truthful and has from what I can ascertain a pretty positive nature. But, for a moderate Muslim woman who was raised in the West and is use to being in charge, can I really make a life and be happy catering to his established lifestyle?
Before I’ve fully processed this revelation, a thought occurs to me. Without realizing, I say out loud, “will this lifestyle continue once children come?’
“Gulzar, I grew up with a father who had businesses in Pakistan and throughout the UK. In addition, he was the attaché from Pakistan to the UK. My siblings and I traveled as did my mother with him everywhere. Once, I was in my teens, I went to the boarding school that my father and grandfather attended. Once my children are in their teens, they will also attend the same prep school. ‘
Again, the decision is made. This man isn’t a moderate, he holds traditional mindsets. He values tradition and is definitely in charge.
Life will not be a partnership. Not with him. There will be no power struggle. Truth be told, he will unequivocally be the leader. Can I handle that? Will I be happy?
So many questions, yet my minds flooded and I have no answers.
‘I’m not sure about this anymore.’
‘Ok. Do you have questions or wish to talk things through?’
‘No, I need time to think first.’
‘Fair enough. Take your time. I’m here for another day. We’ll talk further about it once you’ve had time to think.’
‘Thank you.’
The doorbell saves me from further conversation.
Rishta Diaries - Candidate Two part Three
Step one, step two. I freeze.
In front of me parked at the end of the winding front walk leading to the driveway is an electric blue Porsche.
‘All well with you?’
I hear him, however, I’d rather continue worshiping the car. Sooo beautiful! Hubba hubba!!! I close my eyes, I open them.
Yup still there!
All else is forgotten in the appreciation of a species of vehicle so fine that the reverberation of a hot Brit accent can’t even bring me out of my reverie.
Immediately, I start salivating, wowzers, I’m in love. It’s gotta be a C4S.
Suddenly, I see keys in my vision. He jingles them.
I look over and the smile that spreads across my face could light up all of Karachi during its darkest energy outage!
‘Your smile rivals that of the Chesire kitty.’
I look over at him and this time the smile spreads to show teeth. Finally, a man after my heart. Someone who truly understands the love I hold for European engineering.
*sigh*
‘All right. All right. If you promise not to be too rough, you can drive my girl back after dinner tonight.’
I skip down the stairs excited beyond belief.
As we breeze down 290E towards the city, I watch from the corner of my eye as he effortlessly glides this beauty through the congestion. He’s one with the car and we’re enjoying a companionable silence. I smile as I can finally sit and start to catalogue this individual.
Suddenly, I notice the way he smells. It’s quiet, powerful, encompassing and yet not overwhelming. From what I can tell, the scent fits the man to a ‘T.’
‘Do I meet with your approval?’
I pinken a bit surprised that I’ve not been as circumspect as I had hoped I’d been.
He smirks yet again cognizant of the heat rising up my neck. Somehow, I’m not as bothered as I was back at home at his smirk. I casually turn back my attention to the traffic and the city which we’ve almost reached.
Pulling up to the restaurant, I get out of the car and look over at him. I’m slightly annoyed that he’s waiting at the curb. Suddenly, I feel like a wayward child. Now the annoyance turns inwards at my foolish musings.
‘Ready?’ He extends his hand to allow me to precede him. He reaches around me and opens the colossal wooden door to the entrance. I walk to the maitre’d and Farid gives his last name.
The ease, effable nature which reminds me of my bhai is not lost. He’s been born to a position of comfort. He’s been born to be a leader and yet his nature is one where all are at ease and humbleness emanates from him.
Ok, why am I crushing on a Rishta? For God’s sake…I need to rest control back in this situation. Else, I’ll be at his mercy.
Let the power struggle begin!
The waiter comes over and both our attentions are engaged by the laundry list of specialities. I ordered the fish, he ordered the lamb. I noticed he didn't order beef though we were at a steak house. I wonder if he's a typical Brit in that he hates anything to do with the 'moo n' oink.' I file it away for further reflection,later.
We both seem to be curious by nature. Come from a business and political familial background where we're the eldest in our individual famlies. We've both gone into Banking and have left for different things.
And the important question regarding religious differences. We're both from religious families but are more moderates.
His take:
He's not bothered as he's a moderate and is of the firm belief that Islam is an individual choice, one between a practioner and Allah.
My take:
I'm not sure yet how I feel about that. I agree somewhat with his thinking, however I realize in the aspect of marriage, the differences may indeed result in friction, especially once children come around.
Again, another piece to be filed away, for later.
After the first course is served he asks me about why I accepted interest.
I look up surprised.
So far, we’ve but spoken about architecture, family and Islam.
I sit back and respond, ‘Why not?’ My right eyebrow raises, the gauntlet has now been thrown. My heart begins a staccato and my mind is on full alert. Fight or flight be damned! I’m in my element and ready for the ensuing session to commence.
He leans in and smiles. ‘Nice try. However, this question is perplexing. Your educated, you’ve got the credentials from a successful career, your family history is above reproach, and MashAllah you’re a good looking woman. So, the question begs to be asked..why me?
My head slightly cocks to the right and I wonder…is he suffering from low self-esteem?
No, he’s genuinely curious.
‘You were born in Pakistan, so I hoped there would be a bond to the land of your birth. You’ve been raised in the West, so I hoped you would be able to mesh well in everyday and the not so everyday vagaries of life. You’ve acquired the degree’s and the successful career, so you know sacrifice and also the fruit of said labour. And your tall, business minded and you’ve got a Brit accent.’
He stares, looks away and then he laughs.
‘Brit accent, that’s what got me here?’
Yes, I nod silently.
His smile brightens. I smile back. The coffee arrives. His phone rings, it’s my Nazi mother requesting to speak to me.
Ah, no matter one’s age, mummi’s always know how to make you feel like a naughty 12 yr old. I listen sullenly, mortified at potentially being counseled within hearing distance from him.
Instead, I hear her advising that Imran and my family have opted to go to a Afghani play at University of Chicago. So, Farid and I are welcome to join them or meet them back home at midnight.
I offer the decision to Farid. He opts to meet everyone back at the house. I smile and let mum know. She hangs up.
So, we’re done with dinner and drinks..now what? It’s turned unseasonably cold while we’ve been indoors. Its dark and the lamps and lights illuminate the outside. I can feel the cold emanating from the large windows that our table looks out onto. And yet, I feel unseasonably warm.
‘Pardon me, I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
I slide out of my chair and notice that he doesn’t get up. I make note of it but continue onto the bathroom facilities.
My face is slightly flushed but my neck is not. I stare back at myself and yet I don’t recognize myself. I look down at my right hand. I realize my unconscious is reminding me to be careful by bringing my attention back to the physical scar that is a reminder of the pain of the past.
The flush is gone. I’m calm. I’m back in control, mentally as well as physically. I finish washing my hands. I walk out and back to the table.
‘Welcome back.’
I look up, I meet his eyes and quietly respond, ‘Thank you.’
‘Is all well with you?’
I nod yes without verbally responding.
‘Good. Are you ready to go?’
Again, I nod yes and add in a calm steady voice, ‘Whenever you’re ready.’
He looks at me in silence, patient, waiting, for what I don’t know. I meet his gaze, steady, assured. I have nothing to say. No desire at this point to share.
He pushes his chair back and stands up. Walks over and pulls my chair out.
As we wait at the curbside for the valet to bring the car around, I can see him from the side of my vision. He’s standing with an erect posture, steadily looking at my profile, critiquing, cataloguing or is he attempting to read my mind?
I look down the street and see the car and valet approaching. His attention is drawn to the same.
As the car pulls up, I look straight ahead and ask, ‘Do I meet with your approval?’
The smirk is back, I look over with my eyebrow raised once again. He raises both of his up and down in answer. He steps away and then looks back, ‘Absolutely.’
I smirk in response and allow the valet to help me into the vehicle.
I wait for the car to be taken out of neutral. Nothing. I look over. He looks at me with an intense gaze. I meet him eye to eye wondering what’s flitting through his mind.
‘I’m a man of my word. However, please treat her gently.’
I look at his face realization finally dawning. I’m ecstatic. I’m about to drive a C4S! Miracles do indeed occur!
I jump out of the car and run over to the driver’s side. I grab the keys out of his hand before he changes his mind. I hurriedly get in the car and anxiously await him to do the same.
The engine purrs and I’m in heaven. The clutch is smoth, cold and yet powerfully alive. I jiggle it just trying to get a proper feel. Suddenly, his warm large hand envelops the back of my hand. My attention is riveted to him and my hand tightens around the clutch.
‘Treat her with the utmost respect, she’s my heart.’
I blink, nod and pull away from the curb.
OMG OMG OMG!!!The power, the feel and the handling … nothing can compare. This is great, real and powerful, this must be what exquisite rapture feelings like. I wish I was on a racetrack rather than just going home. I let her out, give her full control. I’ve completely forgotten anything but the car and my joy at being behind the wheel.
We get home much too quickly. I turn off the car with a feeling of utter desolation. It is so unfair how all things must come to an end.
I turn over to hand him the keys. My gaze is riveted to his hand and mine as I drop the keys into his palm.
I look up to him, he’s much too tall for his own good, ‘Thank you.’
A chuckle followed by,’You look despondent, as if you kitty died.’
I look straight ahead and say, ‘I don’t have a kitty. However, if I did and she died, I probably would look like this.’
He laughs louder as we turn to walk up the path towards the house. ‘Cheer up, you can drive her on our next outing. At least I know, you’ll not chastise me for my racing vehicles.’
I look over and flash a short-lived smile. ‘Never.’
‘Well then, I suppose we’ll just fight instead about who drives what.’
‘Perhaps, we will. However, as I’m the woman, I’ll get first dibbs.’
‘Ah you Americans, so full of yourselves!’
‘Better than being a stuffed shirt of a Brit.’
‘Well, we do have that lovely accent which you are so enamoured of.’
I look back as we approach the front door. I wink. He laughs.
As the key fits into the front door lock, I realize he and I are alone at home.
Now what?
In front of me parked at the end of the winding front walk leading to the driveway is an electric blue Porsche.
‘All well with you?’
I hear him, however, I’d rather continue worshiping the car. Sooo beautiful! Hubba hubba!!! I close my eyes, I open them.
Yup still there!
All else is forgotten in the appreciation of a species of vehicle so fine that the reverberation of a hot Brit accent can’t even bring me out of my reverie.
Immediately, I start salivating, wowzers, I’m in love. It’s gotta be a C4S.
Suddenly, I see keys in my vision. He jingles them.
I look over and the smile that spreads across my face could light up all of Karachi during its darkest energy outage!
‘Your smile rivals that of the Chesire kitty.’
I look over at him and this time the smile spreads to show teeth. Finally, a man after my heart. Someone who truly understands the love I hold for European engineering.
*sigh*
‘All right. All right. If you promise not to be too rough, you can drive my girl back after dinner tonight.’
I skip down the stairs excited beyond belief.
As we breeze down 290E towards the city, I watch from the corner of my eye as he effortlessly glides this beauty through the congestion. He’s one with the car and we’re enjoying a companionable silence. I smile as I can finally sit and start to catalogue this individual.
Suddenly, I notice the way he smells. It’s quiet, powerful, encompassing and yet not overwhelming. From what I can tell, the scent fits the man to a ‘T.’
‘Do I meet with your approval?’
I pinken a bit surprised that I’ve not been as circumspect as I had hoped I’d been.
He smirks yet again cognizant of the heat rising up my neck. Somehow, I’m not as bothered as I was back at home at his smirk. I casually turn back my attention to the traffic and the city which we’ve almost reached.
Pulling up to the restaurant, I get out of the car and look over at him. I’m slightly annoyed that he’s waiting at the curb. Suddenly, I feel like a wayward child. Now the annoyance turns inwards at my foolish musings.
‘Ready?’ He extends his hand to allow me to precede him. He reaches around me and opens the colossal wooden door to the entrance. I walk to the maitre’d and Farid gives his last name.
The ease, effable nature which reminds me of my bhai is not lost. He’s been born to a position of comfort. He’s been born to be a leader and yet his nature is one where all are at ease and humbleness emanates from him.
Ok, why am I crushing on a Rishta? For God’s sake…I need to rest control back in this situation. Else, I’ll be at his mercy.
Let the power struggle begin!
The waiter comes over and both our attentions are engaged by the laundry list of specialities. I ordered the fish, he ordered the lamb. I noticed he didn't order beef though we were at a steak house. I wonder if he's a typical Brit in that he hates anything to do with the 'moo n' oink.' I file it away for further reflection,later.
We both seem to be curious by nature. Come from a business and political familial background where we're the eldest in our individual famlies. We've both gone into Banking and have left for different things.
And the important question regarding religious differences. We're both from religious families but are more moderates.
His take:
He's not bothered as he's a moderate and is of the firm belief that Islam is an individual choice, one between a practioner and Allah.
My take:
I'm not sure yet how I feel about that. I agree somewhat with his thinking, however I realize in the aspect of marriage, the differences may indeed result in friction, especially once children come around.
Again, another piece to be filed away, for later.
After the first course is served he asks me about why I accepted interest.
I look up surprised.
So far, we’ve but spoken about architecture, family and Islam.
I sit back and respond, ‘Why not?’ My right eyebrow raises, the gauntlet has now been thrown. My heart begins a staccato and my mind is on full alert. Fight or flight be damned! I’m in my element and ready for the ensuing session to commence.
He leans in and smiles. ‘Nice try. However, this question is perplexing. Your educated, you’ve got the credentials from a successful career, your family history is above reproach, and MashAllah you’re a good looking woman. So, the question begs to be asked..why me?
My head slightly cocks to the right and I wonder…is he suffering from low self-esteem?
No, he’s genuinely curious.
‘You were born in Pakistan, so I hoped there would be a bond to the land of your birth. You’ve been raised in the West, so I hoped you would be able to mesh well in everyday and the not so everyday vagaries of life. You’ve acquired the degree’s and the successful career, so you know sacrifice and also the fruit of said labour. And your tall, business minded and you’ve got a Brit accent.’
He stares, looks away and then he laughs.
‘Brit accent, that’s what got me here?’
Yes, I nod silently.
His smile brightens. I smile back. The coffee arrives. His phone rings, it’s my Nazi mother requesting to speak to me.
Ah, no matter one’s age, mummi’s always know how to make you feel like a naughty 12 yr old. I listen sullenly, mortified at potentially being counseled within hearing distance from him.
Instead, I hear her advising that Imran and my family have opted to go to a Afghani play at University of Chicago. So, Farid and I are welcome to join them or meet them back home at midnight.
I offer the decision to Farid. He opts to meet everyone back at the house. I smile and let mum know. She hangs up.
So, we’re done with dinner and drinks..now what? It’s turned unseasonably cold while we’ve been indoors. Its dark and the lamps and lights illuminate the outside. I can feel the cold emanating from the large windows that our table looks out onto. And yet, I feel unseasonably warm.
‘Pardon me, I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
I slide out of my chair and notice that he doesn’t get up. I make note of it but continue onto the bathroom facilities.
My face is slightly flushed but my neck is not. I stare back at myself and yet I don’t recognize myself. I look down at my right hand. I realize my unconscious is reminding me to be careful by bringing my attention back to the physical scar that is a reminder of the pain of the past.
The flush is gone. I’m calm. I’m back in control, mentally as well as physically. I finish washing my hands. I walk out and back to the table.
‘Welcome back.’
I look up, I meet his eyes and quietly respond, ‘Thank you.’
‘Is all well with you?’
I nod yes without verbally responding.
‘Good. Are you ready to go?’
Again, I nod yes and add in a calm steady voice, ‘Whenever you’re ready.’
He looks at me in silence, patient, waiting, for what I don’t know. I meet his gaze, steady, assured. I have nothing to say. No desire at this point to share.
He pushes his chair back and stands up. Walks over and pulls my chair out.
As we wait at the curbside for the valet to bring the car around, I can see him from the side of my vision. He’s standing with an erect posture, steadily looking at my profile, critiquing, cataloguing or is he attempting to read my mind?
I look down the street and see the car and valet approaching. His attention is drawn to the same.
As the car pulls up, I look straight ahead and ask, ‘Do I meet with your approval?’
The smirk is back, I look over with my eyebrow raised once again. He raises both of his up and down in answer. He steps away and then looks back, ‘Absolutely.’
I smirk in response and allow the valet to help me into the vehicle.
I wait for the car to be taken out of neutral. Nothing. I look over. He looks at me with an intense gaze. I meet him eye to eye wondering what’s flitting through his mind.
‘I’m a man of my word. However, please treat her gently.’
I look at his face realization finally dawning. I’m ecstatic. I’m about to drive a C4S! Miracles do indeed occur!
I jump out of the car and run over to the driver’s side. I grab the keys out of his hand before he changes his mind. I hurriedly get in the car and anxiously await him to do the same.
The engine purrs and I’m in heaven. The clutch is smoth, cold and yet powerfully alive. I jiggle it just trying to get a proper feel. Suddenly, his warm large hand envelops the back of my hand. My attention is riveted to him and my hand tightens around the clutch.
‘Treat her with the utmost respect, she’s my heart.’
I blink, nod and pull away from the curb.
OMG OMG OMG!!!The power, the feel and the handling … nothing can compare. This is great, real and powerful, this must be what exquisite rapture feelings like. I wish I was on a racetrack rather than just going home. I let her out, give her full control. I’ve completely forgotten anything but the car and my joy at being behind the wheel.
We get home much too quickly. I turn off the car with a feeling of utter desolation. It is so unfair how all things must come to an end.
I turn over to hand him the keys. My gaze is riveted to his hand and mine as I drop the keys into his palm.
I look up to him, he’s much too tall for his own good, ‘Thank you.’
A chuckle followed by,’You look despondent, as if you kitty died.’
I look straight ahead and say, ‘I don’t have a kitty. However, if I did and she died, I probably would look like this.’
He laughs louder as we turn to walk up the path towards the house. ‘Cheer up, you can drive her on our next outing. At least I know, you’ll not chastise me for my racing vehicles.’
I look over and flash a short-lived smile. ‘Never.’
‘Well then, I suppose we’ll just fight instead about who drives what.’
‘Perhaps, we will. However, as I’m the woman, I’ll get first dibbs.’
‘Ah you Americans, so full of yourselves!’
‘Better than being a stuffed shirt of a Brit.’
‘Well, we do have that lovely accent which you are so enamoured of.’
I look back as we approach the front door. I wink. He laughs.
As the key fits into the front door lock, I realize he and I are alone at home.
Now what?
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Rishta Diaries- A Beginning
First of new fiction short story
_________________________
2008 was an interesting year.
For the last 3 yrs I've had mummi and her minions, aunti's as their known in our Pakistani culture, slowly brainwashing me to accept Rishta's(a proposal of marriage) and interest from "acceptable families" (I've yet to meet a family which was stamped with the dreaded, "unacceptable" mark).
Their argument was that if I didn't heed their urgings, I'll be old and the rishta's would dwindle and eventually die...perhaps like my eggs? (I thought the last in silence too afeared of uttering it out loud in mummi's vicinity)
In my early 20's, fresh out of University, I fell in love with a Western man and went against centuries of acceptable behaviour. 2008 saw the finality and acceptance of the death of the last decade in my life. This year, I mentally and physically walked away. I stopped visiting the old town where my son is buried, where exactly I know not. I stopped driving by the mansion which I painstakingly built with my ex. Where he know resides blissfully happy with the woman he left me for. And I started writing in hopes of exorcising the remaining ghosts left in my psyche.
A second chance, a new page, a new chapter. Perhaps, routes already established throughout the previous decades may result in the culmination of a happiness that has been too elusive since returning battered, bruised and broken. Now, perhaps, as my personal experiences and selfish choices had led me down the path to ruination, a fear which had been whispered throughout my young adulthood by the respected female members on both sides of the family, it was time to throw in the proverbial red sari and walk down a path which would ultimately create joy and acceptance of the pariah that was me.
I took a deep breath and agreed to begin the Rishta process.
And so began the journey of the Rishta Diaries..............
_________________________
2008 was an interesting year.
For the last 3 yrs I've had mummi and her minions, aunti's as their known in our Pakistani culture, slowly brainwashing me to accept Rishta's(a proposal of marriage) and interest from "acceptable families" (I've yet to meet a family which was stamped with the dreaded, "unacceptable" mark).
Their argument was that if I didn't heed their urgings, I'll be old and the rishta's would dwindle and eventually die...perhaps like my eggs? (I thought the last in silence too afeared of uttering it out loud in mummi's vicinity)
In my early 20's, fresh out of University, I fell in love with a Western man and went against centuries of acceptable behaviour. 2008 saw the finality and acceptance of the death of the last decade in my life. This year, I mentally and physically walked away. I stopped visiting the old town where my son is buried, where exactly I know not. I stopped driving by the mansion which I painstakingly built with my ex. Where he know resides blissfully happy with the woman he left me for. And I started writing in hopes of exorcising the remaining ghosts left in my psyche.
A second chance, a new page, a new chapter. Perhaps, routes already established throughout the previous decades may result in the culmination of a happiness that has been too elusive since returning battered, bruised and broken. Now, perhaps, as my personal experiences and selfish choices had led me down the path to ruination, a fear which had been whispered throughout my young adulthood by the respected female members on both sides of the family, it was time to throw in the proverbial red sari and walk down a path which would ultimately create joy and acceptance of the pariah that was me.
I took a deep breath and agreed to begin the Rishta process.
And so began the journey of the Rishta Diaries..............
Rishta Diaries - Candidate Two point 2
I stare down at the proferred hand. I'm frozen.
I KNOW I should shake his hand, however, I can't seem to get my arm to obey the command my brain is signaling it to.
I finally notice… the back of his hand is lightly brushed with blond hair.
oh God, not another ½ n' ½ !!!
Been there, done that, got the t-shirt!
So, instead of a handshake, I offer up, 'The hell you are!'
I slowly lift my head up at his deep laughter. I'm annoyed and its not a pleasant feeling.
'A fiery personality, you'll make a lovely wife. One, I bet won't ever allow her husband to grow bored. Good..good, I like that.'
'Did I mention how much I abhor modesty in men?"
Again, laughter…'No, I don't think you mentioned it before, however, I concur.'
Personally, I'm starting to think that manners are highly overrated! Did I mention that my hands very itchy!?
I feel the cold air before I hear the French doors open. I turn my attention to the suit walking through the door.
'Mate, good of you to join us, Gulzar here thought you may have permanently suctioned your bum to the seat of her mum's loo!'
Damn him! I didn't think anything of the sort…ok well maybe. I begrudgingly admit that was funny, albeit to myself.
I feel the smile creep up.
Great, now even my responses are controllable! Ooh how I'm so going to enjoy hating him.
Yes, I've got it, I'm going to hate him, utterly, completely, totally. There, I feel better.
'If that's what's going through your future begums mind, then you've got more problems than even I can help you with.'
WOW! Imran can not only contribute to a conversation, he's even funny! Who would have thought it possible!
I smile again. DOUBLE DAMN! OOH hold up…
'Pardon me gentleman, future begum?'
They both look over at me and smile from ear to ear. So, this must be what it felt like for the American Revolutionary soliders as they watched the British Redcoat armies advancing.
Sheer, utter terror. FRACK, I like him!
'Beti, idhar aho. Aapse baat kar ne hain.' (Sweetheart,come here, I'd like a word with you)
'Jee daddy' (Yes,dad)
I hear a male voice chidingly pass the comment, ' Did your future shehzadi (princess) just say daddy? Oh boy you've definitely got your hands full with that one!'
I look back into the room with a look that would fry the rawest of eggs to overdone.
His response? He's showing teeth and his smile rivals that of Alfred E Neuman from Mad Magazine!
Did I mention how much I abhor cockiness?!
'Beti, do you want to go to dinner with Farid?'
'Yes, daddy,' I respond.
'Good,' daddy responds.
Simple, to the point and baffling to me. Why am I such a sadist?
Dad walks into the formal sitting room and asks me to take a seat. I sit next to dad and I have his hand wrapping mine. I look down and then up at dad's face. His arm is cold and fluttering ever so lightly. I realize how selfish I've truly been.
Suddenly,within that split second, I've grown and matured. No matter how hard this is for me, I realize for a father to welcome a man into his home and to potentially allow his child to interact with that strange man is infinitely harder.
My eyes are moist and I feel as if I've swollen a rock. I look over at Rishta Candidate #2 and see that though he's listening to dad, his brow is furrowed and his vision encompasses both dad and I.
Suddenly, everyone is back in the room and plans are being made for us all to meet for dessert after Farid and I finish dinner.
I'm in the front foyer and as I feel myself propelled up the staircase, I can't seem to forget the coldness in dad's hand and I turn around searching for my Wali.
Ten minutes later, I'm in Western clothes and saying my 'khuda haffiz' to various family members. Dad hands me my phone and I spontaneously hug him. I blink rapidly because though I'm wanting this experience, I also want to assure myself that the man who taught me how to ride a bicycle is ok.
I smile, dad smiles back. I walk out the door.
I KNOW I should shake his hand, however, I can't seem to get my arm to obey the command my brain is signaling it to.
I finally notice… the back of his hand is lightly brushed with blond hair.
oh God, not another ½ n' ½ !!!
Been there, done that, got the t-shirt!
So, instead of a handshake, I offer up, 'The hell you are!'
I slowly lift my head up at his deep laughter. I'm annoyed and its not a pleasant feeling.
'A fiery personality, you'll make a lovely wife. One, I bet won't ever allow her husband to grow bored. Good..good, I like that.'
'Did I mention how much I abhor modesty in men?"
Again, laughter…'No, I don't think you mentioned it before, however, I concur.'
Personally, I'm starting to think that manners are highly overrated! Did I mention that my hands very itchy!?
I feel the cold air before I hear the French doors open. I turn my attention to the suit walking through the door.
'Mate, good of you to join us, Gulzar here thought you may have permanently suctioned your bum to the seat of her mum's loo!'
Damn him! I didn't think anything of the sort…ok well maybe. I begrudgingly admit that was funny, albeit to myself.
I feel the smile creep up.
Great, now even my responses are controllable! Ooh how I'm so going to enjoy hating him.
Yes, I've got it, I'm going to hate him, utterly, completely, totally. There, I feel better.
'If that's what's going through your future begums mind, then you've got more problems than even I can help you with.'
WOW! Imran can not only contribute to a conversation, he's even funny! Who would have thought it possible!
I smile again. DOUBLE DAMN! OOH hold up…
'Pardon me gentleman, future begum?'
They both look over at me and smile from ear to ear. So, this must be what it felt like for the American Revolutionary soliders as they watched the British Redcoat armies advancing.
Sheer, utter terror. FRACK, I like him!
'Beti, idhar aho. Aapse baat kar ne hain.' (Sweetheart,come here, I'd like a word with you)
'Jee daddy' (Yes,dad)
I hear a male voice chidingly pass the comment, ' Did your future shehzadi (princess) just say daddy? Oh boy you've definitely got your hands full with that one!'
I look back into the room with a look that would fry the rawest of eggs to overdone.
His response? He's showing teeth and his smile rivals that of Alfred E Neuman from Mad Magazine!
Did I mention how much I abhor cockiness?!
'Beti, do you want to go to dinner with Farid?'
'Yes, daddy,' I respond.
'Good,' daddy responds.
Simple, to the point and baffling to me. Why am I such a sadist?
Dad walks into the formal sitting room and asks me to take a seat. I sit next to dad and I have his hand wrapping mine. I look down and then up at dad's face. His arm is cold and fluttering ever so lightly. I realize how selfish I've truly been.
Suddenly,within that split second, I've grown and matured. No matter how hard this is for me, I realize for a father to welcome a man into his home and to potentially allow his child to interact with that strange man is infinitely harder.
My eyes are moist and I feel as if I've swollen a rock. I look over at Rishta Candidate #2 and see that though he's listening to dad, his brow is furrowed and his vision encompasses both dad and I.
Suddenly, everyone is back in the room and plans are being made for us all to meet for dessert after Farid and I finish dinner.
I'm in the front foyer and as I feel myself propelled up the staircase, I can't seem to forget the coldness in dad's hand and I turn around searching for my Wali.
Ten minutes later, I'm in Western clothes and saying my 'khuda haffiz' to various family members. Dad hands me my phone and I spontaneously hug him. I blink rapidly because though I'm wanting this experience, I also want to assure myself that the man who taught me how to ride a bicycle is ok.
I smile, dad smiles back. I walk out the door.
Rishta Diaries - Candidate Two
'YEOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW'
'OMG OMG OMG!!! I think I just maimed someone for life!' I run out of my car in the middle of rush hour to see whose life I will be funding for the rest of my days.
'Madam, have you got ANY idea how to drive?'
'Are you all right,' I ask
'Oh yes, it's business as usual, after all, I get run over by crazy Americans on a daily basis!'
Ok, so now that the shocks wearing off,I'm realizing that I'm quite PISSED. What a pompous ignoramous.
Granted, I ran over his foot, however upon further look, its just a damn toe. He does have 9 others! Sheesh...what a big baby! Typical male cry afoul over every little thing!
So, now that the anger and the shock are both wearing off, I'm realizing he said American. I look up again to take a closer look. He's a flipping DESI! A tall one at that! And erm...kinda cute.
He looks down at me, 'What?'
'Nothing,' I mumble.
After I've ensured he's not permanently maimed, I offer him a ride, it's the least I can do, right? In return I get stony silence followed by a shocked look.
Guess I shouldn't have offered. *shrug*
I go back to my car and open the drivers side door. He walks away muttering in a decided accent. However, I'm not really concentrating on him as I've got RISHTA#2 coming over tonight.
Thanks to this diversion, I'm now a solid 1 hr behind schedule. I scrape the idea of getting a manicure to attempt to fight traffic to get home in time. That way the gaggle of old bhuddi's awaiting my return won't be cursing me to perdition.
Man am I excited! *NOT*
3 hours later, the house smels like a funeral pyre. I've got every female relation known to me at my home and my daddy is blissfully napping. Bhai's in the study playing a hand of poker and sis is off in the nether regions of the kitchen sampling all that the bhuddi umma's have to offer this potential.
I'm banished to the upstairs region of the house awaiting the chime of the front doorbell. I've been examined by 20 eyes to ensure I've enough makeup on, my outfit is above reproach and my hair is neither too poufy nor too desi-fied.
Can we get the 3 ring circus started already ???
*ring a ling ding* goes the doorbell.
So, um, why do I have butterflies? I don't even know what old dude looks like. Just a very sketchy biodata sheet.
37 yrs old, 5'11", Punjabi Islamabad based family
Pakistan born, UK raised
Educated in UK to PhD level.
Former Analyst for a *prestigious* Energy Private Equity Firm in London
(side note...aren't they ALL prestigious?)
Currently owns companies throughout ME and UK.
Travels to DC, NYC, Cali and Chicago on a 6 week rotation.
Ok ok, bring it on!
So, I hear voices downstairs. I hear the french doors to the formal sitting room (you know the room NO ONE goes into but guests?) open.
'Gulzar, a jao, saab tumhare intezaar kar rahe hain" (Gulzar, come, everyones awaiting you)
Lovely, somehow a sketchy reference to chattel being led to the slaughter flitters through my mind.
I've ascended the stairs and turn and enter the double doors to the cauldron of doom.
I sit down and immediately get 3 whispers NOT to look up. A hand snakes across to smooth down my kurta.
I have this insane urge to smack the hand away so that I can expend some of the frustration I have roiling inside of me. Instead I stare fascinated at the veins crisscrossing this unknown party's hand. I look at my own hand and wonder, will mine look like her's after 30+ yrs?
All of a sudden, I feel an anxiety attack coming on.
'RUN!' my mind screams, 'as fast and as far as you CAN.'
But no, I'm too fearful of the repercussions that will ensue when I do return from Mummi to be acting on that crazy screaming mess that is my mind right now.
I hear a voice, it's strangely familiar. Out of the screaming haze I feel comforted. How's that? I've supposedly never seen this guy before! Oh wait, I can't see anything because my heads all tucked into the hollow of my neck.
Funk this! I lift my head.
HOLY CRAP! It's TOE GUY! But um why's he sitting next to this other guy? And um who's the other guy? Wait...I don't even know who TOE GUY is!
TOE Guy keeps looking. Whereas, I cannot seem to look away. I think he's as shocked as I am!
Damn it, and now comes the hot tamatar blush that I'm cursed with.
So, I sit there, confused and embarrassed, redder than the cherry tomatoes growing in mummi's garden.
Pleasantries are exchanged, food is passed around. Now comes, chai time.
My sister and I get up. We walk to the back of the house and get jumped by a gaggle of questions, a plethora of recommendations and someone's attempting to smooth down a cowlick I didn't know I had!
I finally bat the hand away and grab the chai tray. I make the first move to start walking towards the Cauldron of Doom(my term for mummi's formal sitting room).
After serving everyone from the rishta party, there is miraculously room next to TOE Guys friend for me. I sit down, as obviously that's who I'm supposed to be conversing with.
I get introduced from an aunty from my side 'formally' to TOE Guys friend, Imran.
So, um, whose TOE Guy and when do I get to meet him?
And drat it all, he's sitting there with this highly amused smirk on his face. Kash I could reach out and wipe it off his face! I turn my FULL attention to Imran.
Slowly aunti's start disappearing. Mum and dad left as did bhai ages ago. Sooner rather than later my sister, TOE Guy, Imran and I are left in the room.
At this point, I notice my sister and TOE Guy are mighty comfy. Wait, did he just say he's a politician?! WTH, a desi politician and he didn't threaten to sue me?
Ok ok now I've seen EVERYTHING!
Imran's looking uncomfortable, probably because he can't carry a conversation even if someone led him through one kicking and screaming!
All of a sudden, Imran gets up. Asks where the bathroom is. My sis offers to show him.
FRACK now it's just me and TOE Guy! And of course, that infernal smirk.
I wonder quite sadistically if he's ever heard the phonebook commercial where they advise, "Reach out and touch someone.' No? How about, "let your fingers do the walking?' No again? Hm...well how about the fact that my fingers are fairly itching to smack that smirk right off his face!
Now he's staring! Why o WHY are Brits so rude?
"So Gulzar, tell me, are you enjoying our visit to your home?"
Um, aren't I supposed to be asking him that?!
'Yeah, sure I'm having a lovely time.'
'Really? Because, I must say, that particular blush which you've got on, really is NOT becoming on you.'
WHAT?! My mouth hangs ajar and just on that cue, I get redder than the red on a fire truck!
He of course laughs like the sadistic .bastard. that he is. Ok ok so I deserved that for running over his foot. But right about now, I SOOO wish I had run over BOTH feet rather than just one toe!
BTW, where are Imran and my sis?
I wonder, did Imran by chance fall into the toilet?
'Perhaps, now is the time to clue you into the fact that I'm your rishta and NOT my mate, Imran.'
My head whips around from the french doors to TOE Guy.
'Hardy har har...your funny,' I respond.
All of a sudden, TOE Guy gets up and walks over to my couch.
I stare unable to look away but, my mind foolishly wonders why's he comin so close?
'How do you do? We've not been properly introduced. I'm Farid.'
And so begins Rishta #2.................to be continued!
'OMG OMG OMG!!! I think I just maimed someone for life!' I run out of my car in the middle of rush hour to see whose life I will be funding for the rest of my days.
'Madam, have you got ANY idea how to drive?'
'Are you all right,' I ask
'Oh yes, it's business as usual, after all, I get run over by crazy Americans on a daily basis!'
Ok, so now that the shocks wearing off,I'm realizing that I'm quite PISSED. What a pompous ignoramous.
Granted, I ran over his foot, however upon further look, its just a damn toe. He does have 9 others! Sheesh...what a big baby! Typical male cry afoul over every little thing!
So, now that the anger and the shock are both wearing off, I'm realizing he said American. I look up again to take a closer look. He's a flipping DESI! A tall one at that! And erm...kinda cute.
He looks down at me, 'What?'
'Nothing,' I mumble.
After I've ensured he's not permanently maimed, I offer him a ride, it's the least I can do, right? In return I get stony silence followed by a shocked look.
Guess I shouldn't have offered. *shrug*
I go back to my car and open the drivers side door. He walks away muttering in a decided accent. However, I'm not really concentrating on him as I've got RISHTA#2 coming over tonight.
Thanks to this diversion, I'm now a solid 1 hr behind schedule. I scrape the idea of getting a manicure to attempt to fight traffic to get home in time. That way the gaggle of old bhuddi's awaiting my return won't be cursing me to perdition.
Man am I excited! *NOT*
3 hours later, the house smels like a funeral pyre. I've got every female relation known to me at my home and my daddy is blissfully napping. Bhai's in the study playing a hand of poker and sis is off in the nether regions of the kitchen sampling all that the bhuddi umma's have to offer this potential.
I'm banished to the upstairs region of the house awaiting the chime of the front doorbell. I've been examined by 20 eyes to ensure I've enough makeup on, my outfit is above reproach and my hair is neither too poufy nor too desi-fied.
Can we get the 3 ring circus started already ???
*ring a ling ding* goes the doorbell.
So, um, why do I have butterflies? I don't even know what old dude looks like. Just a very sketchy biodata sheet.
37 yrs old, 5'11", Punjabi Islamabad based family
Pakistan born, UK raised
Educated in UK to PhD level.
Former Analyst for a *prestigious* Energy Private Equity Firm in London
(side note...aren't they ALL prestigious?)
Currently owns companies throughout ME and UK.
Travels to DC, NYC, Cali and Chicago on a 6 week rotation.
Ok ok, bring it on!
So, I hear voices downstairs. I hear the french doors to the formal sitting room (you know the room NO ONE goes into but guests?) open.
'Gulzar, a jao, saab tumhare intezaar kar rahe hain" (Gulzar, come, everyones awaiting you)
Lovely, somehow a sketchy reference to chattel being led to the slaughter flitters through my mind.
I've ascended the stairs and turn and enter the double doors to the cauldron of doom.
I sit down and immediately get 3 whispers NOT to look up. A hand snakes across to smooth down my kurta.
I have this insane urge to smack the hand away so that I can expend some of the frustration I have roiling inside of me. Instead I stare fascinated at the veins crisscrossing this unknown party's hand. I look at my own hand and wonder, will mine look like her's after 30+ yrs?
All of a sudden, I feel an anxiety attack coming on.
'RUN!' my mind screams, 'as fast and as far as you CAN.'
But no, I'm too fearful of the repercussions that will ensue when I do return from Mummi to be acting on that crazy screaming mess that is my mind right now.
I hear a voice, it's strangely familiar. Out of the screaming haze I feel comforted. How's that? I've supposedly never seen this guy before! Oh wait, I can't see anything because my heads all tucked into the hollow of my neck.
Funk this! I lift my head.
HOLY CRAP! It's TOE GUY! But um why's he sitting next to this other guy? And um who's the other guy? Wait...I don't even know who TOE GUY is!
TOE Guy keeps looking. Whereas, I cannot seem to look away. I think he's as shocked as I am!
Damn it, and now comes the hot tamatar blush that I'm cursed with.
So, I sit there, confused and embarrassed, redder than the cherry tomatoes growing in mummi's garden.
Pleasantries are exchanged, food is passed around. Now comes, chai time.
My sister and I get up. We walk to the back of the house and get jumped by a gaggle of questions, a plethora of recommendations and someone's attempting to smooth down a cowlick I didn't know I had!
I finally bat the hand away and grab the chai tray. I make the first move to start walking towards the Cauldron of Doom(my term for mummi's formal sitting room).
After serving everyone from the rishta party, there is miraculously room next to TOE Guys friend for me. I sit down, as obviously that's who I'm supposed to be conversing with.
I get introduced from an aunty from my side 'formally' to TOE Guys friend, Imran.
So, um, whose TOE Guy and when do I get to meet him?
And drat it all, he's sitting there with this highly amused smirk on his face. Kash I could reach out and wipe it off his face! I turn my FULL attention to Imran.
Slowly aunti's start disappearing. Mum and dad left as did bhai ages ago. Sooner rather than later my sister, TOE Guy, Imran and I are left in the room.
At this point, I notice my sister and TOE Guy are mighty comfy. Wait, did he just say he's a politician?! WTH, a desi politician and he didn't threaten to sue me?
Ok ok now I've seen EVERYTHING!
Imran's looking uncomfortable, probably because he can't carry a conversation even if someone led him through one kicking and screaming!
All of a sudden, Imran gets up. Asks where the bathroom is. My sis offers to show him.
FRACK now it's just me and TOE Guy! And of course, that infernal smirk.
I wonder quite sadistically if he's ever heard the phonebook commercial where they advise, "Reach out and touch someone.' No? How about, "let your fingers do the walking?' No again? Hm...well how about the fact that my fingers are fairly itching to smack that smirk right off his face!
Now he's staring! Why o WHY are Brits so rude?
"So Gulzar, tell me, are you enjoying our visit to your home?"
Um, aren't I supposed to be asking him that?!
'Yeah, sure I'm having a lovely time.'
'Really? Because, I must say, that particular blush which you've got on, really is NOT becoming on you.'
WHAT?! My mouth hangs ajar and just on that cue, I get redder than the red on a fire truck!
He of course laughs like the sadistic .bastard. that he is. Ok ok so I deserved that for running over his foot. But right about now, I SOOO wish I had run over BOTH feet rather than just one toe!
BTW, where are Imran and my sis?
I wonder, did Imran by chance fall into the toilet?
'Perhaps, now is the time to clue you into the fact that I'm your rishta and NOT my mate, Imran.'
My head whips around from the french doors to TOE Guy.
'Hardy har har...your funny,' I respond.
All of a sudden, TOE Guy gets up and walks over to my couch.
I stare unable to look away but, my mind foolishly wonders why's he comin so close?
'How do you do? We've not been properly introduced. I'm Farid.'
And so begins Rishta #2.................to be continued!
Rishta Diaries - Candidate One
Yes, as a Paki-American, I have a "thing" for the British accent. I have no idea what it is however the ugliest and non-besharam banda becomes mesmerizingly hot if he's got an English accent.
Yup you guessed it...behind the first curtain the larka offered a British accent.
So, on to the all important biodata.
39 yrs old
Divorced (his wife cheated)
3 yr old son (son is 3 mths older than my son would be, had he lived)
Born in UK, raised in private school in India, grad and post grad in UK.
Former Investment Banker for Deutsche Bank
Currently operating as a owner of mental health care facilities throughout Southern England.
So, I emailed him to see how well he could communicate via the written word. Ok, so the dry wit was there. He could write. A flurry of e-mails later he challenged me to call the # he left. I demured, I am after all a proper khojee
Khair, he called the number given to him on the original biodata.Why'd we run the chase of e-mails if we already had each others numbers? Yes, this is the PERFECT example of desi's wasting time!
So first phone call was...ecstatic. Mum and aunti's eagerly waited in the next room while I finished the convo. I came out a bit shocked. He wasn't a buffoon.
Could they have really been so dead on?
WOWSERS, perhaps they did know me, somewhat?
"Beta...how was it" I looked up, there was 16 eyes trained steadily on me.
"Erm...he's ok." Instantly, 8 voices begin the process of mapping out the rest of my life.
And so began the whispers...the bets of how long it would take before I "closed the deal."
I watched them from the entrance to the den and just felt dirty. I marched upstairs to take a shower. Refreshed, I turned to my Salvation and prayed for mercy.
Over the next 3 months, he called regularly. We spoke and had fascinating conversations. Admittedly, I was enamoured by the accent,however he was brilliant.
Ok, so maybe the old biddies knew what the hell they were doing.
4 months later the formal rishta from his mum to my mummi came. Of course everyone was ecstatic. I went into a tailspin. Was I ready for a relationship? What would I say when they did end up asking for my opinion?
A month later I stood in front of him at the airport with no one else around. My eyes were impatient to see the person whom had entered my world on a daily basis...one I had voluntarily allowed to do so. I wanted to see him before he saw me. That was the last thought that went through my mind before I saw him walking up to me. Ok so he looked like his picture,however why was my inner soul recoiling?
Throughout the car ride to the house I thought over it. Why was someone who was SO intellectually stimulating to me causing my soul to recoil?
3 days later I knew the answer.
What was the issue you ask:
His wife may have cheated however I finally realized that you could really drive someone to do so.
How?
He was so controlling that he had annihilated her emotions and belief in herself.
How did I find out?
Because he gleefully told me that he used his money and his emotions to control all whom were in his life.
Question: Was that suppose to make me WANT to say "Kabul hai" to the rishta?
In the end, I walked away.
B Lesson learned: Always listen to your inner voice.
Yup you guessed it...behind the first curtain the larka offered a British accent.
So, on to the all important biodata.
39 yrs old
Divorced (his wife cheated)
3 yr old son (son is 3 mths older than my son would be, had he lived)
Born in UK, raised in private school in India, grad and post grad in UK.
Former Investment Banker for Deutsche Bank
Currently operating as a owner of mental health care facilities throughout Southern England.
So, I emailed him to see how well he could communicate via the written word. Ok, so the dry wit was there. He could write. A flurry of e-mails later he challenged me to call the # he left. I demured, I am after all a proper khojee
Khair, he called the number given to him on the original biodata.Why'd we run the chase of e-mails if we already had each others numbers? Yes, this is the PERFECT example of desi's wasting time!
So first phone call was...ecstatic. Mum and aunti's eagerly waited in the next room while I finished the convo. I came out a bit shocked. He wasn't a buffoon.
Could they have really been so dead on?
WOWSERS, perhaps they did know me, somewhat?
"Beta...how was it" I looked up, there was 16 eyes trained steadily on me.
"Erm...he's ok." Instantly, 8 voices begin the process of mapping out the rest of my life.
And so began the whispers...the bets of how long it would take before I "closed the deal."
I watched them from the entrance to the den and just felt dirty. I marched upstairs to take a shower. Refreshed, I turned to my Salvation and prayed for mercy.
Over the next 3 months, he called regularly. We spoke and had fascinating conversations. Admittedly, I was enamoured by the accent,however he was brilliant.
Ok, so maybe the old biddies knew what the hell they were doing.
4 months later the formal rishta from his mum to my mummi came. Of course everyone was ecstatic. I went into a tailspin. Was I ready for a relationship? What would I say when they did end up asking for my opinion?
A month later I stood in front of him at the airport with no one else around. My eyes were impatient to see the person whom had entered my world on a daily basis...one I had voluntarily allowed to do so. I wanted to see him before he saw me. That was the last thought that went through my mind before I saw him walking up to me. Ok so he looked like his picture,however why was my inner soul recoiling?
Throughout the car ride to the house I thought over it. Why was someone who was SO intellectually stimulating to me causing my soul to recoil?
3 days later I knew the answer.
What was the issue you ask:
His wife may have cheated however I finally realized that you could really drive someone to do so.
How?
He was so controlling that he had annihilated her emotions and belief in herself.
How did I find out?
Because he gleefully told me that he used his money and his emotions to control all whom were in his life.
Question: Was that suppose to make me WANT to say "Kabul hai" to the rishta?
In the end, I walked away.
B Lesson learned: Always listen to your inner voice.
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