Chapter 3
Part 2/2
So euphoric was the nation that my family, who rarely ventured out to eat, decided to go to the only nearby 4-star hotel, the Pearl Continental, to celebrate. In that state of elation, it was somehow decided that the proposal would be accepted. On the 2nd of April, a day before my 19th birthday, I was officially engaged to be married to my first cousin, Ijaz ur-Rehman. I had been fasting, and, after the ring was put on my finger, we were left alone for a few moments in the drawing room of my home. I hid my nervousness with a confident smile while he lit a cigarette. His visible, nervous fidgeting did nothing to impress the teenager, who peered closely at his face and saw the grey sideburns for the first time. He managed an uncomfortable smile and asked, “So when can I expect the next occasion to be?” I immediately replied with a sour expression, pointing to the cigarette.
“Not any time soon if this goes on”. “Oh” he said, rather gallantly extinguishing the cigarette into the crystal ashtray. “There. Now,
when can I expect it?”
“I think we should get to know each other, maybe. I want to pursue a professional career. I want to do a lot in life before I settle down”.
To this, he replied, “And you can do that better in the West. We get married now, you can study after marriage. Do whatever you want to”.
I pushed him further. “You know, my mother says I can continue my career in media after I get married”.
“Your career in media?” he questioned “Yes, I used to work on TV. Your dad was my biggest fan! And I am currently writing a film script”.
“Really! Well, I suppose so, if that’s what you want to do,” he replied. But the 18-year-old missed the ominous sign of his discomfort at that announcement.
I was failing to shock this guy. He seemed keen. Why wasn’t I sure? What was this feeling? He was giving all the right answers but I wasn’t impressed. The next couple of months were spent staring at the pictures of the engagement. I remember trying to make myself fall for this guy. Love him. LOVE HIM.
But still that unhelpful gut feeling would not go away.
Then the letters arrived. They were long, beautifully written, and laid down a good argument. He was telling me that this would work, that he would bend over backwards to make it work. “If you take one step towards me, I will take a hundred towards you,” he wrote in one. I was touched. I was overwhelmed. In another letter, he insisted that love was mandatory for marriage. Love is indeed necessary, but love can neither be imposed nor demanded.
Then arrived the song collection. He told me his favourite was John Lennon’s Jealous Guy. This should have set alarm bells ringing, but this 19-year-old knew nothing about men. I’d never held anyone’s hand or snuck away to meet anyone. I had never been complimented. I had never talked to a man. I had no idea that well-rehearsed words and compliments are effortlessly repeated by playboys.
They reuse the stuff that works.
My naivety didn’t improve with age. At the age of 42, I’d fall for it all over again.
The answer to all our questions are in our dreams. The concept of Istikhara (a special prayer when deliberating on a decision like marriage) is based on this. The answer lies within us: in our thoughts, our mood swings, and our lethargy. Our bodies are constantly screaming out to us that something is wrong but we refuse to listen. We listen to the whole world but never to our own heart. My weight loss over the next couple of months was dramatic. By the wedding day, in July, I was just under 49kg. The sight of food would kill my hunger. I was scared. I wanted to get out of this, but had no courage to accept or say it. And then came the last day. I couldn’t sleep at all. I was scared of just being alone with a man. I was petrified of having sex with a stranger, but society had taught me that it was perfectly normal. I knew everything yet nothing at all. I got myself so worked up that my hands were shaking while putting mascara on the following morning. My sister-in-law finally realised, and took the wand away to give me a hug. The problem with being a confident person is that no one suspects that you’re scared.
The life of a warrior is lonely. The night of the wedding arrived. I waited and waited but there was no sign of the groom. He had stepped in earlier while I was praying, but had quickly left. To hide my nervousness from myself, I started to unpack and arrange the drawers. It was late when he finally came back. I was writing birthday cards to my friends. I was just a kid after all. He came in, also visibly nervous. He asked me to sit beside him on the bed. I had changed out of my bridal dress and was wearing a plain shalwar-kameez, which was closer to a nun’s habit in terms of appeal. I sat down, my usual calm, confident exterior belying the child that wanted to run far away. His first comment was so unflattering that, in my shock, I wasn’t even offended.
“You looked so thin. It looked like a Dang had walked in”. Dang is a Punjabi word for a long, thin pole. It was hardly the best start. He followed it by immediately starting to talk about his career and his boss. He talked nine to a dozen. I wasn’t really following much of his monologue, and drifted off. I noticed once again how odd his mannerisms were. He kept talking about a ‘Rayman’. It was a few days before I realised that he used an anglicised
version of his surname to refer to himself. He was trying to impress me by telling me that he had passed his MRCPsych and that his female boss kept complimenting him. It wasn’t working. He kept handing me papers from the briefcase on his knees. They were CVs and other documents. He also shoved a long narrow box in my direction. It took me a moment to realise it was a gift. A lightweight gold chain. I took it, quietly thinking that this was all a bit strange. After an agonising hour or so, he decided to go to sleep. As he turned off the lights, he tried to hug me, and I felt a clumsy attempt at a kiss before he rolled over and fell asleep. I felt a huge sense of relief. I knew I had ventured into something very bizarre. It was a tad chilly as it had been raining but my new husband had decided to take all of the blanket. Finally, I got up to pray at Fajr, and took out a shawl to wrap myself in. It was a chilly start to a very cold marriage.
It had taken me just a few minutes to figure out that the man next to was very disturbed. The trouble is that by the time you get a chance to be that close to a man, it’s already too late. There should be an emergency bell one can pull to jump off the train then and there. Sometimes, women just don’t want to cause any trouble, so they go with the flow. It’s like a lazy actor who gives it a shot despite being unhappy with the outfit and makeup. The set is all lit, and the crew is ready. The following morning, I was woken up very early and rather rudely. I was told I had two hours to get ready for the valima reception. I don’t remember a breakfast. All I remember is being bundled into
the car and arriving at the venue long before the guests had arrived, without even something as simple as lipstick. Lipstick was borrowed from a guest who came to say hello to me in the room next to the wedding hall. With the lunch reception over, we returned to the home. I didn’t see my husband all day. He seemed to be avoiding me and was not in a pleasant mood at all. I was puzzled.
Finally, late in the evening, Ijaz came to the bedroom. There was no small talk this time. No compliments, no romance, no time wasting. All I remember is a man I did not know very well trying to have sex with me. It was not what I had imagined or even heard of from my friends. It was what I had feared. The 33-year-old tried to consummate the marriage with a scared 19-year-old. He even commented, “Your heart is beating like a little bird”. But that did not slow him down. All I remember is a wet, cold mouth. I did not stop him consciously but my body reacted as if it was a violation or transgression. The anger at his unsuccessful attempt was scary. He snarled at me. “If you weren’t
attracted to me, why the hell did you marry me?”
I did not know what to say or how to help the situation. ‘Was it my fault? It must be my fault. How could I fix it?’ My mind raced to try to think how I could calm him down but he looked very angry as he turned the lamp on. He reached over to the side table, took a cigarette, and lit it. He had promised to quit on my request after the engagement. Innocently and playfully, I took the cigarette from his hand, and said, “Well if you smoke then I will too”.
It was the silly, nervous effort of a young girl trying to defuse the situation, but the response was earth-shattering.
“Look at you, behaving like a Hong Kongian slut!” I was stunned into silence. In that moment, I gave up all hope of finding any love in my life. As he continued his vitriol, I just sat there, listening in shock. He went on for what seemed like an eternity before finally turning his back on me and turning off the lamp. I walked to the bathroom and locked the door. The window was open. I watched raindrops falling from the coloured fairy lights draped across
the window, as fast as my tears. I stood in the window, staring out at a dark future ahead. Ironically, after that horrific first experience which led to my husband labelling me ‘frigid’, he would raise suspicions on my virginity a few weeks later. An educated, older man from a medical background was insisting I hadn’t bled enough. I could not believe what was happening to me daily. I remember walking out of the bedroom and sitting in the lounge after these wild accusations and insults. I would write down my feelings because I could not do much else.
Those diary entries of a young, confused teenager from the summer of 1992 are painful to read. Leaving the room and sitting alone was also considered unacceptable, and would result in even more anger. Throughout my marriage, even looking sad was not allowed, let alone sulking. I could not smile, but then I was not allowed not to anyway. My
husband would say that he loved my smile and wanted it on-demand, but my husband never did anything to put a smile on my face. I was never allowed to do anything but smile by those who professed to love me.
When I was about eight, my mother would often tell me to train my smile: not to smile cheek-tocheek but to restrain it to something more demure. She told me to practice with the help of a mirror. I did it to please her and it certainly had an effect. That smile is perfect for magazine covers and I guess that was all that was required. The world, it seems, loves my practised, lopsided smile, but I miss the young girl whose smile almost reached her eyes.