The First Feeling. (part four)

Our house was just a new structure built thirty meters near the old one. But Amma had her own kitchen, free from Ghania’s daily raids, she kept her own maids, all of whom reported for duty at 3 pm sharp. Dadi Farrukh cried loudly and with huge words that I chose to forget – the day we walked those thirty meters and something about Abba’s expression after hearing those words didn’t let me enjoy my new room (the one I now had all to myself) and a small but shiny balcony that I later filled with two chairs and two potted plants.

The balcony saw straight into the main gate. Who came, who left, whose car turned up the driveway of the house. This was the same driveway that Ghania had arrived in, twenty pounds lighter and bearing gifts for Amma and Abba.

It was a karma I still try to comprehend. Ghania had no prospects of marriage so she went to the city to study. She came back and everyone wanted to marry her slim waist. I had a slim waist from the very beginning so I got engaged when I turned eighteen and never got to study in the city. I got the bachelors externally and began preparing for the wedding. I was extremely happy at the idea of going to live in the big city after the wedding but something about Ghania’s stories about how she and her hostel-mates roamed around Rawalpindi on weekends made me feel I had missed out on something far too substantial to imagine.

“So you will be married soon, Sumera, meri jan!” she cooed as she did a little jump on my bed. “Haye, I’m so excited for you! You’re so lucky.”

I was, I knew it. But the fact that Ghania of two years ago couldn’t possibly have said something so simple so elegantly gnawed at my intestines.

“What about you? What about Baray Taya Jee’s friend’s son, Yasin? That CA from America?”

“You mean that moustached, hairy UNCLE?”

“No, his son.” I was confused. And she giggled. My confusion ended.

“Sumera, meri jan, I am too young to marry that old fatso. He’s 30!”

My brows knitted. “Zohaib is 28. 30 is not that old. And what if Baray Taya tells you to?”

“Then I will say no.”

It was my turn to giggle. Of course, Ghania would never say no. She didn’t say no to anything Baray Taya asked her. It just wasn’t done. Daughters weren’t meant to say no, they weren’t meant to argue, they weren’t meant to ask questions. They had to obey whenever it came to the decision of their lives. The elders knew what was right for them. Just like Amma and Abba knew it was right for me to marry Zohaib. And they were right, I nodded inwardly. Look how good and well-settled he is in Lahore. Look how much money he makes. I will be comfortable, I will have a nice life, we will have nice kids, go out on weekends for dinners at big restaurants and even see movies. Amma and Abba definitely knew my happiness.

It was one of our eid meets. It was very Dil Wale Dulhania Le Jayenge. Amma and Bari Tayee had called their families, there were some friends and Zohaib was there too. He was talking to Yasin when Bari Tayee was smiling indulgently and Ghania was smoldering silently.

“Oh look how nice his moustache looks, Ghania,” I poked. “It will be so much fun when he kisses you.”

Ghania’s hair whipped. Her hoop earrings whipped along with them. “Shut up. I’m not marrying him.” She turned to look at him. “Look at him, the bloody paindoo.”

Yasin caught her eye and gave her something of a smile. That was probably the last straw for her and she would have said something else but Bari Tayee caught Ghania by the arm and said, “Your father is going to solemnize the rishta tonight. Thought I’d tell you.”

She was expecting Ghania to look embarrassed and blush pink and peach and say, “Okay, Ammi.”

Ghania’s eyes turned red with tears and without a word she rushed into her room. She had glared at her mother with those eyes before rushing, so Bari Tayee asked me to go after her.

I caught her in the hallway. “Where are you going! Stop!”

To my surprise, she did. “This isn’t fair. I don’t want to marry him.”

“Don’t talk like that. Where do you think you are, America? This is Pakistan and this is your pind. We marry whatever is presented before us, do you understand? Now YOU shut up and wipe your face with this,” I handed her her duppatta, “and come out before people start asking where you disappeared off to. What a drama you are.”

Ghania gave me the same glare she gave her mother but didn’t run. I could hear her following me and we came back to the courtyard. Her kohl had disappeared but she didn’t seem as though she had been crying a minute ago. In fact, I thought very pleased with my powers of coercion, she was smiling and was headed straight towards Bari Tayee.

Bari Tayee looked at Ghania and after a micro-second of mild interest, she carried on the conversation she was having with Yasin’s mother. The rest of the night passed the same way. Everyone had their food, Yasin was hugged ostentatiously by all members of our family and the younger ones surrounded him as he wished everyone goodbye.

It was just some of our family members left, the clock was nearing 11 pm which was very late for all of our timetables. Zohaib and Mamu Zubair were having a heated discussion with Baray Taya and Abba and the ladies were sharing halwa recipes. When Bari Tayee said, “Ghania’s wedding will be soon after Sumera’s so we won’t have much trouble to be sure about which halwai to choose, you know. Trial and error always works best, you know.”

Baray Taya was sitting close by and overheard the conversation. “Well, of course. Ajmal will find out everything that is best in a hundred mile radius … won’t you, Ajmal?”

“Of course, Bhai.”

“Ah, to know that a daughter will soon be married. What a wonderful feeling it is, isn’t it, Ajmal?”

“Yes, Bhai, it very much is.”

“I won’t marry him.”

It was so sudden and so out of the blue, it took about ten seconds for everyone to grasp Ghania’s words. But Baray Taya Jee had heard and grasped it a good four seconds before everyone else did so he grabbed Ghania by the hand, much more severely than Bari Tayee had, and swung her in front of him.

There were no less than thirty people in that courtyard, including servants. Thirty pairs of eyes were locked at the ten inch distance between Baray Taya’s portruding belly and Ghania’s jutted jaw.

And then, at the eleventh second, he slapped her. Powerfully. Her body could have taken the weight of the slap if she were 20 pounds heavier, but she had become almost like one of those anorexic models, so she buckled and swayed for a moment before regaining her balance.

“Keep your mouth shut.” Bari Tayee said quietly and took her from Baray Taya’s grasp and almost dragged her to the room. I lowered my eyes. I didn’t want to see or hear any more theatrics because it just hurt to see what Ghania had done to her own self-esteem.

But Ghania wasn’t protesting. She walked quietly, without a protest of any kind. I personally thought it was that she took a chance.

When village girls become city girls it becomes hard for them to separate reality from aspirations. The fact that they have come out of those closed, locked atmospheres loaded with tradition and subservience makes them think that they can change things. The same fate fell upon Ghania. She thought she could change the way her father thought just because he let her study in the city. Unlike Kajol finding a Shah Rukh Khan, these girls found their romantic ideas centered in not a man but in the concept of freedom and independence. It wasn’t that Ghania didn’t want to marry Yasin, I knew it, I felt it. She didn’t hate the idea of marrying a man who was rich and successful and lived in America. Her problem was that she wanted to figure out how far she could push her father into getting away with everything. And she had met the wall where Baray Taya had set the limit. He would let her wear short kurtis and let her leave her hair open and allowed Indian movies on weekends and didn’t object to her gallivanting with hostel-friends. But he drew the line, built the wall, at a point where his traditions had built the wall for him.

I was always wise enough to know romance novels were only novels. I knew I didn’t have to take a slap from my father to know that he wasn’t madly in love with my mother to produce three daughters and I won’t have to be madly in love with Zohaib to produce his sons (hopefully). I knew that in movies Simran found Shah Rukh Khan whereas we just all find nice Kuljeets who, as long as aren’t beating us black and blue, are pretty good men after all.

(end of part four.)

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