By Mahnoor Fatima for Invisiblites
This humble story is dedicated to the South Asian Matrimonial Association. There is no such organization documented with the government officially, and yet it is an organized culture we are all members of, whether we like it or not.
While inspired by many true events, the story in itself does not attempt to be a memoir or serve as a historically accurate timeline. The many characters have been created from multiple personas merged.
Bas aik prem kahani hai. Jaisay itnay aur logon ki hoti hai.
24th December
This date marks the first anniversary of a very interesting dynamic, where our hero and heroine both struggle to understand the intricately spun-out web of relationships and love and marriage, with the possibility of a difficult, drawn-out LDR hovering above. The eight-legged creature host to this web is a virtual rishtay wali auntie, which is ironic since the characters themselves were rolling in a sticky World Wide Web like two bees gone astray.
According to tradition, this is the parting date for our lovers, where one flies off to another continent in search of better prospects, and one drives home in her Mehran, trying to remember what it was that her mother told her to bring home – teabags? Mehran plays a crucial role in the affair, and I can never be more grateful to have it by my side. The Mehran also represents an identity crisis that our heroine grapples with – the idea of independence, and the fear of a dead car battery.
To not make things very confusing, I am indeed the heroine being spoken of, the juggle between the first and third person is for breaks in the narrative. Unless my hero decides this is not to be the way of the book, this is how I shall continue. He doesn’t really read a lot of books anyway, and to this date holds Harry Potter as his biggest reading achievement.
I think reading me has to be his biggest achievement.
Whatever our reading habits, the only text I looked forward to reading the most was a contract that legally rescued me from the throes of being an unmarried workaholic, where our families came to recognize our love through a binding agreement, and I could stop worrying about my abandonment issues. It is unfortunate that I do not seek therapy, I might spare the love of my life a lot of pain and anguish.
So it is on this day, as I sit holding his hand in the hallway between a PFDC outlet and Cosa in Gulberg, that I realize I should pen down the details of our frustrating rishta experience, especially since we have orchestrated it on our own, and call it “The Desi Guide To Orchestrating Your Own Rishta”. My sahab is very stressed and cautions me about using our real names. I think since the two of us have very holy second names, Ali and Fatima, using those would help persuade the world that ours would be a union even the holy world would approve of. He raises his eyebrows and half smiles, his dimple proof that even the gods wanted a bite before they sent him to Lahore.
Rule no. 1
If You’ve Rationally Decided To Not Fall For Each Other, Then Don’t
Ishq nay Ghalib nikamma kr dya,
Mirza Ghalib
Vrna hum bhe aadmi thay kaam kay.
I could trace our relationship to when the two of us were souls in some cosmic sea above, unbothered with visas and jobs and families. We could swim to each other and hang out, not knowing what to talk about since we hadn’t really lived. Maybe the lifetimes preceding ours have been more interesting. I just can’t, for the one life of me that I know, recall what circumstances we had been put into then. Consciously, as I’ve mentioned above, we met first on the 24th of December. Our first time was also to be our last for a whole year, although I believe neither of us imagined we’d still want to meet each other once a whole year had passed us by without any physical contact.
Zain still scoffs at the time I told him I would not get into a long-distance relationship. That conversation happened two days after our first date. I thought it was the realistic approach – so did he, but we don’t always control what is real and what isn’t. I should start narrating the story from the beginning. I am not at liberty to say how it was that we became more familiar with each other, but a large part of it happened through the cyber world. It was on a Monday that we decided to grab some coffee and talk more in person, having established interest based on a few witty exchanges. The day was set to be the Friday that followed; what could possibly go wrong in the next four days?
Nothing with Zain – or so I was told. My employer, on the other hand, called me to tell me there had been a COVID outbreak at the office. I panicked – was I infected? I couldn’t meet this man a few days before he was supposed to fly out to Amreeka, but I also really wanted to.
Me: I’m going to get a COVID test!
Mum looked at me with some concern.
Mum: You don’t have to – just take the holiday and see if you feel unwell.
Me: I have to. This makes me anxious.
She didn’t particularly care whether I took the test or not. My Dad, however, very stubbornly told me to stay in the house. I could wait it out, he said, I didn’t need to go and get a test. So, I did what any daughter would do. I waited for him to leave for a meeting, and hopped into my Mehran to drive myself to the military hospital. Covid tests were expensive, but the army let us get tested for free. I was glad I didn’t have to spend any of my hard-earned money either. Daughters may use the medical privilege until they marry, which tradition dictates should be before the brain fully develops. Should they decide to wed an officer, they can carry on the use of these medical facilities. If they tie the knot with a civilian, they must bear the brunt of it themselves.
I got my results on Wednesday; they were clean. My date for Friday was still on schedule. I tried on multiple outfits and decided on the short skirt my Mum hated.
Mum: It’s inappropriate. You don’t dress like that here. Not in public.
So, I did what any daughter would do. I wore a longer skirt on top, taking it off in the car. I told her I was going to the university for some work, hopping into my car and heading for the gate. The Mehran decided to pop a tire. I parked by the side of the road, one of many times I’d done so, and opened the trunk to check for a spare. I was unsuccessful; the spare had been punctured recently itself. To my feminine luck, a random uncle saved my life. I’ve had many men on the roads come to my aid, and although I don’t mind the help, occasionally my mechanical skills are better than theirs. He pulled out an air pump and started pumping air into my tire.
Uncleji: You should be alright for the day. But make sure that you get it checked by a professional soon. You’re good to go.
I flashed him a smile and thanked him for his generosity. He jumped back into his car and drove away. Clearly, the universe wanted me to meet this guy. I ignored the many butterflies flapping in my stomach, signaling the nervousness and anxiety about meeting a guy I not only thought was very nice to look at but had also been introduced to only once.
As soon as I parked the car, my phone started ringing. It was Zain – I had to talk to him on the phone right before I met him for our tete-a-tete. I had half a mind to start my engine and drive back home. This was very nerve-wracking.
Me: Hello?
Zain: Hey.
I liked what I heard. Meeting him would be okay. He had only wanted to confirm the cafe we would be meeting at. I walked inside to find a table. He was in the same place as I was – and I would be in his physical presence in a few moments. I promised myself things would be okay. My new motto had been ‘Fake it till you make it’, and it had been working for me till that point. I’d just go with the flow.
I lived by far too many cheesy Eat, Pray, Love metaphors. I hadn’t had time to dwell on this – the guy I had been talking to had materialized in front of me.
My to-be lover looked like a physical manifestation of all the old boy bands I used to listen to – Roddy Frame meets The Backstreet Boys. We gave each other an awkward half hug; the Covid era was in full swing and I had no idea how strictly he followed the six-feet-apart rule. He sat down to my left. We ordered our coffee. In the cold of December, much to my surprise, he decided he wanted an iced macchiato. I was to later discover iced coffee was an American thing. Our coffees arrived. I wrapped my hands around my warm mug, letting the heat thaw my numb fingers. I should have worn that extra sweater; Lahore’s sun can be very deceiving.
Me: Did you have any trouble finding the place?
Zain: Not at all.
And there began a conversation that has still not ended. I believe I made quite an impact.
Rule no. 2
If You’ve Rationally Decided To Not Fall For Each Other, Then Stop Talking To Each Other
Ishq nazuk mizaj hai behad,
Akbar Allahabadi
aql ka bojh utha nahi sakta.
He was supposed to fly out the next day. That had been the safest thing about meeting him – he was physically leaving, and all I would ever need to do to be rid of him would be to block him. I did not believe in love at first sight. He did not either. And yet, I spent the night googling everything about the city he would be moving to, sending him crime statistics, and morbidly fascinated by how close his town was to where America’s most famous serial killer had spent many of his active days. The Ted Bundy Tapes had been released the year before. I thought it was worth his while to know how safe his area would be. He seemed amused, and not entirely interested.
He blamed the apparent lack of WhatsApp intensity on his large family taking up his time. From a comparatively big family myself, I thought I could understand his dilemma. I could not. It was only after I married him that I was really able to see how big his family was. This might be a spoiler alert for those unaware of how this story ends, but we do in fact end up getting married.
But that, of course, comes later.
The next day, on account of a delayed flight, I contemplated meeting him again before he left. That should have been a sign in itself – why did I feel the urge to meet a random stranger twice in the space of a single week? I could not even bring myself to hang out with my friends that often. Not that my friends were able to meet frequently anyway; it’s a hard-knock life for brown girls. A dilemma the entire world must now be familiar with due to the way we complain about it on social media. Release the desi! Let her reign!
I, however, handled myself well. I did not ask him to meet. He did not initiate either. I assumed this would fizzle out easily. How could I be interested in a man like that? I avoided thinking about him the whole day. To make sure there would be no expectations held on either end, I decided to make it obvious that I would not wait around for any romantic attachments with someone who lived across the world. I texted him my declaration as he was landing in Qatar for a twelve-hour stay. He agreed with the rational logistics and proceeded to disregard my suggestion to watch all three of the Godfather movies during his layover, albeit in a most amiable manner.
As someone not unfamiliar with light online dostian, I figured it would not be the worst idea to engage in light banter. I knew my parents had lined up rishtay for me to see, and they would be heartbroken by the idea of my entertaining someone over the phone. Vo bhe amreeka mein. My Dad was very firm on his idea of what the perfect family should be like, and none of it involved his daughters moving to other countries.
Dad: I want to keep you close to me forever.
Me: That doesn’t always happen – sometimes children have to move away. You were in the army, you lived away for most of your life.
Dad: But I want my children to stay with me. I dream of marrying you off and settling you guys in Lahore, too.
As someone who had always imagined adult life to be something one experienced far away from their parents, I could not understand how I would be able to grow out of the shell my father kept us inside. A timid child, I had grown up to be resentful of the way our families operated. It could stem from having always lived in a nuclear family, but the move to Lahore was, in my personal opinion, one of the most damaging decisions that fate had made for us. With our entire extended family in the same city, not a week passed by without there being some form of drama to deal with. My marriage to Zain was amusing to my mother in that way, being the only person who could see through my patient, family-friendly smile. I had tried to break free of all familial strings and had landed myself in an even more, if not to the same degree, tangled family.
Me: At least I have some experience in that department.
Mum: You have no idea. It’s okay – it happens to the best of us. I used to make fun of people who married Pakistanis, and here I am.
My mother likes to exaggerate the extent of her expatriate blood. She moved to Pakistan when she was yet to turn nineteen, and has now spent more years of her life in her native land than she did in her hometown. A witness to and participant in the sixties’ desi mass migration to the UK, my mother was born just in time to live through the best financial era of my immigrant grandfather’s wholesale business. Her older brothers had known previous periods of strife. Not one to hold a humble amount of self-esteem, my mother had enjoyed indulging herself in the luxuries of a rich Dad. It was only after he passed away that she began her own journey of self-exploration, Anne Hathaway-ing through her time with girls from minted families in Kinnaird College.
I have veered off track. My initial point was to introduce my mother and her various open-ended philosophies. As someone privy to most of my secrets, she had seen through my adamant denials of a growing attachment.
So, he refused to watch The Godfather movies. That should have been another sign to me, except that my naïve girlhood stepped in the way, and convinced me that I would be the one to introduce him to my favorite mafia movies. For someone who had snuck out of the house to attend the infamous Aurat March of 2018, and had chanted the “Hum le kr rahaingay azaadi!” slogan multiple times, my sense of judgment remained incapable of making a sound choice. After our no-relationship-possible conversation, we figured it was fair to stay in touch until either of us got tired of the textual dynamic and wanted to move on.
We did not move on. Even when we did get tired of our textual dynamic. The iMessage chats turned into FaceTime. Very quickly my mornings began to look like one illuminated square after another. At 9 in the morning, I would check to see for Zain’s messages and promptly call him to talk about the day. While his would be ending, mine would be just beginning. Not ones to be deterred by an extreme time difference, we kept on the conversations for weeks on end – even after we had established the fact that we could not see this going anywhere.
His face would occupy a corner in my kitchen as I made breakfast for myself, one eye always at the kitchen entryway in case someone walked through and caught me with my new ‘friend’. My mother’s design preferences for the house included a semi-open plan for the kitchen, where the lack of a door between the kitchen and the hallway visually opened space for the otherwise narrow living room. This meant that my video chats were in full proximity to the entire apartment, and I played Khatron Kay Khiladi every day to be able to talk to the man who would turn into my best friend.
Despite the absence of real-world intimacy, the heavens fostered a romantic tension that only kept building through the many highs and lows of our relationship spanning the two years apart. Not ones to be wise in the face of love, we agreed to be fond of each other without the hope of ever being together. This sentiment stemmed not just from the distance, but also from our belonging to entirely different social circles.
I occasionally recounted dialogues from Pride and Prejudice, going so far as to play the part of the brooding Mr. Darcy. Zain had not read the book. I could not expect to find myself a period man in this day and age. Familiar more so with the general vibe of the Shakespearean drama, I resorted to calling myself Juliet. Our families were not mortal enemies, but you do not need to be mortal enemies in Pakistan for your families to look down on your sexual preference.
Rule no. 3
Before You Find Yourself Across The Line, Find Out What Your Family Wants
Tujh ko pedaish ka haq tou hai magar paida na ho,
Shaukat Thanvi
Main tera ehsan manunga agar paid ana ho.
That rule might make sense, but it dashes all dreams of living a Bollywood fantasy. I knew precisely what my family wanted from me. There were no guessing games there, I had been repeatedly lectured on my responsibilities and duties. The only person who really asked me what I wanted from my life was my mother, who, as I have highlighted previously, did not want to shy away from living a more enlightened life, dragging us along with her. My father, in his best effort to guide us to the right kind of living, would occasionally dismiss our feelings in preference to what he envisioned as a good life.
Dad: The family should follow along with the leader of the family, the father, who guides them through good times and bad.
Me: Yes, but once a child reaches adulthood, there will be times when they do not agree with the father.
Our conversations are not the subject matter of this story. They have been included as a preface to the real stirrers looming ahead. When I asked my mother what kind of a life she thought would be good for me, she scoffed.
Mum: I’ll just be glad if you agree to marry. To a Muslim man, hopefully.
Me: The bar is still high. I don’t know if I can make you proud.
Mum: As a matter of fact, there is a guy I think you might like. Your Dad doesn’t seem too keen on the rishta, but I think it’s a good one. His mother adores you, and he’s a cool guy. He’s studying in Germany but is in Pakistan right now.
Me: Right now? That’s some timing.
Mum: I know right – we’re invited to dinner tomorrow with them. I tried telling his mother you wouldn’t be interested, but she still insisted.
Me: It’s okay.
I remembered a time when receiving proposals had terrified me, and had instilled in me an exaggerated appreciation of the time I had as an independent woman. Not only had I begun cramming hobbies and lessons into every hour I could possibly extrude from my university schedule, but I also began criticizing my own parents’ marriage, quoting incidents to persuade them it would be an irreversible mistake for me to bind myself into the seven turns of matrimony.
Dad: We don’t do the seven turns. Why would you cite a Hindu ritual? That is not how a proper Pakistani Muslim behaves.
Me: It’s just a metaphor.
Mum: Our marriage is not a metaphor, so it would be wiser to not make an example of it.
Me: It’s the only one I see every day.
Mum: You have no idea what a marriage is.
In a country where pre-marital love is still frowned upon in the very futuristic year of 2024, it is nothing less than a fatal risk to be involved with another person to the point you cannot imagine parting ways. If the possibility of getting together does not seem like an attractive idea to either one or both of the individual situations constituting the duo, it is better to call off things before they develop into infatuation.
While the sound of that is perfectly logical and clear and made lots of sense to the couple in question, it is a truth universally acknowledged that even the most sensible of humans fall prey to illogical fantasies. The pursuit of a romantic goal is enough more often than not to convince people to suffer through the many emotional ailments that such a commitment could possibly bring. I do not blame these people – since I have myself been subject to this very jest.
Arrest me, moulwi sahab, for I have sinned.
While many may call me only dramatic, I am sure my father would have a lot to add to that statement. Baap ki raza mein Allah ki raza hai.
I agree. Securing a father’s consent and ensuring his happiness regarding major decisions in life is important, but sometimes the validation of a parent’s belief leads one down the road of self-destruction. It is not always easy to understand where one individual ends and another begins, and that line remains elusively out of reach for most in the land of biryani and chicken tikka masala. As just another spirit struggling to identify the line, I knew I tread stormy waters. It is not an easy task being a parent, and it is not always easy being a well-behaved child. A certain Laurel Ulrich might have told the world how seldom well-behaved women make history, but she missed mentioning how seldom well-behaved women are really happy.
Zain: Miss karao. It doesn’t make sense.
Me: Han miss karao shaadi. We tried our best.
Zain: But…
Me: But…
I cannot recount how many of our conversations revolved around the same lines, constantly trying to balance our sanities with our passions, our hopes with reality. Zain still remembers the day I first used Mr. Darcy’s infamous “In vain have I struggled; it will not do” line. He had plans for the weekend, and I had decided to very seriously tell him I had fallen for him as hard as Mufasa fell over that cliff. The Simba in this scenario would be my entire life in Lahore. I could feel my books, my family, my work, and all the old architecture, staring at me with abandonment in their eyes. It would be hard to let everything go and start anew – although was that not the life I had always dreamed about? To explore different cultures, live in other countries to feel how they feel, eat what they eat. I just did not have American soil in mind; I would usually lean towards either a more exotic set of people or a colder European town.
Zain: Would you be able to leave everything behind and start from scratch?
I could not care less that the man in front of me had only a few weeks before explained to me how complicated US visas can be, and how he had no backup plan to fall on if his legal status were to become null. I nodded my head carefully. I did not understand a lot of it – especially since my mother’s British life had opened up visa-free access to most of the world for me. This was the first time I had heard about employers “sponsoring” visas for people to live there.
Zain: I think that’s how all immigration works.
Me: Probably. I’ve just never had to be in a situation where I would have to understand all the details of it.
Zain: The privilege you have of not dealing with a Pakistani passport – it makes you blind.
Me: I must stay loyal to the monarchy.
During our initial phase of familiarity, I pictured Zain as the boy-band singer look-alike who could smirk his way through most situations. I had stalked his social media – he was not as simpleton of a man as he sometimes claimed to be. I wondered if this was how guys grew older to fall into their natural fatherhood state.
Mein ghareeb banda hun. Mein tou saadha sa hun. Mujhe koi nhi puchta. Kabhi meri bhe baat maan lya karo. Yar, Nawaz Sharif wapis agaya hai.
One such stalkathon yielded interesting results – I had found the address to his house in Lahore. I wondered if it would be possible to find it myself; I had a car, and my trusty Suzuki Mehran could take me anywhere without it being too much of a problem. Despite the occasional battery issues, the sticky clutch, and the fact that the door to the front seat did not lock, Mehru generally pulled through everything. The only time I was scared of asking for help was when I had found myself stranded outside my phupho’s clinic, and needed to call the men in my family. I preferred the men at gas stations; they would cheer me on every time Mehru started perfectly after a fit, clapping as I drove away. The men in my family would scold me for not taking care of the car.
My car, thankfully, did not break down in front of Zain’s house. I did not have the guts to tell him about this incident until many months into our marriage. I was not sure if he would be amused or concerned by being privy to my dark secret. A little bit of both, I think. I had not imagined walking into that house during my first drive past it. I had not really imagined what it meant to follow through on the foreign, poetically saturated concept of muhabbat.
Taylor Swift: Lyrical Genius Or Business Prodigy – Invisiblites
Rule no. 4
Do Not Turn Random Incidents Into Signs From The Universe
Meray seenay per magar rakhi hui shamshir si,
Asrar-ul-Haq Majaz
Ai gham-e-dil kya karun, ai vehshat-e-dil kya karun.
This rule goes out to my superstitious gals and guys – not everything that happens to you is a sign. This is not to say that I do not occasionally fancy myself living in a world where everything that happens is only meant to further my own story and not because of the systems of nature in place. It takes a strong spirit to remind themselves that the world is bigger than their own individual lives. However, I will still recount those moments when I couldn’t help but feel like the universe was singling me out, orchestrating circumstances in a way that felt like a cosmic nod of approval.
I was wearing a leafy green kameez with my favorite white shalwar. The day was hot; Lahori summer had not been gentle this time round. My feet bore the risk of being tanned by the sun, an issue I was worried would be of concern to my potential susral. I mentally opened a slot in my week to soak them in hot water and give them a good scrub. The tanning, however, did not stop me from wearing my new favorite footwear – my black kolapuris. Paired with a matte maroon nail color, I liked to imagine myself quite the desi model for going about my day the way I did.
The day had been nice so far. I had woken up earlier than usual, had spent my breakfast talking to Zain and listening to him type away an email, had fixed my hair properly, and had even remembered to wear my ring. I wished mama good luck for her presentation that day and headed out to my Mehran.
I could tell the gari saaf krnay wala bhai had wiped my car clean. However, something on the bonnet caught my eye. I peered into the windscreen to inspect a strange-looking piece of plastic – had the bhai accidentally left something?
I immediately recoiled in disgust. There, on my bonnet, aligned to the middle of my windscreen, was a condom. A used condom. Tied to my wiper washers.
My hand instinctively flew to my neck. I lived in a respectable part of the city. A laborer walked past my car on the pretext of filling a water bottle. He glanced once my way. I did not look back at him. He filled his water bottle and stood a few feet away, watching me. I tried to mask the horror and filth I felt creeping through my body. I had to get rid of the thing.
I opened my car door and took out a few napkins. I stood to the side of my car and stared at the spotty, wet condom. My eyes darted from the condom to the tissues in my hand – I could do it. I had to pick it up and throw it away.
I could not do it.
A few gardeners sat in the shade of a nearby tree. They were familiar faces and had worked for all the families who lived in my area. I walked up to them and asked one of them to follow me. They looked at me quizzically; one of them got up and followed me to my car. I handed him the tissues. He took one look at my bonnet and sighed.
Gardener: Kya gand krtay hain log. Chalo, beta, tussi jao.
He shook his head, frown lines on his aged forehead. I suspected the long hours he spent under the sun had contributed more to his wrinkles than his years had.
I could not help but wonder, was this a sign to stay away from men? Was God telling me to take shelter in my car, my familiar sense of home? If only that had been the only part of the day that had frightened me. It promised to be a long one.
*****
I drove along the service lane that stretched from McDonald’s to Cue Cinema, thankful for the absence of cars coming in from the opposite direction. I had just clocked out of the office. As soon as I turned left into the lane for the parking, I realized I had made a mistake coming to this ATM. Maverick was playing. All shows were full. There was no space for me to park my car. I was tempted to leave my car along the curb and run to the ATM, but the cinema had recently employed valets and parking ticket officers, and they would not allow an unattended vehicle in the middle of the road. I missed the times when traffic rules were not as strict and we could get away with most traffic violations. I kept driving along the parked cars until I saw a small, unoccupied space. The presence of a big electric pole had kept others from parking there. My Mehran fit in very nicely.
A man walked towards my car. His long, greasy hair hung past his shoulders, accentuating the slouch of his back as he pretended to slump to catch a look inside my car. I waited. He glanced my way once, thinking his furtive moves had remained unobserved. I stepped out of my car and weaved my way through a crowd of men standing next to the gate for HBL. A few of them turned to look me up and down and then looked away; having spent twenty-four years practicing the art of ignoring men staring me down, I easily pretended to not notice.
I always notice.
The ATM room was chilly and calmed my head. I called my Mum to ask if she needed any money.
Mum: I think I’ll need five thousand for the laser appointment. I’m a bit short aj kal!
I told her to not worry.
Encounters with beggars were an uncommon sight in the vicinity of Cue, a relatively new building that had only recently started attracting cafes and businesses to its otherwise unfinished, concrete facade. Given the surge of Lahoris flocking to this emerging hotspot, the presence of a few beggars in the area shouldn’t have been entirely unexpected. Nonetheless, as they gradually approached my car, I reacted with surprise and promptly retreated into the safety of my vehicle, instinctively locking the doors. A transwoman beggar banged on the window once. I gasped, quickly regaining my composure.
She had five dots lined on the left side of her chin and two lined in the center. While her mascara was commendable – enviable, even – I noticed she had not put on any eyeliner. I contemplated on whether to ask why she had not done so; her almond eyes would have dragged very nicely into a fine black point.
She: Beta, you’re a pretty woman. Humari buri dua say bacho – kuch sadqa kardo.
Not one for self-control, I reached into my bag and pulled out a few hundred-rupee notes. I handed one to her. The elders of my village had always cautioned me against being on the receiving end of anyone’s buri dua, so I took great pains to ensure I stayed away from that kind of energy.
She: You will live a long life. Money comes to you easily but also flows away easily. You will have great resources, but no contentment in your heart…
Horrified, I rolled up my window and pulled the gear into reverse. She kept following the car, asking me to pay for a goat’s sacrifice to save my family. I nodded her way and then drove onto the main road. I wondered if any of what she had to say was possibly true – will I be miserly and depressed? Should I be working to provide a better lifestyle for my family?
Her words seemed to clash violently with the beliefs I had been raised with, ones that had been etched into my upbringing: that a woman’s income bore no divine blessing or barkat, and that her domain was primarily within the confines of her home. It led me to ponder whether my mother, confined to the home for much of her life, might have been spared the anguish of years of depression had she been granted the freedom to venture beyond those four walls.
Normally, beggars would not faze me. On this particular day, however, she had me in a chokehold. I feared my refusal to comply with her request would set off a chain reaction, an ominous domino effect for which I would be held solely responsible. I drove home fearful of getting into an accident or being called and given the news of someone else being in one. I carefully turned the car alongside the curve of the Gulberg bridge, not wanting Mehru to fly off into the Gora Qabristan ahead. Rolling down my window, I took in the warm evening air. Nazia Hassan was playing on the radio.
Mein jawan, mein haseen.
That was me – I would keep that in mind until I fell asleep, dreaming about a gori spirit from the graveyards who had arrived to sing Nazia Hassan’s songs for my wedding. I looked up expecting to find Zain standing on stage, only to be horrified at the sight of the same transwoman holding a goat and a knife.
She: It is time to sacrifice you. You should have listened to me.
My eyes flew open. I checked my phone. Zain had left a very sweet text message. The knots in my forehead released themselves. I fell into bed again, smiling.
4.1 Can You Judge A Guy By The Friends He Introduces You To?
Haris: When I heard he went straight to meet you after he landed on Pakistani soil, I knew I had to see what this girl was about.
I found myself seated beside Zain in a Cinnabon, with his friend, the one mentioned earlier, keen to subject me to a thorough interrogation and discern for himself what it was about me that had taken hold of Zain’s affections. We occupied a spot on the first floor of the now-defunct café – a casualty of the deteriorating economy, which seemed determined to strip away even more from our lives.
With my flexible office hours and Zain working at night to align with American time, the ideal time to hang out was for breakfast. While usually we would focus our energies on one another, this day I had to also tend to Zain’s exuberant friend.
Me: Now you know.
Haris: I have a list of questions to ask you. The guys have all chipped in and decided to find out whether you’re suitable for Zain.
Zain shook his head, his expression indicating a certain uncertainty that mirrored my own. I was unsure of where the situation would lead us, especially since Haris had just finished narrating stories about his past loves – some of which had been very intense. Realizing I barely knew anything about Zain’s actual life, I debated on how much of it I could figure out from a conversation with his friend. Zain had told me he could not predict how the meeting would go, and that his friends could be very judgmental if they chose.
So, Haris fired his questions, all of which I answered appropriately. While some of them could be mentioned without any consequences in usual desi situations, a few of them would be not politically correct or culturally acceptable to be repeated. I will thus refrain from expanding on the content of the questionnaire.
Zain: Are you done? We should probably leave – don’t you have to go to work?
Me: I do. Should I drop you off?
Zain: Please.
Zain’s lack of car ownership and his unfortunate stash of high-valued foreign currency which had little practical use in the everyday life of Lahore, meant my Mehran was often in contact with this man, having been introduced to him long before anyone else would be. I would often worry about trackers installed in my car. My father’s unfiltered speeches would have made it obvious had there been any devices keeping records of everywhere I went. As a result, I gradually dismissed the notion that there was anything covert concealed in Mehru’s bonnet.
The last time I met Zain before he had flown out again – another 24th of December – was coincidently also at his friend’s. While we were seated at an outdoor café, engrossed in a conversation about the complex situation we had found ourselves entangled in, Haris’s name came up. Due to the intensely PDA-sensitive country we find ourselves belonging to – I always say it is a Public Display of Affection we are sensitive to not a Public Display of Aggression, which is a PDA we often witness – we exchanged warm glances, afraid of the police throwing us into jail if we dared to put on a heartfelt display.
Zain: Chalna hai? He says ajao.
Me: Chalo.
I had always been somewhat hesitant about the idea of casually dropping by a friend’s house to openly express any form of affection. However, this time was different. Zain and I had decided to be more upfront with our families about our relationship and were determined to face whatever challenges lay ahead. We would battle this out.
When we visited Haris’s house, it was bustling with relatives there to celebrate his brother’s wedding. Despite the gathered family, Haris managed to carve out a few moments of privacy for us. He shut the door to his room and winked at Zain. As he was about to leave, Haris opened a cupboard and offered us a drink, urging us to relax and have some fun. Although I had never really had the opportunity to explore what I’d be like when drinking, I declined the offer, knowing that I had to drive back home through the chaotic streets of Lahore in the late hours of the night. Zain, on the other hand, decided to take a sip from his friend’s glass.
Me: I guess this is it.
Zain: I guess so.
I moved closer to where he sat. He smirked.
Zain: What do you think you’re doing?
Me: I’m only saying goodbye.
Snuggling up to him for a hug, I found myself tearing up, with the tears threatening to spill over. Zain put his arms around me, and I kept my eyes closed, trying to hold them back. Just then, there was a knock at the door. Zain quickly disentangled himself and dashed to the bathroom, and I suspected he might have been on the verge of crying himself, although he never admitted it. I opened the door to find Haris standing there.
Haris: Zainee kidhr hai?
Me: In the bathroom. Probably crying.
Haris: Damn. He was pretty angry about how his family took things.
Me: Really?
Haris: Yeah. I’ve never seen him mad about anything.
Zain: Mad about what?
Haris: Nothing. Did you manage to use the minutes I got you wisely?
Zain: Sure, we did.
Haris: Meray liye tou kaafi hota.
As I prepared to leave for home, a sense of impending trouble loomed over me, knowing that I had stayed out past my curfew, which began the minute the clock struck nine. Zain, recognizing my predicament, subtly gestured toward the way leading to the front door. I began to make my way down the stairs, and he followed me.
My thoughts were consumed by curiosity about Zain’s life once I drove away from his side. I wondered about the friends he kept, those he spent his time with, and the life he led outside of our moments together. Did I truly know him well enough to make the life-altering decision to spend the rest of my days with him? These questions lingered, even as my mind drifted back to the transwoman I had encountered, who had ominously foretold that I would suffer. The seed of doubt she had planted haunted my thoughts: Would I indeed endure suffering in the path I had chosen?
[Mahnoor is an architect and writer. She has been published in The Aleph Review and has won the South Asian Literati Award for her work in fiction. She runs her own architecture magazine, Astana, and is a contributing architecture critic for many papers in Pakistan. You can contact her at theeditor@theanarchitect.com.]
Photo created using Openart.ai
Can’t wait for part 2