by Samra Zafar
“Thank you,” I said, and then handed the phone back to my mother. I could hear Ahmed reassuring my mother as well before she hung up the phone.
“See?” she said to me. “Everything is going to be fine. Now go back to sleep.”
When I got up the next morning, I felt better than I had in days, but my nervousness had been replaced with a certain sad wistfulness. My gaze fanned around the room—the desk with my books, the bookshelf with my awards, the dresser with my squash racket leaning against it. The familiar landscape suddenly looked precious and ephemeral. Soon it would no longer be mine. It belonged to a schoolgirl.
I was about to become a married woman.
CHAPTER 4
RUKHSATI
I moved through the entirety of my long wedding day like an automaton. The morning was a blur of small preparations. In the early afternoon, at my grandfather’s house, the men crowded into the living room with Ahmed, and the women accompanied me upstairs to one of the bedrooms. I was led to a bed, where I sat in a stupor. Every corner of the house was filled with fresh roses—the perfume that I had enjoyed so much at other weddings now seemed cloyingly surreal.
I was barely aware of what was being said by the women who hovered around me, but then they parted like a cloud, and my father’s younger brother and the imam stood before me. Uncle Ali put the marriage papers in my lap.
His deep voice rolled towards me. “I, Mohammed Ali, as your representative, ask you, Samra Zafar, for your permission to give you away in marriage to Ahmed Khan, with 50,000 rupees in mahr. Do you accept?”
I was supposed to say yes, and then the exchange would be repeated two more times.
But my tongue was frozen. I sat looking at the documents in my lap, my blurred vision framed by the red veil that shaded the sides of my face.
My uncle repeated the words, and a chorus of small yeses grew from the women around me, as if they were showing me how to pronounce the word. Still unable to make a sound, I nodded instead. An audible sigh of relief fluttered through the room.
Uncle Ali put a pen in my hand. My hand was shaking so hard that the pen bounced out of it and onto the floor. When he put it in my hand the next time, I closed my trembling fingers around it as quickly as I could. I held it over the papers, over the spot my uncle was pointing to, but it was as if my hand were some sort of tool I had no idea how to operate. Write my name I told it. Write Samra Zafar. In jerking motions I applied ink to the paper, and when I was done, the women in the room started applauding.
“Good girl,” said my mother.
The women were now embracing and congratulating each other. Then an arm came around my shoulders. Ahmed’s mother was pulling me to her side in a hug that felt more like an act of possession than an expression of affection.
“She’s officially ours,” she crowed to my mother.
An icy chill ran through me.
* * *
An hour later, Aunt Nasreen and I stepped through the beauty salon doors into a busy hum. A dozen brides were already seated in the chairs that dotted the place; excited conversation filled the air. The other women were getting their hair put up in elaborate arrangements or their makeup painstakingly applied. Everyone was busy, but I could see the brides and stylists glance over at me, their faces full of curiosity. As soon as I took a seat in the nail section of the salon, I understood why.
“But she’s too young!” The manicurist actually gasped. “Is everything okay?” she said to my aunt.
My aunt bristled a bit. “Yes, yes. Everything is fine. This is only the nikah. She is not leaving her family yet. She and her husband signed the papers today, but her husband lives in Canada. He is going home after this.”
The manicurist had taken one of my hands and was slowly filing the nail.
“They won’t have the rukhsati for a whole year yet.” My aunt made it sound as if a year were a decade, that I would somehow no longer be a teenager but a full-fledged adult by then.
The manicurist’s alarm had clearly rattled my aunt, as did the questions the other brides and stylists fired at me as I took my seat in the outer salon.
“How old are you?”
“Why are you getting married now?”
All the other brides seemed to be in their mid-twenties.
I trotted out the lines I had been offering since my engagement: the chance to go to Canada, the educational opportunities, Ahmed’s good job.
All the while, Aunt Nasreen hovered over the makeup artist, giving her instructions. “Make that eyeliner darker,” she insisted, “and a bit more blush. Her cheeks should look higher.” It was clear that my aunt wanted the makeup to add a few years to my face.
When I finally stood up to leave, I couldn’t believe the person who looked back at me from the mirror. The Samra I knew was gone; my youth had indeed been erased by layers of rouge and eyeliner.
From the beauty parlour, I was whisked to Ahmed’s family’s house for a photo shoot. It was important that the wedding pictures be taken while I still looked doll-like and perfect, before my carefully crafted facade wore off. I was led into the living room by Aunt Nasreen, and then the photographer took charge.
“Look up. Look down. Look to the left. Now to the right. Close your eyelids halfway. Smile—but shyly.”
The directions went on and on, through sitting and standing positions, through dozens of solo shots and then more with Ahmed by my side. I responded with the mute obedience of a puppet.
Then the endless snapping of the camera was done, and I was being ushered into the banquet hall where the nikah celebration was to be held. At one end of the room was a raised dais with a sofa in the middle. This is where I was put, on display, while everyone took pictures and occasionally came up to say congratulations. Looking down on the crowded room, I was overwhelmed by the number of people I didn’t know—the vast network of my husband’s family, now my family too.
Suddenly a familiar face appeared in the crowd. My school friend Zenab had flown in from Ruwais for the wedding. She came running up to the platform, and I leapt from the couch. We flung our arms around each other.
We both started talking at once. I peppered her with questions, wanting to know everything that had happened in the time I had been gone. As we chatted excitedly, I noticed that Ahmed’s mother was frowning at us.
Then Fatima was at my side. “Sit down, Samra,” she said. “You’re not supposed to be acting like this.”
“I guess I should go,” said Zenab. She slunk away.
All the effervescence I had just felt was gone. I had no problem staying quiet for the rest of the evening. I sat on the dais without a word. When I moved from the sofa to the dining table, beside Ahmed, his very presence kept me mute and unable to concentrate on anything that was happening around me. Dishes of curry and tandoori delicacies came from the kitchen. A plate was filled and brought to me. I moved a few morsels around with my fork, but I could eat nothing.
Eventually, the evening wound down. As people began to amble out of the hall, Ahmed’s mother scooted over to me and took my arm.
“Come now, Samra, we’re taking you away,” she said.
Behind her I could hear Ahmed’s friends teasing him. “Go on, time to take her home, Ahmed! She’s yours now.”
It was all in jest; everyone knew this was not the rukhsati. But a point was being made, nevertheless. I had started the day as Samra Zafar. Now I was Samra Ahmed, Ahmed’s wife. And according to Pakistani Muslim tradition, my place was with his family, not mine.
Just then, my father appeared by my side. “Time to go, Samra,” he said, directing his comments to Ahmed’s mother rather than to me. I felt relief flood through me as we walked together to the car. I was a married woman now, but I could still go home.
* * *
Up until the nikah, I had had only one conversation with Ahmed—that late-night phone call. And our few emails were limited to discussing our favourite colours and foods. Now that we were married, we were of course free to be in
contact as much as we liked.
A few days after the signing ceremony, Ahmed asked me to join him for an evening out. He suggested that we go with his older brother, Shahid, and his wife, Angela, to Pizza Hut. I wondered—had he remembered that my favourite food was pizza?
Angela was from Eastern Europe, and theirs had been a love match. I had met her at the various wedding celebrations and post-wedding get-togethers, but we hadn’t really talked. Here in the restaurant, however, I felt I was beginning to get to know her and Shahid. I loved the easy camaraderie among the three of them. Now, away from the hubbub of the larger extended family, everyone was relaxed and playful, the mood light and celebratory. Shahid struck me as a gentle person; his wife, kind and generous. Even though they were in their late thirties, they talked to me as if I were an equal, a friend even. For the first time since the wedding festivities, I was hungry. As I helped myself to the pizza, I felt my teenaged, high school self slip away, and a new self—my adult self—begin to take its place.
After we had finished eating, the four of us headed for Ahmed’s family’s house, where my parents were waiting for me. I joined everyone in the living room, but Ahmed and his brother disappeared. Then Angela was asking me to come upstairs with her. She led me to a bedroom, where Ahmed and Shahid were waiting. Ahmed gestured for me to sit beside him on the bed and produced a box from behind his back. When I opened it, I discovered a Swiss Army watch. Ahmed took it carefully from the box and put it around my wrist. I shivered as his hands brushed my skin. Then he produced another box. A matching watch for himself. He asked me to put it around his wrist. For the first time, it felt as if Ahmed and I were making some kind of small connection.
The next time I saw Ahmed, he took me to the passport office to begin the immigration paperwork for my move to Canada. We had never been alone together before, and the enormity of that had my heart pounding, even as he sipped tea and ate snacks with my family before we left. In the car, he teased me about the reappearance of my paralyzing shyness.
“Don’t you have anything to say?”
I struggled for a response.
“Am I really that scary?”
“No, no,” I managed to mutter.
“You just don’t want to talk?”
“I don’t know what to say.” That was certainly the truth.
At the Canadian embassy, we filled out the forms together and answered the questions of the immigration officers. I fell silent again as we got in the car. When Ahmed pulled up in front of my parents’ apartment, he didn’t get out.
“I’ve got something for you,” he said. He grabbed a big manila envelope and handed it to me. Inside were glossy brochures from the University of Toronto, York University, University of British Columbia, University of Calgary.
“I ordered these,” he said. “So you could think about where you want to go and what you want to study.” He sounded excited. “Like I told you, we could move almost anywhere in Canada. I can always find work.”
I looked at Ahmed with a big, unguarded smile. He was smiling too, confident and reassuring. I began to flip through brochures, excitedly reading out the names of the schools.
“Here,” Ahmed said, opening one of the booklets. “Let me show you where Calgary is and what the school has to offer.”
I had been told we would be living in a condo that his parents had bought for a future move to Canada. I asked Ahmed how long we would be able to stay there—and how long we had to stay there. When would his parents be moving to Canada? I imagined they wouldn’t want to rent out their new condo to strangers if we decided to relocate.
Ahmed waved my concerns away. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “They will move when they move. We aren’t going to put our life on hold for them.”
Our life. The words made my pulse flutter. We didn’t speak for a few moments, both lost in our thoughts about the future. Then he took my hand in his.
“You know,” he said quietly. “I really want to be your friend. I want to get to know you and for you to get to know me. We don’t have to rush anything.”
By the time we walked into my family’s apartment, I felt as if the world was becoming a bright, safe place again. Perhaps I wouldn’t be flirting with boys on campus, but that didn’t mean I might not fall in love.
The rest of the afternoon unfolded with remarkable ease. Ahmed joined my sisters on the couch, taking one of their Sega controllers and challenging them to a vigorous game of video tennis. He asked them about school, while I showed the university brochures to my parents. After several rounds of tennis, Ahmed slipped downstairs to the café on the ground floor of the building, returning with tea, Pepsi and samosas for all of us. By the time he left, my sisters were calling him Ahmed-bhai. Big brother.
* * *
During the three weeks following the wedding, Ahmed’s extended family held one dinner party after another. Each time, Ahmed and his parents took me with them. I found the evenings tense and exhausting. I hated the way Ahmed’s parents seemed to watch every move I made and weigh every word I said. I knew there was some perfect balance between talking enough and not too much—and that I was not getting it right. And I flinched every time they referred to me as their bahu.
But more and more, I loved the quiet moments I could spend alone with Ahmed.
On the days we didn’t see each other, and even some when we did, Ahmed would call me in the evenings. We talked about how we had spent our days. I chatted about my friends back in Ruwais, about my school and my teachers. He would tell me about Canada. He explained that once there, I would likely have to wait a year before I could start university. But he assured me that this would be a fun time. We could spend the fall visiting campuses, so I could decide where to apply. We could also hit some of the big cities and attractions within driving distance from where he lived in Mississauga—Montreal, New York, Niagara Falls. He even offered to teach me how to drive once we were together in Canada.
“You have to be your own person,” he told me.
Despite his parents’ prescriptive attitude to their new daughter-in-law, Ahmed reassured me that he didn’t care what others thought. We were going to live our life the way we wanted to.
A few days before Ahmed had to return to Canada, he invited me on a shopping trip with all of his siblings. Ahmed and I wandered around the mall together, popping into one shop or another, not so much shopping as enjoying the opportunity to walk together. But then something caught his eye. It was a taupe crushed-silk shalwar kameez dress embellished with gold embroidery. He asked me if I liked it. How could I not? It was stunning. I nodded. “Try it on,” he said. When I came out of the dressing room, Ahmed’s face lit up. “I’m buying that for you!”
The next night Ahmed’s mother held a big dinner party. As I walked through the front door in my new dress, I felt elegant, and suddenly a little older than my years. When Ahmed saw me, he broke into a huge smile. He told me how pretty I looked, and I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. I couldn’t keep a grin from spreading across my face.
For the rest of the evening, Ahmed followed me around, filming me with the camcorder he had been given to record the event. He didn’t care that he wasn’t capturing any of the guests at the dinner.
“I’m trying to make some memories,” he explained. “This way I can take you with me. And I will have something to watch when I’m missing you.”
* * *
Before I knew it our three weeks “together” had slipped away.
A day before Ahmed was scheduled to fly out, my mother and I took a rickshaw over to his family’s home. (My father was already back in Ruwais.) Everyone gathered in the living room to say their goodbyes, but slowly people disappeared until only Ahmed and I were left. I had written him a card saying that I would miss him. Now I gave it to him. When he read it, he smiled. “This is a good idea,” he said. “We will write to each other as well as talk.”
He was quiet for a moment, and then said, “You won’t be alone. I’ll be with
you. And soon, we will make all our dreams come true.”
I couldn’t believe how different I felt now than I had three weeks ago—and how much I didn’t want him to leave. I started to cry. Ahmed came closer to me, cupped the back of my head gently with his hand and kissed me on the forehead. “We will be together soon,” he whispered.
Leaving Ahmed’s house that day, I thought I knew what it was to be in love. That terrible night before the nikah felt as if it had happened years ago, my fear then overblown and histrionic. I wished I could go back to that evening and tell my tearful self what I now knew to be true: the right choice had been made.
* * *
Over the coming months, Ahmed and I kept up a steady stream of correspondence, phone calls and video chats. I would rush home from school to check for messages, obsessively dialling into the Internet every hour to see if anything new had come in. We continued to discuss our life plans. Ahmed assured me that he was in no hurry to have children, that he wanted me to get my degree before we started a family. Even with his encouragement, I recognized that medicine—and the marathon route to becoming a doctor—might not be compatible with marriage. Instead, I started looking at business programs and economics.
During one of those talks, the night before I was to start at my new Karachi school, Ahmed raised the subject of hijabs.
“I know that not many women in Pakistan wear them, but I think a hijab makes a girl look even more beautiful.”
I was a bit surprised. His mother did not wear one, nor did any of his sisters or sisters-in-law. But like me, Ahmed had been raised in the Arabic world, where the head coverings were more popular.
“Do you want me to wear one?” I asked.
“It’s up to you, of course,” Ahmed replied. His tone was gentle and wistful. “I just always imagined my wife wearing one, so that I was the only one who could admire her beauty. So that she was always safe and protected from other men’s gazes.” Ahmed paused. And then the silky words: “It’s just that I love you so much.”
