10 Desi Rules To Orchestrating Your Rishta

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 having 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, Vrna hum bhe aadmi thay kaam kay.

-????????? Mirza Ghalib

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 from 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 so far. 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; 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, aql ka bojh utha nahi sakta.

-????????? Akbar Allahabadi

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 us 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 the 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 na?ve 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 to 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 of 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, Main tera ehsan manunga agar paid ana ho.

-????????? Shaukat Thanvi

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 had been 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 insists.

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 an 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 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, my trusty 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 would drive 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.

Rule no. 4

Do Not Turn Random Incidents Into Signs From The Universe

Meray seenay per magar rakhi hui shamshir si, Ai gham-e-dil kya karun, ai vehshat-e-dil kya karun.

-????????? Asrar-ul-Haq Majaz

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 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 once 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 for 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, 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 a 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 record of everywhere I went to. 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 fly 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 Public Display of Affection we are sensitive to not 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?

Rule no. 5

Leave The Details Out Of The Picture When You Decide To Tell The Family

Naya aik rishta paida kyun karen hum, Bicharna hai to jhagra kyun karen hum.

-????????? Jaun Eliya

Abu: My daughter finally agreed to marry! I’m so grateful to God for this turn of events – how did this happen? Will my beti really be a dulhan? My nanhi pari will be all grown up?

Me: I guess…

Abu: Finally – I knew all those articles I sent you weren’t for no reason! I knew you would understand. A wedding, in this house, my daughter. Mashallah!

I was not accustomed to expressing a grandiose emotional display. While my father’s happiness had been unexpected – I had imagined more betrayal and anger, but that would come later – I was glad I had given him the news.

Abu: Who is the lucky man?

His words scared me. Was he sarcastic? Was this a side of my father I had not been granted access to before? He was okay with the fact that I had told him about a man?

I knew there would be a catch. All six of my senses tingled uncomfortably with the way this situation was panning out.

Me: You might get to meet his family soon – if you allow it.

Abu: Of course. Tell me all about this family. How did you come across this young man, and who is he to suddenly bring you over to the right side of the marriage debate?

Me: Someone I met through a friend.

Abu: What friend?

Me: I only have one friend.

He nodded a few times. I kept my responses as vague as possible – I did not want to highlight the fact that I had met him on my own. My haram actions could have dire consequences on the freedom allotted to my sister – I would have to make sure it did not affect how she managed to get around town.

But I would think about that after I had dealt with the emotional turmoil that I had plunged myself into. The question that gnawed at my conscience was one of loyalties. Where did my allegiances truly lie in this unfolding situation? What if our families didn't see eye to eye on this matter? The uncertainty loomed large, and it was clear that navigating through this territory would require more than just secrecy; it would necessitate a profound internal reckoning with the forces of tradition vs. individual choice that had come into conflict.

I decided to procrastinate this complicated thinking. The potentially disastrous consequences that framed the various scenarios in my head would have to be pushed away for the present. Until the official rishta evening had been handled, I would refrain from spiraling into a negative vortex. The decision to keep our initial meeting deliberately vague turned out to be a wise one, shielding us from prying questions and scrutiny. In all honesty, I believe neither Zain nor I could recall the specifics ourselves.

Zain and I took it upon ourselves to exchange our respective parents' contact information, effectively initiating the rishta process. We deliberately opted for a direct approach, without the involvement of a third party as is often customary in matrimonial matches in Pakistan. For those unacquainted with the tradition, the presence of a neutral intermediary is often considered essential to facilitate the negotiations between two families. With each family holding their own traditions to being the epitome of parampara, the delicate act of balancing cultural egos to foster harmony between two families embarking on this journey for the sake of their children can be quite intricate. Furthermore, it's worth noting that the idea of two families uniting for the well-being of their children isn't universally accepted; instead, children are expected to marry individuals with whom their families get along already.

In our case, this meant marrying an eligible son from my father's circle of established army officers for me, and for Zain, it meant someone from his extended family. Neither of us quite fit the molds and qualifications that had been set in stone for generations, making our path forward all the more challenging.

Zain: Civilians? That’s what you guys call people who aren’t in the army?

Me: Yes. Not in a degrading manner, though, that’s just the terminology.

Zain: So, I’m a civilian?

Me: Yes.

Zain: It sounds like an insult.

Me: Sometimes it is meant to sound like one. There are army families who can be a bit full of themselves.

A few days after I had broken the news to my father, Zain's parents made the decision to visit us. They had consented to meet the family of the girl their son intended to marry, a task that, according to Zain's parents, had been anything but simple. They later regaled us with multiple entertaining versions of the moment Zain had broken the news to them, narratives that he vehemently insisted were inaccurate. Nevertheless, I stood by Zain's side, even if it meant occasionally indulging in a good-natured laugh at his expense.

The reality had been that on the night before the visit, I had stayed up past my usual bedtime to converse with Zain while his parents bombarded him with questions. They probed into his knowledge about my caste, the school of thought my family belonged to, and whether we were part of a stable, parampara-wala (tradition-following) family. I replied to their questions with a smile, recalling how my father had expressed similar concerns. Given that I was someone who routinely retired for the night before 10 PM, I couldn't help but spot a potential red flag. The thought of living with a family who maintained a later sleep schedule than I was accustomed to was scary. I had mentioned this to my mother, who had only scoffed at my concern.

Ammi: Ab khud pasand kya hai. Yeh sab kuch tou saath ata hai – you’ll just have to learn to deal with not living in your parents’ house anymore.

Me: I know. No more walking around the house in my pajamas all day after I’m wed.

Ammi: There are some costs to being married.

Me: I must become the best bahu they’ve seen.

My mother rolled her eyes at that. She told me she appreciated the sentiment.

I had chosen to wear a lovely shade of rosy pink, carefully draping my dupatta over my recently dyed hair in preparation to welcome his parents. My nerves were wound tighter than ever before; not even my final juries could stir up the level of anxiety that this evening tea had induced. My parents looked nervous themselves. My Dad kept eyeing the clock, waiting for them to arrive. They rang the doorbell an hour later than we had expected them. My Mum and Dad looked at each other and commented on the concerning punctuality – I could hear my Dad mutter “civilians” under his breath. Ammi lamented over the fact that the shortage of gas had led to her famous lasagna turning out drier than she had anticipated. I assured her it would not be a problem – it did, in fact, turn into a slight culinary concern.

After my parents had let them in, I went in to greet them. I had been instructed to go in with my sister. My sister rolled her eyes, but got out of bed to do the culturally respectable thing. Now that I had met a boy, the honor of the family lay on her head. She scoffed and called me dramatic.

I had set the table for tea. I cringed at myself for attempting to play the part of the respectable bahu. My hands easily flew around with the dishes, offering some and refilling others. My mother looked in horror at her lasagna. I finally sat down to see if I could make conversation with the auntie.

Clad in a long abayah, I wondered again if my matrimonial decisions would not turn into a cultural and religious prison of sorts – I had tried running from my father’s invasive values my entire life, and had landed myself into a family much like my own. Often hearing from women how zindagi sirf shaadi se pehle hi hoti hai, I controlled the panic lodged in my throat. I did not want to picture bitterness. I would not allow it to be a part of my life again.

Zain’s Dad: Hanji, yeh bas bachay apas mein mil liye. Ap ko pta hi hai.

My Dad: Ji, aisay hi hai kuch chakkar. Humari kahan ab bachay suntay hain?

Zain’s Mum: We used to wait for our baray to decide for us who to marry, things are now changing.

My Mum: Yes, kids are definitely more independent now.

My Dad: Yeh lasagne tou bilkul pathar ki tarhan hai!

My Mum: Gas ka itna masla hai, kya karain ab?

Throughout the evening, I remained glued to the door that led to the drawing room. Since I had been granted limited access to the gathering, it was imperative that I extracted every morsel of information I overheard through the glass, in order to pass it along to my soon-to-be-spouse.

Zain: What do you mean they’re laughing?

Me: They seem to be having a good time – I don’t know what it means.

Zain: Should we be worried?

Me: I am worried, yes. Maybe your Dad has pulled out his business dealing side. My Dad is not always easy to handle.

Zain: This is sort of like a business deal. Good point.

Me: I think they’re leaving now.

Zain: They’re coming home!!!

They took the longer route home from the updates I received on text. You need time to process that your son has found himself a woman without your knowing, and that you visited the family despite having eyed potential brides for him already. It requires a courageous heart to break free from the confines of deeply ingrained cultural norms and expectations.

My family was passively interested to see where things would go after the initial meeting. We all held our breath, waiting to observe the unfolding of events that would change our lives forever.

At this point, it's important to highlight that neither Zain nor I possessed a clear blueprint for how to navigate the uncharted waters that lay ahead. Once he had landed on Pakistani soil, ending a year of exchanging emotions and aspirations over the phone, I had wondered aloud what our next steps should be. Seated at a slightly weathered table in the cozy confines of Butler's Café, Zain and I had embarked on an intellectual adventure of our own.

We created Venn diagrams and assessed feasibility percentages on a sketching app on his phone, only to conclude that there was no rational way of predicting the events that would transpire. Our circumstances were too unique, too unprecedented. The only certainty we could grasp was that the path to our shared future would have to be navigated by stepping into the unknown, embracing the unpredictable twists and turns that would come our way.

Zain: Maybe we could meet each other ten years down the line and see how things stand then.

Me: I will never meet you again if things don’t work out.

Zain: Why not?

Me: I’m pretty sure my parents will keep setting me up with someone. They don’t want me to be 27 and afraid.

Zain: What does being afraid at 27 have to do with this?

Me: You really need to watch Pride and Prejudice.

Zain: We can still meet each other.

Looking back on that conversation even now, I'm left a bit puzzled. Did he really mean it as a joke, or did he genuinely think I'd leave the door open for someone who hadn't captured my heart? It seemed like a far-fetched notion. I wanted to tell him about my inclination toward Marianne's perspective, but it turned out he hadn't read any of Jane Austen's novels. I occasionally questioned the compatibility of my lifestyle with a man deeply entrenched in the tech world, wondering if the Bront? sisters would have approved.

My mother often tells me that I tend to become very dramatic with my thoughts. It's a reminder that perhaps I should tone down the vivid narratives that occasionally form in my mind. Even today.

Rule no. 6

Be Patient With The Parents

Baat krni mujhe mushkil kabhi aisi tou na thi, Jaisi ab hai teri mehfil kabhi aisi tou na thi.

-????????? Bahadar Shah Zafar

If any of my readers is familiar with the movie Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham, you will know what Zain means when he tells me his household resembled the scene where Shahrukh Khan brings home Kajol and announces to everyone that he has married her. Amitabh Bachchan’s parampara was at stake, and the introduction of a woman from not only a different social class but a whole caste entirely was enough for him to cut off ties with his son. In our toned-down version, the hero already lived in a far away land, and cutting ties made no sense over a matter that could find a more calculated resolution. My father-in-law laughs about how Zain first introduced me to him.

FIL: We were on our way back home. As I stood at a traffic light, Zain pulled out his phone and showed me a picture and said yeh hai larki.

Zain: That is not what happened.

FIL: That’s how I remember it.

Zain vividly remembers the indecision and worry that clouded his house after their meeting with my parents. Belonging to a very close-knit family, both financially and emotionally, marrying Zain would prove to be more complicated than I had imagined. I might have assumed before this that I knew what it meant when people say you marry the whole khandan and not just the individual, but it hit me then that I had never consciously felt how influential extensions could be. Reflecting on our own previous familial matters, many things that did not make sense to me before suddenly did. Moving to Lahore had come with a different set of challenges for my parents, and for us as their affected children.

Due to their internal dilemmas, Zain’s parents chose to not communicate again until after several weeks had passed by. When my mother called his mother to talk about the situation, she was asked to pray for the two individuals involved. While I will never be sure what it was that was exchanged between the two of them, my parents took it to mean the deal was off the table. His self-esteem bruised; my father took to pressuring me into marrying someone he had been asked to find a rishta for. I was adamant in my refusal.

Dad: Is she waiting for him?

Mum: Be patient.

Dad: Why should I be patient? Iski umar zaya hojaygi uska intezar krnay lag gaye tou. Jab wahan se baat khatam hai, tou pher khatam hai.

Mum: Let her go through this.

Dad: We should meet this family and see if they are appropriate. She is getting old now. She needs to marry.

Shortly after the parent-parent meeting, Zain flew back to the United States. He had moved to a nicer city than the one he had flown to the last time I met him. Due to the time constraints involved, my father and Zain were unable to meet before his departure. Strangely, the fact that Zain had publicly declared his desire to marry me in front of his own family did little to assuage my unease about the constancy of his presence in my life. The complexities of maintaining a long-distance relationship began to weigh heavily on both of us, as the geographical divide posed a formidable challenge.

We struggled to figure out the logistical intricacies of bridging the distance between us, adding fuel to my father's belief that this venture would end in disaster. Despite the apparent strain that my mental state was under, he staunchly adhered to his agenda of pushing me to meet individuals he had already approved of. I, on the other hand, continued to insist on Zain as the one who held my heart. Meanwhile, Zain grappled with the frustrating dilemma of not being physically present in the same country as the rest of us.

Gradually, the tension that had accumulated began to permeate the very air I breathed. I found myself refusing to speak with my father, withholding my emotions in the hope that he would discern the mounting stress and grant me the time I needed to process it all. Conversations with Zain took on an increasingly argumentative tone as we wrestled with the challenges of sustaining a meaningful connection amidst the physical distance that separated us. We lived parallel lives, only sharing a precious half-hour of conversation each day. How we chose to spend the remaining twenty-three and a half hours remained shrouded in uncertainty, and this ambiguity insidiously infiltrated the recesses of my mind where fear and insecurity threatened to come out victorious.

As time passed, my fear began to fester and grow, like a shadow that lengthens with the setting sun. The uncertainty of our future together and the mounting pressures on our relationship left me disturbed. I grappled with the gnawing doubts that had taken root within me, casting a pall of uncertainty over my once-confident heart.

Me: You have to ask your Dad to speak to mine. My Dad is getting out of control.

Zain: I don’t know what to say to him. He told me back then to think about things, and I don’t know what I think about anything. I can’t pretend to be sure of this.

Me: You have to assure your Dad – you can’t show him your uncertainty. If you don’t step up soon there is nothing that I can do to keep my Dad off my back. Sooner or later, he will give me away to some family, where I will have to adopt their lifestyles without even knowing the actual person that I will be having children with!

Zain: Krtay hain.

Frustrated, I would count down the many deadlines my parents would give me. Every time one approached closer, I would beg for an extension. This worked for a few months, until Zain’s father reached out and spoke to mine about the rishta.

My father decided to shoot him down. I was mortified.

FIL: So, we should meet and talk about our children.

My Dad: What about them?

Recognizing the precarious situation, I felt compelled to persuade my mother to take charge before my Dad's reluctance could potentially sabotage what had been set in motion. It was clear to me that dealing with my father in matters like these was far from easy, and there was no shortcut to circumvent the intricate process of gaining his acceptance. Consequently, I implored my mother to play a more active role in this delicate negotiation. She took on the task of urging him to meet with Zain's father. Simultaneously, she offered me a crucial piece of advice, a reminder to grant my father the space he needed and to refrain from blaming him for circumstances beyond his control.

As the oldest daughter who had repeatedly jumped over obstacles that her own family had placed in her path, it was only natural for me to feel a simmering mix of anger and resentment. However, I resolved to suppress these emotions, hoping for a positive outcome.

Yet, despite the anticipation, the situation continued to remain in limbo. My father steadfastly refused to engage in phone conversations with Zain, demanding an in-person meeting as the only acceptable means of assessing the rishta. This standoff prompted an agonizing waiting game, leaving all parties involved to ponder who would yield first: my father, with his unwavering resolve, or Zain's precarious visa situation. The passage of time brought with it a growing sense of hopelessness as I reluctantly began to give up on the prospect of any resolution.

The helplessness I experienced increased when my father, under the weight of his stubborn principles, lost his job. It felt as if the universe itself had conspired against the already complex backdrop of our lives, leaving me wrestling with more than what I could handle. I realized that, despite the love that filled my heart, it had its limitations; it couldn't sway the decisions of the U.S. government or soften my father's resolute stance. The turbulent circumstances continued to cast their shadow, making the path forward more uncertain and the emotional toll increasingly heavy.

Me: Can we talk about this rishta? Talking about it can make it easier to find a solution.

My Dad: You know what they say about a man who has lost his job? That it is the equivalent of losing his partner. Do you think I can talk about the disgusting act you have committed?

Me: I did not do anything remotely disgusting. I am trying to talk to you about something that happened, is that not the right way to go about things?

Dad: Sab kuch hi ulta karlo. Paisay kama lo, humay khud larka bhe la kr do – koi cheez seedhi ki hai tumne?

Me: There’s nothing wrong in anything I have done.

The conversation continued, emotional blackmail ft. religious teachings. Aisay tou humne bara nhi kya tha apnay bachon ko. Yeh kaisay hogaya. Humari izzat mitti mein mila di. Yeh din dekhnay say pehle mein doob kr mar kyun nhi gaya.

Resolute in my decision not to surrender to the overwhelming sentiment that had gripped the room, I rose from my chair and quietly exited, leaving behind the stifling atmosphere. There was a limit to the emotional turmoil I could endure in a single sitting. Dealing with my father's disapproval was a task that would have to wait for another day, when I could summon the fortitude to confront him. In the meantime, it fell upon my mother's shoulders to persist in her tireless efforts to bridge the chasm between her daughter and the man she had chosen to marry. My mother, a truly resilient soul, dedicated herself wholeheartedly to this challenging endeavor, even as it exacted a heavy toll on her own emotional well-being.

Our household continued to revolve in a monotonous cycle, marked by repetitive conversations that seemed to lead nowhere. The elusive moments of enlightenment and the much-awaited breakthroughs remained elusive, like distant stars in a dark night sky. My sister, weary of the ever-present tension that pervaded our home, longed for respite. However, I, with a rebellious spirit and a desire to shake things up, had grander plans. My long-held fascination with all things European had finally burst forth from its dormant state. An opportunity arose that I could not resist, a chance to immerse myself in the rich history and culture of Spain. I had successfully secured a spot in a program that would allow me to work with an ancient monastery nestled in a remote Spanish town. To say that I was overjoyed would be an understatement.

Ayma: Tum itnay pangay kyun le rahi ho aik saath.

Me: Maza ata hai.

My sister's influence in my life was not a discouraging one, quite the contrary. For as long as I could remember, she had consistently been an unwavering and enthusiastic supporter of my endeavors. Her unflagging encouragement had often served as a powerful catalyst, helping me to access opportunities and navigate challenges. However, the dynamic of our sisterhood, while incredibly special, was not without its complexities. Our lives were inextricably intertwined, and the choices we made had a profound impact on one another.

Rule no. 7

Be Patient With The Grandparents

Us gali nay ye sun kay sabr kiya, Jaane valay yahan kay thay hi nahin.

-????????? Jaun Eliya

To many non-South Asian readers, this rule might sound a bit strange – you have to not only battle your parents, but also your grandparents? How tragic. I assume many cultures have similar values, but most of my sources surrounding matrimonial traditions have been from Hollywood. My most recent study on an interracial wedding was “My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding”, where I sympathized with the protagonist on a deeper level than I would have at any other stage in life.

My grandparents are a colorful mix. My maternal grandmother, on the one hand, popped up a new rishta every time she saw me, very proud of the rich, educated bachelors she would find for me. The latest had been a civil servant from a rich, politically influential family in Faisalabad, and while I am sure the man himself would be tolerable, I did not see myself moving to Faisalabad. Lahoris do not in general like Faisalabad. It is an unspoken, racist rule, one that will take its sweet time to extricate itself from our modern minds. My Nano, which is what I call her, would be disappointed every time I shook her head. She was offering me various good options. I would have a good, fulfilling life, never feeling the lack of money or prestige. I thanked her repeatedly. But I could never say yes to any of the profiles she had saved on her old iPhone.

My maternal grandfather, my Nanabu, was not very concerned about getting me married off. He might have been the only grandparent who took an avid interest in my career, and would have been proud to see the kind of women his daughter raised. A firm believer in hard work, he would have liked seeing the way my sister and I have always struggled towards higher goals, always aiming for more than we have achieved. Sadly, he passed away before he saw me wed. I dreamed about him around the time of my wedding, and I like to believe he had been there in spirit. I can never seem to wrap my head around the finality of death. It is a reality we have no choice but to cope with.

My story does not dwell on death, and so I shall move forward.

My paternal grandfather, or my Dadabu, happened to be a conservative, traditional man. One who frowned upon the idea of women going to co-educational institutes and then working alongside men. Luckily, his beliefs did not permeate entirely into my life, and I was able to study and work despite the inconvenient existence of the opposite sex. My paternal grandmother, my Dadi, passed away a long time before I was born.

When the truth behind my rishta came out, I knew there would be some interesting reactions from my Nano and my Dadabu. My Nano, privy to the developments of my case, initially became very excited to see her granddaughter married off. Most of our relatives had expressed a great happiness at the news – I was known to be the black sheep in the family who refused to get married, and I had finally submitted to the desi ritual that governed most of our lives. I do not understand the obsession with marrying off your spawn; not only do those who are married away frequent family gatherings less often, but they also tend to not be able to stay in contact as much as they would like to. The cycle of life continues despite the geographical changes and temporal advancement, I suppose. Time really does wait for no one.

So, on receiving the news that her granddaughter would finally be able to lose her virginity the classical style, my Nano took to her prayer mats to plead for my case with God. She would forward me many types of prayers that were meant to help unmarried girls. I cannot admit to whether I opened all of her messages, but it was nice to know I had her on my side. She would call me every few days to ask if there had been any positive progress, and whether I needed her physical presence to make a louder statement.

I assured her everything would be okay. When the rishta was near completion, she set out to find the perfect mukaish jora for me, and made me drive her around Lahore for her to be able to do so. By the end of the week, I knew all the shops in Lahore that sold the right and wrong kinds of mukaish. If anything, shopping for my wedding was a very educational experience.

My Dadabu, on the other hand, would find little spots in our mutual time where we could converse without anyone else interfering. He would tell me to be more respectful of family traditions, and that while two of my cousins had introduced the concept of a “pasand ki shaadi” into our khandaan, it did not mean that we had accepted it as a respectful reality. I would nod my head and smile, knowing I had no other valid response. I had put everyone in my family in a delicate position. While they had been begging me to get married before I turned too old – any number above the age of twenty-two was too old – they were now in a stranger predicament than they had predicted for themselves. I refused to marry if I could not be wed to the person I had chosen. Should the families involved disagree on the match, my parents would have the bad luck of a single daughter whose eggs were running out. The biological clock game is a very strong argument in the world of South Asian reproduction – although with most of the planet now infiltrated with people from our area, I would not worry about our species dying out any time soon.

Mum: That’s what a lot of people your age think. That’s why the oldies worry that we will. Although I agree with you – there are way too many of us to go extinct.

My mother had to sit through many intense discussions revolving around my impending marital state. If our family chose to go ahead with this marriage, I would not be giving birth to further our own clan. The difference in castes would mean I would effectively become one of them.

Mum: They are good people – it’s okay if she does. She is still our daughter!

Dadabu: Family dynamics are a complicated thing, beta. There is a lot we do not know about the family.

He was right; neither of the two families had any information on the other. Using their own intelligence devices, both had collected data on one another, trying to decipher the kind of family they would be joining their child with. While this is a common thing parents might expect in the land of the USA, where it is not against the law to find a spouse on your own, in Pakistan, it is a trickier ordeal. My mother spent many long hours agonizing over the debate, where my grandfather attempted to try and balance his morals with sentiments that the situation required.

These conversations often took place behind closed doors. After dinner, my Dadabu would signal for my mother, who would lead him into a separate room so as to keep my thirsty ears from listening in. I, however, found my ways around the situation. I would tiptoe my way out of the kitchen door, and then slowly crouch underneath the windows. I believe I was almost caught once, when I heard someone walk to the window and firmly push it shut.

Rule no. 8

Pick Your Battles

Hum aman chahtay hain magar zulm kay khilaf, Gar jang lazmi hai tou pher jang hi sahi.

-????????? Sahir Ludhianvi

Needless to say, my father's reaction to my decision to pursue this opportunity was more one of agitation than pride, a sentiment all too common in many South Asian families. The prevailing ethos in our culture often doesn't celebrate individualistic achievements unless it's an accomplishment announced by the family's financial head. For the majority of us, the concept of encouraging our loved ones to independently propel themselves forward remains a rare phenomenon, as many families are still ensnared in the same traditional cycles that have persisted for generations. It's a sad reminder of how deep-seated attitudes continue to plague parent-child relationships, perpetuating the age-old expectations of conformity.

I often wonder when exactly Pakistan will take the decisive step to put an end to this multi-generational trauma. It appears that the nation's priorities are currently more focused on projecting a dubious image to the world rather than heeding to the cries of its own individuals who yearn for change.

Amidst these cultural and patriarchal challenges, most women, particularly those on the precipice of marriage, receive a sage piece of advice that acts as a lifeline, preserving their sanity in times of uncertainty. As a member of this select group, I too was privileged to be privy to these words of wisdom a few years after I passed the age of 20. The wisdom was imparted over a steaming cup of tea, as our extended family gathered for our monthly dinner, a tradition that brought us all together more often than I would like to be part of.

Auntie: Beta, aik kaan se suno karo baatein, aur dusray say nikal dya karo.

Me: Ji, jaisa ap kehti hain – aik minute, kya?

Auntie: Yeh dunya mushkil hai. Log apka khayal nhi karaingay kabhi. Isiliye keh rahi hun; jo krna hai zindagi mein, jo banna hai, vo bano. Lekin jitni baatein sunni paraingi, unko dusray kaan se nikalnay ki adat daal dena.

During another vulnerable moment in my life, my mother once again offered the same invaluable advice. It was during one of our cherished evening tea sessions that we had the opportunity to delve into the more nuanced aspects of our womanhood. As we sat there, our conversation flowed as smoothly as the tea that poured into our vibrant, striped mugs—brown and sweet. In the subtle shifts of her expression, I could see the emotions that lay hidden behind her eyes as she recounted her own life's journey. She shared the profound fear that had trailed her throughout her existence, the countless regrets that accumulated from not pursuing certain opportunities that might have paved a better path for her. She described the transformation she underwent, gradually shedding the timidity imposed on her by societal design, and finding the courage to express her anger at being overlooked and dismissed.

Mama: Everyone grows up and has regrets. You should always remember to take control of your own life – it has a very sneaky way of passing you by very quickly.

Her words echoed within the emptier chambers of my heart, the chambers that are yet to experience the myriad of emotions that she has already felt and left behind. What resonated with me more was the realization that life really does pass by, unsympathetic to where you stand. Never giving you the opportunity to sit still and plan your next few minutes, because those few minutes will be gone by the time you’ve rehearsed for them. And so, when the number of days to my trip began dropping the way mosquitos do when they find themselves seduced into electrocution, I knew I would have to act fast.

Several weeks elapsed before my father acknowledged properly that I was to go away for a few days. He had warned me about my stubbornness, reminding me it was not a trait becoming of a good wife. As yet unsure about my wifely status, I chose to ignore his comments and finalized the itinerary. I would arrive in Madrid and make my way to my designated small town by bus. While the entire stay exceeded in every way any expectations I had set from it - I had never set any in the first place - what is more relevant to the story at hand is the parent-free week I managed to spend with Zain.

For my last week, he flew in from the US to spend a few days together. I did not know how to feel about our plan. He did not either. The distance between us had increased exponentially with time. The stagnancy of our situation demotivated any urgency we might have felt about being reunited; I remained disappointed in the way our families delayed any conversation regarding our relationship. Standing on the precipice of giving up, the idea of spending a week together seemed, at the very least, odd. Nevertheless, we found the strength to push forward, determined to see our plan through. The prospect of this reunion, while daunting, held the promise of restoring a connection that time and distance had taken a toll on, and we were willing to take that leap of faith.

Instead, that week turned out to be one of the most unforgettable and cherished moments in my life. We spent our days strolling through the charming town, engrossed in conversations that spanned the spectrum of my recent experiences. We delved into discussions about the intricacies of my work, the captivating architecture that adorned the town, the difficult-to-navigate language barrier, and even the fascinating historical perspective that painted a picture of how people in Spain had, for centuries, considered Arabs to be the adversary. This historical perspective was contrary to the narrative we were accustomed to hearing in the Muslim world, where the story often unfolded from the opposite vantage point.

Zain: So, they paint pictures beheading the Arabs?

Me: Yes! They’ve even got a leader who used to be a shepherd and then led them to victory through battle with the Arabs. A lot of their stories are like ours, but reversed. It’s very intriguing.

Zain: It is.

I wanted Zain to tell me how he felt about me. How he could not imagine life without me by his side, and how it had been a lonely life knowing we could only ever talk on the phone. I had to remind myself he had not read the classics. He would speak to me as a contemporary, partially woke, independent man. I would receive his logical rationales from underneath the insecurities that coated my judgment, knowing I understood his standing perfectly well and yet was incapable of providing a satisfactory solution. We would have to form a serious decision about whether we would be able to move forward with our lives together or without each other - and then we would stick to it with determination.

When the week ended, we had still not decided on one option. Both were too drastic in their own ways.

Zain: Mein idhr kisi balcony se chalang mar deta hun.

Me: Mein bhe mar deti hun.

We had been walking along the narrow, cobblestone pathway that curved upwards to the only restaurant in town, the stones noticeable under our feet as they softly molded around the cracks and jagged spikes. The magnetic lattice doors that preceded the more cultural wooden ones reminded me of home, and I wondered why houses that belonged to richer people seldom preferred the inclusion of practical elements such as these. We had found ourselves in a similar situation. We had decided to forego the more practical path because we had had the liberty of choice.

In our long-distance relationship, I had often found myself caught in a whirlwind of agonizing emotions. The physical distance between Zain and myself became a constant reminder of our separation, and the ache of missing his touch, his scent, and his presence, a daily torment. The simple act of hearing his voice or seeing his face on a screen would calm down my heart, yet it simultaneously accentuated the emptiness that lingered. My heart yearned for the warmth of his embrace, and for the shared experiences that create a relationship in the first place.

Everything had happened the other way around – couples in Pakistan did not fall in love before they vowed to spend their time together, it was the vow to live with each other that made one fall into love. As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, the relentless tug of time zones and miles apart intensified the pain, making every moment apart a reminder of the love I held dear but could never fully grasp. The struggle to stay connected, to maintain trust, and to believe in the promise of a future together turned into a test of my resilience, leaving me clinging to the hope of our union.

The only problem was that I could not find in myself the courage to voice everything I felt. The two of us flew out of Spain to our respective countries, back to living our own lives. My days became bland. Not even the possibility of an impending pay raise at work helped to cheer my spirits.

I began counting down the days to Zain’s arrival. He had decided to take the risk of flying out of the US on his expired visa. If the embassy in Pakistan refused to stamp his passport again, he could potentially sabotage the future he had spent so many years making for himself.

Rule no. 9

When Push Comes To Shove, Lower Your Defenses And Ask For Help

Puch letay vo bas mizaj mera, Kitna azan tha ilaaj mera.

-????????? Fahmi Badayuni

The day Zain landed on Pakistani soil, again, was the day of my friend’s wedding. I had immersed myself in the rituals her family practiced, loudly joining in with the cousins and aunties as they prepared to send away another of their womenfolk. Her rukhsati happened to take place closer to her family than to her husband’s, which turned into a joke in itself about whose rukhsati it actually was. Ignoring the hurtful sentiments that had bubbled up after conversations with my own father, I grew closer to my friend’s Dad, with whom I enjoyed a shared obsession of chocolate.

The wedding could not last forever, sadly, and I was plunged into my own life relatively soon after I had to detach myself from hers. My parents were unable to hide their worry and frustration with the situation, which tore me apart on the inside and enshrouded me in a dense cloak of guilt. The escapist tendencies that I leaned towards as a young girl occasionally threatened to return. This time, however, I could financially afford the bus ticket to Karachi to run away from all the matters that ate away my sanity. I used to think all I needed was money to achieve the kind of independence I craved. No amount of financial security could fix the problem at hand. I was helpless; all I could do was wait for a decision to be made.

Dad: This is not a man you can rely on for your life, Dania, he will choose his career over you every time.

Me: At least he won’t blame me for never achieving all he set out to do.

Dad: I do not blame you – I had to spend my life to provide for my family. I had to give up all the things I could do. For my family. I could have been more.

Me: You should have done them first, then.

My mother would roll her eyes at our conversations. She had heard them enough times to remain unbothered every time either of us began – her brain had adapted to solving sudoku puzzles even in the midst of loud arguments.

One day, the phone rang. It was Zain’s father. He wanted to meet with Dad. Zain would also be present at this meeting. It would be the first time my father and Zain would see each other in the flesh. I remained on edge for the entire evening, walking around the house in fervent anticipation of the black smoke that would puff outside their trio. My mother found it all very amusing. She had spent many weeks being supportive of the union, always willing to let me talk her ears weary. With three weeks into Zain’s visit flown past, she began having doubts about the wedding herself.

Mum: How will we ever manage planning a wedding in less than a month? I was optimistic before, because I know all the places to go to when you plan one, but I think we’re stretching it really thin with the timeline now.

Me: You can’t give up on this. You’re the only person who still hasn’t. We will make this happen. I’ll plan it myself.

Mum: We’ll plan it together. Hojayga.

That day, when Dad drove home after his meeting, will always be etched in my memory. They had finally agreed to hold the wedding. The gravity of the decision that had just been made weighed heavily on my person. In less than a month, I would be a married woman. Excitement shimmered in the eyes of my parents, yet it was interwoven with threads of nervousness, sorrow, and a sense of being adrift in unfamiliar waters. This was the day they would have to bid a bittersweet farewell to their daughter, a moment that had been years in the making. After years of telling me how my mother had given birth to two children and managed a household at my age, they would finally be sending me off to “run a household” of my own. My phone pinged.

Zain: No more sneaking around in your Mehran.

My trusty Mehran had not just been a mode of transportation through the bustling streets of Gulberg; it had also been a silent witness to those precious moments when we dared to join our hands together. Among these memories, the first time I had mustered the courage to gently squeeze Zain's hand remains etched in my heart as one of my favorites.

It had happened while we were idling at a red traffic signal, waiting for our turn to proceed through the intersection. Briefly letting go of my grip on the steering wheel, I had allowed my fingertips to wander in search of his hand, finding it as he fiddled with the handbrake. The instant I felt the warmth of his skin against mine, I could sense a subtle transformation in him. He seemed to melt into his seat, his vulnerability on full display in that fleeting moment. It was as though his heart had momentarily bared itself to me, unburdened by any fa?ade or pretense. His emotional honesty endeared him to me more than ever.

Me: No more hiding in my office building.

To provide a better context of the situation, allow me to delve into the intricacies of our office's peculiar routine. It had become our custom to take refuge within the secluded confines of various rooms within the office building before the daily wave of employees washed in, each footstep signaling the impending hustle and bustle of the workday. These brief interludes had become our sanctuary, the only oasis where we could engage in unguarded, honest conversations without the fear of prying eyes or judgmental glances. However, the tranquility of our clandestine conversations was shattered just a week prior to my decision to submit my resignation.

On that fateful day, a representative from the management office made an unexpected appearance on our floor. An air of apprehension hung in the atmosphere, brought about by rumors that had been circulating. Whispers spoke of immoral activities occurring on our floor, and this specter of suspicion had prompted the higher-ups to take action. A mission was launched to unmask the culprits and eradicate the perceived misconduct that threatened the workplace's harmony. To add a twist to the unfolding drama, the alleged source of this moral discord was claimed to be a female colleague, intensifying the intrigue and making the impending investigation all the more significant.

My team: That’s not possible – we stay away from that kind of trouble. We do not indulge in matters so unethical and dishonorable to our culture.

I joined their nods and gasps at being accused of something so wicked.

Zain: No more running away from people in your building.

We had found solace on the rooftops of the buildings in my community, carving out our own private haven amidst the urban sprawl. However, only a week later, a circular was being distributed throughout the neighborhood, alerting residents to the presence of two individuals who were surreptitiously moving about the society. In no time, the finger of suspicion had pointed squarely at the bachelors occupying the apartment directly above ours. I, too, had decided to join the neighborhood in collectively disapproving of the actions of these unmarried men, deeming them as contributors to the supposed moral decay in our family-friendly locality.

Me: No more forcing me to meet potential husbands.

I'd been introduced to more potential suitors than I cared to count. The most recent encounter had taken place at a wedding, where an enthusiastic auntie had cornered me with the aim of establishing a connection between her son and me. According to her, he needed to straighten up his life, just as I had managed to do. She seemed to believe that I could work my magic to secure him a better job, leveraging my experience in my own field. As she saw it, we could also use this opportunity to get better acquainted. I politely but swiftly extricated myself from the situation. There was no way I was going to assume the role of a mentor to her son on the path to becoming an eligible husband.

Back at the office, my team lead had a good laugh at my expense. He often remarked on how the women in our office found it challenging to compromise on the kind of marriages they were willing to enter. In a workspace where women were the majority, our office was not just a comfortable environment to work in, but also demanded long hours from us, often at the expense of our social lives. Those demanding hours, however, yielded substantial returns. We earned considerably more than most young architects in our vicinity, and our manager in turn looked after us. He correctly assumed that our marital standards would become different to those around us – a dilemma that many professional women find themselves in. I had, however, secured a better man than I had ever hoped to find.

Zain: No more Data Sahib ki duain.

Me: Hey, Data Sahib works.

The week preceding Zain’s latest visit to Pakistan had seen me visiting Data Sahib for the first time in my life. As someone who proudly owns her Lahori heritage, I had been ashamed of the fact that I had never been there. So, on a random day out with my cousin, I found myself looking for a safe space to park outside the shrine.

I was surprised by how clean it was, despite being one of the busiest places in the city. My grandmother had taken me to shrines before, especially the one attributed to Mian Mir Sahib that was particularly close to her heart. In a way, I felt a closeness to her in doing so, as if I could make people who I no longer am able to meet often come alive through deliberate actions of my own. I do not mention this incident due to my mortal connections. It was here that a random woman led my cousin and me to the site of the grave itself, where she gave us “blessed” flowers so as to help us find good men to marry. While the two of us had laughed as we soaked the roses in water and clinked our glasses together, it was only a few weeks after that that we announced my wedding. And it happened to be a few months after that, that she announced her own.

And so kicked off one of the craziest times of my life. In the mere span of three weeks, we pulled off a wedding spectacle. We scored the perfect open-air venue, snagged a dreamy Rajput wedding dress, were blessed with the sunniest day in the middle of January for the event, and still found pockets of time to relax with our beloved chai in the crisp Lahore winter. Of course, it wasn't all smooth sailing. It took us several days of relentless dress designer hunting to find someone willing to work on such short notice. Just a week before the baraat was set to arrive, our wedding venue did a disappearing act and canceled on us. What was meant to be a harmonious family lunch turned into a full-fledged family feud over the guest list. In the midst of all this chaos, I found myself shedding mascara-stained tears just moments before my engagement.

A question that follows us everywhere, even several months into our marriage, is how we really met. I always tell people it was God’s will. There is nothing you can say to refute that statement. A people adamant on following puritanical religious values, shedding holy light onto your union defers questions that might be perceived as blasphemous. When one keeps their mind receptive to cultural education, one figures out the loopholes to take advantage of.

My relationship with my father remained as rocky as ever, a turbulent connection that still keeps me on my toes. It wasn't until many months after the wedding that the full impact of my move really sunk in. Most days, it feels like I'm in a transitional state, half-expecting to return to my old home and find my mother doing her daily chores while sharing anecdotes with the cleaning lady. But I've come to realize that it's my turn now. Sooner than I'm prepared for, I'll be the one creating a new home for someone else. Life has a funny way of forcing us to take a conscious and introspective journey. The important thing is that I've arrived where I wanted to be – in a café, absorbed in my writing, free from the weight of my father's judgments, eagerly awaiting my husband's return so we can head home together, chat about our day, watch some TV, and share a cozy dinner.

Rule no. 10

Enjoy Yourselves. To Be Given A Shot At A Happy Life Is The Luckiest Chance One Can Have. There Is Nothing Greater.

Hosh valon ko khabar kya bekhudi kya cheez hai, Ishq kijiye pher samjhiye zindagi kya cheez hai.

-????????? Nida Fazli

The End