Two Weeks Later
September 27th, 2019
Madiha
"Madi, I wasn't lying", he said in an irritated voice, "I just woke up late and was disoriented, but I did pray Fajr. I'll talk to your father myself and admit that I made a mistake. So just let it go. Ok?"
That is what Jawad had said when I confronted him on the phone, just hours before my family was showered with bouquets of flowers and a cake that said 'I am sorry'.
"Madiha beta, it sounds possible to me. He said he was praying Fajr but you know sometimes people pray Fajr late. That's not a reason to call off a Nikah. God knows we've all missed our prayers now and again"
This is what Abu had said when I went to him later that evening.
"Come on Madiha. Excuses karna bus karo. Kabhi na kabhi tou tum ne shaadi karni hai. Dekho woh sorry bhi keh raha hai"
(Stop making excuses. You will have to marry his some day. Look he is even saying sorry)
That was Ami when she overheard me complaining to Abu.
And I was back to square one, where Jawad was two steps ahead of me and I felt shackled to a life I had no control over. On the face of it everything was as it should be in a shaadi wala ghar on the eve of the Nikah. Our house though small and in a simple middle-class neighborhood was brimming with friends and family, as much as it was with bouquets of carnations and chrysanthemums. Food was being offered to anyone who had even had an iota of space left in their stomachs, after being fed by my mother all day long. She was stressed and she took it all out in the kitchen and on poor Maliha and Moin who were tasked with helping her.
My father was busy in keeping up face in front of Jawad's family. I didn't blame him. His extended family was finally visiting from Pakistan after 30 years. Sure, they were his cousins and not his own siblings, who had refused to let my father bear the financial burden of airfare between Pakistan and US.
Yet, they were family. The only ties he had to a country he had left behind almost thirty years ago with a two suitcases, a newlywed wife and a dreamy vision to make something of himself in a foreign land. Looking around our house that evening, and despite the impending doom I felt weighing me down, I had to admit that my father had achieved what he wanted.
Financial stability, and children that had accomplished more than most of his relatives back home.
Abu was the star of his family now. A fact that was well appreciated by Jawad's family as they heaped praised on my parents. My parents glowed in response and I kept my façade on, because I had never seen my parents this happy.
I couldn't be the oldest daughter who broke their heart. Especially, when the only thing that held me back was a fleeting sense of comfort wrapped in a warm hug and whispered words. But that was all a mirage. I knew that now, and I willed myself to be ok with letting it go.
Though, even as one of my mother's friends put henna on my hands cracks were developing in the façade that I had so bravely put on. Defiance seeped in. Courage took a hold.
Drop the act, a voice told me.
Just then Jawad sauntered in through the front door along with a man who I recognized as the friend in Chicago who had recently gotten married. Dressed in black shalwar kameez, Jawad's straight black hair was gelled back to perfection and his clean shaven aristocratic features might as well have put a spotlight on him straight from heaven.
I watched as my parents greeted him, and then his own parents. I heard too the whispers of the Aunties who sat next to me.
"MashaAllah itna gora chitta khoobsurat larka dhoonda hai Fariha ne apni beti ke liye", one of my mother's friends said. (Fariha has found such a fair skinned, beautiful man for her daughter)
"Haan leikin beti ka rang tou itna sanwla hai. Itni ajeeb jori lage gi", another one replied. (Yes, but the daughter is so dark skinned. It'll be such an odd couple)
It was almost funny that I didn't even flinch at those comments. I had been hearing them for most of my life, and now my walls were so thick they didn't scorch me the way they used to.
What wasn't funny though was the moment my gaze met his. Jawad was standing across the room, still surrounded by the Aunties and Uncles, when he looked at me. His grey eyes narrowed, his lips turned up into a smirk. And he scoffed.
Like he had just won a deadly game.
What the heck was that?
I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed that silent look he had just given me, but everyone else was busy chatting in their own little circles. My gaze shifted back to him, but that look was gone, instead replaced by a wide relaxed smile and deep sensuous laugh as he stood next to my parents and siblings.
This was the version of him that I thought I was marrying when I first met him, and accepted his proposal. But today as I watched him seamlessly switch from that narcissistic stare he had given me to everyone's golden boy it seemed like a smokescreen was lifting.
He is hiding something, wasn't just an intuition anymore. I could see it in front of my eyes, even if I couldn't prove it just yet.
Abu walked with him to the sofa I was sitting on, and the Aunties around me cleared the way.
"Assalam Alaikum", he said in the deep voice that would make my heart flutter in the past. Now it just made glare at him.
"Salaam karo Madi beta", Abu's gently nudged me. (Say salaam)
"Walaikum Asalaam", I replied flatly.
He took a seat next to me, but before either of us could say a word the Aunties flocked around him. They heaped praise on him, asked him questions about his MBA, and his working at a high profile bank in New York.
"I am just about to graduate with honors from my MBA program then I'll be able to work full time and earn a 7 figure salary", he told one Aunty.
While another remarked, "He is so handsome and has brains. MashaAllah, MashaAllah", then turned to me, "Madiha you are so lucky. Take care of him"
A third tried to ask him a question discreetly, but I heard it anyway.
"Do you have any brothers? I have a very beautiful, fair-skinned daughter at home, ready to get married. She is college educated but is more interested in raising a family and supporting her husband"
"He is an only child", I responded for Jawad.
She looked embarrassed and walked away. Jawad chuckled and leaned in, I smelt an odd fruity scent. It wasn't his cologne.
"Did I sense you being jealous Doctor Madiha?", he jeered.
"In your dreams", I hissed back.
"As if ... be the one ... dream about", I thought I heard him say under his breath.
"What did you say?", I raised my voice slightly.
His eyes narrowed, "You look beautiful tonight", he said slowly. The measured cadence of his voice hid the icy depths of his grey orbs.
To those around us it seemed that my fiancé had just complimented me in front of an audience. There were oohs and awws and giggles heard. Perhaps in the past I too would not have been able to look past his dazzling smile. But an intern had unknowingly taught me the sound of sincerity. What I had heard just then was anything but.
"What do you want from me?", I asked when we were finally left alone.
"Everything you have and more", he whispered in my ear.
*******
Dinner was served.
Piping hot curries, mouth-watering biryani, vegetables bursting with flavor, all set among an array of salads, condiments and breads. There was more food that anyone could eat. Most of it was home made, a cost saving technique as much as an opportunity for my mother to showcase her culinary skills in front of her husband's side of the family, presumably soon to be my in-laws.
But the one thing they teach you in Medicine very early on is to refrain from making presumptive diagnosis until you have exhausted all avenues to gather evidence. Jawad's whispered threat wasn't the evidence that I could run to Abu with. I needed something iron-clad.
As I looked around the room, I realized there was an avenue I hadn't yet explored. I walked over to him with a plate of fresh crisp parathas, the perfect host that I was.
"Azhar Bhai congratulations on your recent marriage", I told Jawad's friend who had been standing in the corner ever since he had entered our house with him.
"Oh thank you Bhabi", the man said nervously, his eyes darted across the room. I remained unnerved.
"I didn't get your wife's name"
"Sand- Sarah", he replied without looking at me, and felt the need to reiterate his wife's name, "Her name is Sarah"
"And what do you do?"
"I'm a-uh-a work in the tech industry", he took a bite of the paratha I had placed on his plate and noted the same odd smell near him that I smelled near Jawad. It took me a moment to realize what it was.
But it wouldn't be enough. This man and his nervousness and monosyllable answers were intriguing though.
I pushed him further, "So where did you and Jawad meet?"
"New York"
"In university?"
"Yes"
"When did you graduate?"
"2017"
He's an idiot, I thought to myself, and a liar like his friend.
"Interesting, because Jawad didn't join New York University for his MBA till 2018. Before that he was in Pakistan"
His eyes widened and lips parted like he was about to say something when I felt a hand on the waist, and swung around to face the man who had no business placing his hands on me right now. My discomfort was enjoyment for him. It was written all over the sadistic smile on his face.
"I see you've met my friend", Jawad said.
I stepped back from both men, "Its odd you didn't introduce me to him earlier"
Azhar quickly intervened before his friend could respond, "I've eaten a lot, can we step out from some fresh air."
Jawad glared at me but walked out with his friend through our front door. I looked around to make sure that no one was observing me and followed suit. I was absolutely sure I would find them hidden in a corner vaping. That was the fruity scent that I had smelled before, and had recognized it from patients I interacted with in clinic and the ER.
I prayed that they were also snorting drugs. A video of that would do for me what vaping alone could never do. My parents still thought vaping was far, far better than smoking, no matter how many times I told them otherwise.
Their voices reached me before I saw them on the side of the house, leaning against the chain-linked fence partially hidden from view by the evergreen shrubs my mother was so proud of. I turned my phone on to record them, in case they brought out those packets of white powder.
They never did. In fact I didn't even catch them vaping.
But I caught so much more: a conversation that would destroy any shred of dignity I had left.
*******
"What happened Madiha?", Abu asked me, his tired voice full of concern.
"Madiha, stop doing this drama and come back downstairs with us. Kya kahein ge sub log?", Ami whispered harshly. (What are people going to say?)
I just sat on my bed, feeling completely numb. Till words finally came out.
"I refuse to marry Jawad"
Ami slapped her forehead, "Again with this nonsense", she started to say when I played back what I had heard.
Azhar: "Man you need to calm down a bit. She is a smart woman, she's going to figure out what you're doing if you keep antagonizing her"
Jawad: "She's not that smart. Besides I have her family wrapped around my pinky, and she's too much of a coward to do anything against their wishes"
There was a long pause, interrupted only but the crickets chirping. Ami opened her mouth to speak again when Abu gestured to her to stay quiet. His brows furrowed and he came to sit next to me on the bed and put an arm around my shoulder drawing me closer.
It was the support I needed so desperately in that moment. The recording had just started and I was sure I couldn't make it through it a second time without burying my head in my father's arm.
Azhar: "You could have avoided all of this if you'd just listen to me"
Jawad: "Listen to you and get married to a white woman? My parents would never have let me"
Azhar: "What difference does it make who you get married to, as long as they are an American citizen? Sure Sandra wanted a few thousand dollars to sign on a sheet of paper, but I'll get my green card in the next three months, then we'll get divorced and I am a free man again"
Jawad: "Well you are too shortsighted my friend"
Azhar: "What do you mean? Don't tell me you have true ishq with her or something"
Jawad scoffed, "Shakal dekhi hai uski. Kali churail jaisi, with a ghonsla on top of her head. She couldn't even straighten that freaky hair of her for today" (Have you seen her face? A black witch with a nest on top)
Azhar: "Her sister is pretty though"
Jawad: "You think I haven't noticed. I told my parents to send a rishta for Maliha, instead they went after the old hag", he paused, "But this is better for me in the long run"
Azhar laughed, "Oh I get it, the kali churail and old hag is a doctor who will earn more than you ever will now that you've flunked out of uni. She is a literal cash cow for you who will pay for your night long rendezvous in bars"
Jawad: "That is an insult to cows"
I had slipped away from there after that but could still picture both men doubling over with laughter. Every syllable they uttered felt like daggers through my heart, and pin pricks ripping apart my skin. Even the thick walls I had built over years weren't enough to prevent the physical pain his words had caused.
Every time I looked in the mirror I saw the undesirable physical qualities I had. I had known that since I was 8 years old. Till that age, every time some desi aunty at the mosque we frequently visited said that I looked like my dad, I used to fill with pride. I loved my dad, he was my hero in so many ways.
But by 8 years of age, I had learned enough Urdu to understand that when the women said, "Haye bechari bilkul baap jaisi lagti hai, wohi kaala rang, wohi ajeeb se baal. Ami to itni khoobsurat hai (Oh poor thing, she looks just like her dad, the same dark color, the same weird hair. The mother is so pretty)" they were not complimenting me, rather there was something very, very wrong with me.
I remember coming home from the mosque one night in tears, and my mother trying to console me as she asked why I was crying. I had kept quiet, afraid that if I told her she would not love me either because of my dark skin and weird hair. That was the first night that I had lay awake sobbing, clutching a family picture of my dark skinned father and me, and my light skinned mother, Maliha and Moin. But it wasn't the last.
It was also the moment when the first bricks of my walls were laid.
"I am so sorry", I heard my father say, and turned to look at him despite the tears clouding my vision.
"It's not your fault Abu", I told him and laid a hand over his calloused one.
"It is. You came to me so many times and instead of trusting your intuition I made one excuse after another just because they are my family"
Ami came to sit next to me, her head bowed in resignation, "We were stuck Ahmed", she told my father as if I wasn't even sitting between them, "This was the first family that was interested in her. I've always been told that older girls who are as independent and head strong as our daughter don't make good wives"
"Fariha, there is nothing wrong with our Madi. Jo uski kismet mein ho ga wohi ho ga", my father told her sternly, "And if for some reason she doesn't get married there will always be place for her in this home. But I will never ever let anyone insult my daughter"
He stormed out of the room, my phone in hand and I heard his voice bellow across the lower level when he called out for Jawad. My mother left, shaking her head. But I was not the one on her mind.
"Bechari Maliha. Who knows what her future in-laws will think now"
*******
Even before that water hit the bathtub floor, I could feel the tears wetting my face. And as the water flowed over my face, I remembered the snippets of arguments I could over hear from my room when Abu confronted Jawad and his parents.
His parents knew that he had failed out of the MBA program. They also knew that he was jobless at the moment and about to be deported back to Pakistan unless he obtained permanent residency status right away. But, they argued he just needed a second chance.
They did not know he spent his nights in the clubs, while lying about being awake for Fajr. But to them a wife would be enough to fix his indiscretions.
None of that had mattered to me because none of it related to me anymore. It was Jawad's mother's parting words whose sting I could not remove even under the scalding hot water.
"Ahmed bhai, I'm saying this as your cousin. Madiha ki shakal soorut aisi nahi hai ke woh itna attitude logoan ko dikha sakey", his mother's voice reverberated across the house, "Hum tou iss shaadi ke saath aap per ehsaan kar rahai thai, warna itni itni khoobsurat larkiyan pagal ho rahi hoti hain Jawad se shaadi karne ke liye"
(Madiha's facial features are not such that she can show such attitude)(We were doing a favor to you with this marriage. Otherwise there are many beautiful girls who are dying to marry Jawad)
My shakal soorut had always brought me down.
In elementary school someone said I looked like mud.
In middle school a classmate said that I should take baths more often, because I looked dirty all the time.
In high school science class, a girl told me and my African-American lab partner to go back to where we came from, because America did not need more ugly people.
Racism. Colorism. Whatever you wanted to call it, was somehow ingrained in us even as children. Not that it was the children's fault alone. They are like sponges, and will accept and absorb whatever they see and hear.
The younger version of me often wished that someone invented a soap that would automatically lighten my skin. The older version of me had accepted that I could never change my reality.
But even though I had vowed to not let the words of strangers ever affect me, I was human. And just because I accepted my reality didn't mean I was immune to the pain it caused. So, today I let the tears flow. At least they would be washed away by the warm water, unlike the color of my skin.
And I told myself again, that tomorrow I would be the strong, intelligent woman that everyone expected me to be. Without that, I was a nobody.
*******
I have no idea how long I stood in the shower. The scalding hot water had turned to luke warm, and I knew it would soon run cold. But I wasn't ready to leave my safe space yet and face the world. Even if the world just meant my parents and siblings. Surely, everyone else must have dispersed by now.
What would they want with a kaali churail anyway?
A knock on the door startled me.
"I'll come out when I want to come out. Leave me alone", I yelled before anyone could speak.
"Madi, someone is here to see you", my brother's meek voice came through the closed door.
"Who the heck wants to see me? Haven't they heard how ugly I am?", I muttered.
"He said his name is Omar. And he wanted to return the stethoscope you left at work"
*******
First, who thinks Omar's sole purpose of visiting Madi's home on the eve of her Nikah was to return a stethoscope? 🤭
Secondly, mail order brides for a green card is a very real thing. *smh*
Thirdly, while this novel is a fiction, the above words in urdu/hindi, and the accounts of children being bullied in school, are not. I have heard people use several versions of these sentiments, even for babies who were just born. I know things are changing with the new generation, and there is a move towards embracing the diversity among us. But for those who are affected by racism and colorism right now, that change is too slow and too subtle.
Love to all ❤❤❤
Thanks for reading! Don't forget to vote and let me know your thoughts about this chapter 🙂