by Urooj Grundmann
“I’ll give my
matchmaker friend a call,” offered my aunt. Arguing had proven futile many a
time over the last three weeks of our stay in
Therefore, although
my parents and I were just visiting for six weeks, my aunt eagerly wanted to
help me find a husband too- now that
I was twenty-one and apparently, running out of time. Mama and I, out of sheer
curiosity and amusement, agreed to let her try. My aunt, enthusiastic and zealous, had already
gone through numerous potential suitors; however, none of them piqued my
interest. To be quite honest, I knew it was impossible. I did not like
Pakistani men. Period.
Call me ignorant
and closed-minded. Go ahead. I was not going to change my mind. The biggest
reason for my aversion? Simple. Their accent when they speak English. I’m not
saying I’m perfect when it comes to grammar and pronunciation, but I could not,
for the life of me, imagine myself with a man who had a Pakistani or Indian accent.
You know the one- Apu from The Simpsons. Or better yet, when you call tech
support if your computer is acting up and they tell you their name is Robert
from Kansas, but really it’s something more along the lines of Rajan Anush
Patel from Mumbai, India, and you have no idea what they’re saying most of the
time because they confuse their W’s for V’s and wice wersa… The harsh D, R, and
T sounds that originate from a different place in the mouth in the Pakistani
version of English chafed my eardrums. Plus, the way they say schedule like
shed-dool just pushed me over the edge. Nope. I knew I could not live with
hearing that for the rest of my life, and I was just as certain that this
hypothetical husband of mine would get fed-up rather quickly with my constant correcting,
or at the very least, seeing me wince whenever he opened his mouth to speak.
The
pedestal fan oscillated hot soggy air around the small living room of my aunt’s
humble second floor apartment. The three of us sat there conversing, reminiscing,
laughing, and contemplating about men, all over a cup of hot, sweet chai on
that sweltering summer evening of July. Though my aunt didn’t give up the hope
of finding me a husband, she was forced to put her mission on hold while my
parents and I began packing that night for our one and a half week visit to Islamabad , the capital of Pakistan , the city where I was born.
Once
on the 20 hour train ride, I listened quietly from the top bunk as my parents wondered
what Islamabad would look like now, how the weather would be, and most
importantly, what it would be like to reunite with one of Papa’s closest
friends, Reyaz, or Uncle Reyaz, as my brothers and I lovingly called him
according to Pakistani custom, even though we weren’t at all related. Their
friendship began in the early days of working for the Pakistani Embassies, and
they kept in touch over the years through letters and brief long-distance phone
calls. To our knowledge, Uncle Reyaz still lived in the same house with his two
sons, Kamran and Rehan, and daughter, Anila. Uncle Reyaz had remarried after
his first wife, a cherished friend to my mother, succumbed to breast cancer. We
hadn’t seen any of them, not even pictures of them, for nearly twelve years. We
did, however, possess a photo album filled with faded pictures of the last time
we visited Islamabad ,
with one photo particular that still stands out in my mind. In this picture,
taken in Uncle Reyaz’s living room, all the children were sitting on the couch,
staring in amazement as my older brother blew a giant pink bubble the size of
his face. We all looked as adorable as
chipmunks, with our full cheeks, big eyes, little hands, and tiny bodies. I, too,
was as curious as my parents and could not wait to see them all again.
Uncle Reyaz had informed
us that Kamran, his older son, would pick us up from the train station in
Lahore and accompany us on the bus and taxi ride to Islamabad. At last, our
train came to a halt. We gathered our luggage and took our first few steps onto
the platform. The air felt slightly cooler and sweeter than it had in Karachi . I took in a deep
breath and closed my eyes, letting the sounds of people hustling off the train
dissipate into nothingness. When I opened my eyes, in the distance I saw a face
that was familiar and different all at once. It was Kamran.
He
was much taller than I remembered him, and with his short-sleeve button down, I
could see his strong, toned biceps, which were also a change from the scrawny,
twig of-a-boy I had pictured. He still had the same coal black hair and large, almond
brown eyes. The broad smile upon his face looked exactly the same as before. He
was, by definition, tall, dark, and handsome.
Papa,
overjoyed to see Kamran, embraced him like a long lost son and they seemed to
slow dance in place for a moment. Kamran released Papa then greeted Mama. I
tried not to stare at him. He gave me a quick glance and a nod, neither of us
sure how to address each other.
With
a few swift motions, Kamran now carried just about all of our luggage. He and
Papa walked ahead while Mama and I hung back a few paces. I looked at Mama, and
she looked at me. From the smile on her face I knew we were thinking the same
thing. “He looks good, huh?” Mama proposed, as though she was implying that I
was interested. I nodded and smiled in concurrence.
Whoa.
Hold
it.
Stop.
Did
I just agree that I found him… dashing?
At that very
instant, it hit me. The fluttering in my chest, the butterflies in my stomach, and
the hotness of my cheeks were the unmistakable combination of feelings that in
high school are called, “having a crush.” In a matter of seconds, I had an
unexpected, unbelievable crush on a down right, straight up, Pakistani man.
After
a bus ride that seemed to last forever and a taxi ride over dirt and gravel
roads that was so bumpy it made my rear end sore, we finally arrived at Uncle Reyaz’s
home. It was just as I remembered with its plain gray exterior, rusty red gate,
uneven driveway, and most of all, its hospitality.
After
a tearful reunion, we settled into one of the air conditioned bedrooms. Over
the next few days, as the Reyaz family took us anywhere and everywhere that
mattered in the city of Islamabad ,
I realized that my feelings for Kamran were slowly creeping and settling into
my heart. I strategically kept placing myself close to him whenever I could- at
the dinner table, in the car, in the living room, on a walk… I couldn’t deny it
any longer. I had feelings for Kamran despite some very strong turn-offs that I
had discovered. Not only did he have that accent I cringed upon hearing, but he
also smoked about a pack a day, and I realized that all that smoking had
damaged his otherwise perfect smile. Still, I couldn’t help but admire so many
other qualities besides his rugged good looks. He was extremely responsible,
running the home mainly on his income, respectful to his father and stepmother,
gracious and generous as a host, hilarious with all the stories he told, and
charismatic in a way that I hadn’t seen before.
I was certainly
drawn to him, but I wondered if he thought of me at all. My strongest clue came
one afternoon at the mountainous Chattar
Park
“Love-aria,” which
purposely rhymes with malaria, was a term used in an old Bollywood movie and basically
means you are in love. I didn’t know for a fact if he was talking about me, but
I was almost certain.
Mama,
excited that I was actually head-over-heels for a Pakistani man, didn’t miss
the first chance she found to notify Papa, who in turn, couldn’t wait to spill
the beans and have “the talk” with Uncle Reyaz. I tried, though not very
sincerely, to dissuade him. The truth was, however, that I wanted to see what
would happen. Papa agreed to take the conversation very slowly, just making
inquiries, without hinting at my feelings at all.
It
was time for their evening cup of chai, when all the parents would go out into
the backyard and enjoy the sunset, and the perfect time for their conversation
to take place. Kamran still hadn’t returned from work and Anila and Rehan were
watching TV in another room. I waited anxiously in our room.
At
times I felt giddy, my heart seeming to skip a beat or two every now and then
when the excitement was too much to bear. Then, just as suddenly, all those
feelings would skid to a stop when I realized that a future with Kamran meant the
possibility of returning to Pakistan
for good. Was I ready for that? The two ideas competed in my head. I
simultaneously felt burning hot and icy cold. My hands were moist with sweat yet
freezing at the same time. I strained to hear any words from their conversation
but they were too far away. Instead, I heard the sputtering of motorcycles and
rickshaws passing by outside, the soft hum of the air conditioner, and the
pesky song of a mosquito dancing around my head. Then, I heard shuffling steps
walking towards the room.
I sprang into
action, grabbing a random book and hopping onto the bed, and pretended that I
had been reading. I attempted to appear as nonchalant as possible, turning a
page. “Why are you reading that upside down?” asked Mama, and then added, “You
can’t even read Urdu right side up.” I didn’t have an answer. My parents closed
the door and I knew there was something they had to tell me.
They had this
awkward smile on their faces- the kind that people get when they have something
to tell you but they don’t really want to, the kind that tries to reassure but
only ends up looking silly, except you know there’s going to be some bad news
so you don’t feel like laughing, the kind when they know that what they’re
about to say may break your heart.
“Kamran’s
engaged,” Mama finally declared. He was to be married within a year. And that
was it. The words fell like bricks on my chest but I didn’t- I couldn’t let the
words affect me. This wasn’t supposed to happen in the first place. I wasn’t
supposed to fall for a Pakistani man. I practically couldn’t stand the sound of
them. I never even imagined that I could have feelings for one let alone want
to marry one and spend the rest of my life with one!
The
very next day was the last of our stay in Islamabad; we were to return to
Karachi for the remainder of our stay in Pakistan. We packed our bags solemnly,
not really wanting to leave the Reyaz family, but knowing that it was
inevitable. To me, nothing seemed to matter any more. I didn’t cry. I just
wondered why. Why did I want him so badly? Why did I want him to leave her,
whoever she was, and be with me? Why did I keep thinking about never seeing him
again? Why did I start to miss him when we hadn’t even left yet? Maybe it was
because I knew that it was the end but I didn’t want it to be, like when you
eat a lollipop and you get down to the very end, when there are just a few shards
of sweetness left on the little paper stick, and you just chew on it, hoping to
make it last a little longer- even if it scratches your tongue or gets stuck in
your teeth. I didn’t want to let go.
I
only got over the disappointment once we returned to the states and the reality
of my world slammed into my face. I was back to getting ready for school,
catching up with my college friends, going out for dinners and coffee, and
driving my car down the open Texas
highways. I loved being back, loved my freedom, my independence, my home. But I
will never forget that trip when I realized that love isn’t just about accents
or the lack thereof; it’s about much more than that. It’s about character, generosity,
values, and respect. It’s about being there for your loved ones and supporting
them in times of need. It’s about seeing and listening beyond the exterior.
Love is blind; love is deaf.
Much
to my aunt’s relief, I did get married a few years later. She even designed my wedding
dress and had it tailor-made for me in Pakistan Texas , it was for my nuptials with Scott
from New Orleans Louisiana
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