to read it. He seemed to have a magnetic force emanating from him that was gradually pulling me out of my cocoon. I thought briefly about the comparison he had drawn about his relationship with Pakistan being like a marriage. It was unusual for a single person to be so insightful about the complications of marriage, but then he was an unusual, multifaceted person and seemed to know a lot about everything. I smiled to myself, thinking his understanding about married life may come in handy later.
In the summer, I finally gave in to the pressure from my friends and introduced him to Jennifer and Kavita. To my delight, they liked him tremendously.
“He’s cool,” Jennifer had said. “I really like him, and I’m not saying that just to flatter you.”
“He seems like a guy with a backbone, and forgive the cliché, but a tall, dark, and handsome one at that. Plus I think you both look great together,” Kavita commented.
I was pleased that my friends had approved of him. They were honest, and I knew they had set the bar high for me and were undoubtedly in a position to be far more objective than myself. Their opinion mattered and helped me seal my trust in my own sentiments.
I met his friends too, a group of girls and boys who all seemed quite amiable; we would often go out as a group to eat oroccasionally to watch a movie. My one-to-one conversation with Ahmer was mostly on the phone or chatting on the computer. Occasionally we would meet on campus or have lunch together.
“Abida Parveen is coming to San Francisco,” Ahmer told me one day, referring to a famous Pakistani singer. “You want to go to her show?” he asked casually.
“Sure, I’d love to. My father loved her
ghazals
, and I’ve heard a few. I’ll ask Kavita if she wants to go,” I said nervously, thinking it was imperative to have her come along.
“Yes, sure,” he replied, trying to conceal his disappointment that I would not be his sole companion. “Let me know soon, because I hear the tickets are selling fast.”
We went, and Ahmer insisted he pay for everyone’s tickets. I wore my new purple
shalwar kameez
that Ammi had sent a month before. I changed my lipstick three times to ensure that it was the right shade and applied the mascara that had been sitting untouched for months in the top drawer of my dressing table. I wore my new black shoes and wondered how uncomfortable the long walk from the parking garage to the auditorium was going to be in the high heels I was so unaccustomed to wearing.
If I was willing to sacrifice my comfort for my appearance, I was certainly starting to care how I looked. The week before I had dropped off an enormous carton at Goodwill that was filled to the brim with my worn jeans, slacks, and gray sweatshirts, the latter of which Jennifer had been convincing me to get rid of for the last year. I had gone shopping with Kavita, treating myself to the new pair of stylish black shoes. I was never one to shop, as I seldom felt the need or saw the point of indulging in such extravagance. I had remembered what my father said about material things—that they could never be a source of lasting joy. I was always mindful of the hard-earned money my aunt and uncle sent me. I insisted that my mother not send me anything beyond my college tuition, which was partly covered by what I had inherited from my father; the remainder was being paidfor by my stepfather. His financial contribution to my education continued to bother me at several levels. It made my improper attitude toward him seem less justifiable and the “ungrateful” label appear more befitting. But that day, I selected the exquisite pair of shoes without once looking at the price tag or rummaging through the clearance rack.
I stood before my recently bought full-length mirror, pushed my hair back one last time, rearranged my
dupatta
so it fell gracefully over my shoulders, and felt sure that this was the longest I had ever spent getting ready for
In the summer, I finally gave in to the pressure from my friends and introduced him to Jennifer and Kavita. To my delight, they liked him tremendously.
“He’s cool,” Jennifer had said. “I really like him, and I’m not saying that just to flatter you.”
“He seems like a guy with a backbone, and forgive the cliché, but a tall, dark, and handsome one at that. Plus I think you both look great together,” Kavita commented.
I was pleased that my friends had approved of him. They were honest, and I knew they had set the bar high for me and were undoubtedly in a position to be far more objective than myself. Their opinion mattered and helped me seal my trust in my own sentiments.
I met his friends too, a group of girls and boys who all seemed quite amiable; we would often go out as a group to eat oroccasionally to watch a movie. My one-to-one conversation with Ahmer was mostly on the phone or chatting on the computer. Occasionally we would meet on campus or have lunch together.
“Abida Parveen is coming to San Francisco,” Ahmer told me one day, referring to a famous Pakistani singer. “You want to go to her show?” he asked casually.
“Sure, I’d love to. My father loved her
ghazals
, and I’ve heard a few. I’ll ask Kavita if she wants to go,” I said nervously, thinking it was imperative to have her come along.
“Yes, sure,” he replied, trying to conceal his disappointment that I would not be his sole companion. “Let me know soon, because I hear the tickets are selling fast.”
We went, and Ahmer insisted he pay for everyone’s tickets. I wore my new purple
shalwar kameez
that Ammi had sent a month before. I changed my lipstick three times to ensure that it was the right shade and applied the mascara that had been sitting untouched for months in the top drawer of my dressing table. I wore my new black shoes and wondered how uncomfortable the long walk from the parking garage to the auditorium was going to be in the high heels I was so unaccustomed to wearing.
If I was willing to sacrifice my comfort for my appearance, I was certainly starting to care how I looked. The week before I had dropped off an enormous carton at Goodwill that was filled to the brim with my worn jeans, slacks, and gray sweatshirts, the latter of which Jennifer had been convincing me to get rid of for the last year. I had gone shopping with Kavita, treating myself to the new pair of stylish black shoes. I was never one to shop, as I seldom felt the need or saw the point of indulging in such extravagance. I had remembered what my father said about material things—that they could never be a source of lasting joy. I was always mindful of the hard-earned money my aunt and uncle sent me. I insisted that my mother not send me anything beyond my college tuition, which was partly covered by what I had inherited from my father; the remainder was being paidfor by my stepfather. His financial contribution to my education continued to bother me at several levels. It made my improper attitude toward him seem less justifiable and the “ungrateful” label appear more befitting. But that day, I selected the exquisite pair of shoes without once looking at the price tag or rummaging through the clearance rack.
I stood before my recently bought full-length mirror, pushed my hair back one last time, rearranged my
dupatta
so it fell gracefully over my shoulders, and felt sure that this was the longest I had ever spent getting ready for
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