We all wanted to move to the city, but Dad loved the village—his animals, the ancestral soil. He couldn’t bear to leave our simple mud house with its open courtyard. That’s how traditional he was.
My three older brothers were married to the daughters of our uncle who lived in the city, so they moved there. My fourth brother, yet to marry, caused a scandal by running away with a girl. Such matters are life-and-death in our village; lives are at stake. My brothers weren’t united, so Dad faced the legal battle alone, spending everything on the case. After much struggle, the girl’s family agreed to a settlement, but Dad had to give up a lot of land and, reluctantly, our ancestral home. That’s how we ended up in the city. But the city’s air and environment didn’t suit Dad. He fell ill, and we returned to the village.
When we left the village, I was twelve and in fourth grade. Dad had sold our home and animals to move to the city. Upon returning, we had nowhere to live, so we built a house on a desolate plot far from our old home, given to us by Dad’s cousin out of kindness. It was near a tube well, and Steven’s house was close by. He was six years older than me. One day, while fetching water from the tube well, I saw Steven standing there, staring at me intently. For the first time, I became aware of myself. I’d never felt the urge to look in a mirror before. It was the first day I truly noticed my own existence. After that, whenever I went to fetch water, I hoped to see him. Sometimes he was there, sometimes not. He’d sit at his father’s nearby shed, and I’d watch him from afar—reading a newspaper, engrossed in a book, or listening to folk songs on a tape recorder. At home, I’d replay his every move in my mind. If anyone mentioned him, my heart raced. I was too young to control those feelings, like a naive teenage girl. I wondered who was in his heart. For me, it was only him. His cousin, Paula, studied at my school. One day, hesitantly, I asked her his name. She told me, and I felt like I’d found a treasure. A year and a half later, Dad bought back our old house. Everyone was thrilled, but I was depressed, thinking we’d move away from the shed, and I’d rarely see Steven.
His face haunted my thoughts, appearing and vanishing. Every Eid, I prayed, “God, show him to me like the Eid moon.” Three years of prayers passed when one day, my prayer was answered. I was sleeping in the courtyard when someone knocked. Opening the door, I saw my nephew, Danny, with Steven. Danny had come for some errand. My heart soared—God had heard me. It was the morning before the Eid moon was to appear, but God had shown me my moon already. I was overjoyed because Steven had glanced at me as he left, making me feel like I’d seen the Eid moon in broad daylight. One day, we were going to a fair. Steven saw my brother, greeted him, and shook hands. I stepped aside with my younger sister, wishing he’d join us, but that was impossible. At the fair, nothing held my interest. My sister enjoyed the swings, but my eyes searched for him. In the crowd, I finally spotted him, standing alone, his gaze searching for someone. I prayed it was me. My feelings had grown so intense that restlessness consumed me, and tears came unbidden. But what could a helpless girl like me do? One day, while cooking, Steven arrived. My brother sat him in the guest room, and Mom joined them. I peeked at him through a window crack. I made tea for him. He and my brother had become friends, so he started visiting daily. When I looked at him, I’d get lost; if he looked at me, I’d blush. Steven was an electronics expert and often brought messages. One day, a woman from his neighborhood came, saying her fan was broken. I said ours was too. She told Steven, and he came immediately. I was alone at home. When I opened the door, seeing him startled me. He asked, “Where’s Aunt?” “She’s not home. Please check the fan; it’s broken.” He went to the room, checked the switch, and said, “It’s faulty. I’ll get a new one.” He returned with a switch, opened the old one, and said, “Come, check it.” I replied, “No way, what if there’s a shock?” He assured me there wasn’t. I thought of checking it but feared getting close—his name was written on my arm, and I didn’t want him to see it. Just then, Mom returned. He spoke to her and left. At the door, I played a song: “Promise you’ll come back.” He looked at me and left.
When he didn’t come, I grew restless. Constant thoughts affected my health. Friends noticed dark circles under my eyes, asking what was wrong. Only I knew why. I’d become so sensitive that I’d cry in gatherings over small things. One day, he met my younger sister, Rachel, and spoke to her kindly. She visited his shop and chatted. She told him, “Steven, you don’t come to our house.” He said, “I don’t get time,” then added, “Ask at home when I should come.” Rachel told me, and I said, “Tell him 8 AM.” I thought he was joking, but he came the next morning. I hid behind my niece, Lily, while he sat in the guest room. Mom was at Aunt’s. I sent for cold drinks and biscuits, but he declined. I was in the courtyard, nervous, and said, “I went through so much trouble to get these, and you won’t drink?” He replied, “I don’t drink from bottles.” He stayed for fifteen minutes and left. That day was unforgettable. The next day, we were preparing for Faisalabad. I asked Rachel for Steven’s number. She got it, and we left. From there, I called, and Steven answered. I was thrilled. He asked, “When are you back?” I said, “Not coming back.” “Why? Staying with whom?” “My brother,” I replied. He said, “Fine, but home is home.” I hung up without responding. Another call connected me to his mother and sister, then him. When we returned, I visited Dad’s shed, where we lived after the city. Steven’s shed was opposite, and he was working there. His house was nearby, so I went. His mother was delighted to see me and said, “Come often. Your friend Paula lives close; visit her.” Steven smiled as I talked to his mother. As I left, she said, “Don’t go alone. I’ll ask Steven to escort you.” In our village, it’s customary for someone from the host’s family to escort a girl home for respect.
I walked home with Steven ahead of me. Village customs deemed speaking on the way improper, so we stayed silent. He didn’t look back, and only the sound of our footsteps echoed. When I entered my house, he turned back. Strange dreams began—sometimes he was crying with Mom, sometimes Mom said, “Rachel, we’re engaging you to him.” I’d protest, “How? He’s an outsider; we don’t marry outsiders.” But Mom insisted, “It’s possible; we’ll talk to your father.” I told Rachel my dream, and she told Steven. He was thrilled, but his sister said, “My brother will marry our cousin. Your sister’s having false dreams.” This hurt me deeply. People get what they desire—did my fate lack such favor? Did my prayers lack power? I tried consoling my heart, but it wouldn’t listen. Finally, God heard me. My cousin Adam, my fiancé, told his parents he wouldn’t marry me; he loved Hannah, our aunt’s daughter, and would marry her. My parents were disappointed. Rachel told Steven, and his mother and sister came to propose, offering twelve acres of land. Dad thought, since Adam refused and no other relative was suitable, Steven’s family was known, and the land was generous. He agreed but said there’d be no engagement, only a wedding date. Steven and I were overjoyed; our marriage was set honorably. But this joy was a trial. When my uncle and aunt heard I was to marry Steven, they were furious and convinced Adam. Meanwhile, a wealthy family proposed to Hannah, swaying her parents. With Hannah’s engagement settled, Adam reconsidered me. My uncle and aunt begged Dad, throwing their honor at his feet, apologizing. Dad’s heart softened for family, and he told Steven’s family, “I can’t abandon my own. Forgive me; the community pressured me.” This shattered Steven and me. Hope faded, but life dragged on. I gave up on marrying Steven. My brothers said, “Mom and Dad spoiled Rachel; she’s willful and might cause trouble.” I never acted recklessly. Mom and Dad said, “She’s our blood; she won’t go anywhere.” So, I married Adam.
If it had ended there, I could’ve coped. But Adam’s heart still burned for Hannah. When her engagement broke, my aunt pleaded with Hannah’s father, “My son is miserable. You’re my brother; give Hannah to him, or he’ll lose himself. We forced him to marry Rachel, but he’s unhappy.” Hannah’s father said, “How can I give my daughter as a second wife? Rachel’s my niece; I can’t wrong her.” But my aunt persisted, citing religion’s allowance of four wives, saying, “They’re cousins; they’ll live like sisters. Adam promises fairness.” She secured Hannah’s hand. In my in-laws’ house, my uncle’s home, another cousin, Hannah, arrived as a bride. I lay in one room with a fever while her wedding was celebrated in another. Music and dancing pierced my ears. Outside, drums beat as if it were Adam’s first wedding. Tears flowed as I asked God why I wasn’t born into an educated family, but a traditional one that sacrifices children’s happiness for kin. Thirty years later, I still live, as this is the story of many village homes, where every fourth or fifth house has a man with two wives living like sisters. Only God knows their hearts’ true state. The world only sees the surface.
Post a Comment