Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [81]
Pops cleared his throat ominously. “How old is this lady?” he asked, unwilling to attach a name to her.
“Eighteen—and I’d prefer it if you’d use her name: Bilqis.”
“I see. Is this lady older than you?”
“A little, yes.”
“This isn’t a good idea,” he said.
“Why?”
“Where we come from, men are five years less mature than women.”
I couldn’t accept such a trivial rebuke. I looked toward Ammi for support, but she didn’t say anything.
“How old are you again?” Pops asked me.
“Seventeen.”
“The thing about marrying young,” continued Pops, “is that it takes away your ambition. Better to become someone before you marry.”
This was the moment: I knew I had to invoke Islam in order to acquire mastery of the situation. “You people are aware that in Islam marriage is considered half the faith, right? There’s a hadith about that point. I can show it to you in the books.”
“Islam is between you and God,” Pops said. “Why are you involving us?”
I was surprised by this statement. Until now Islam had been between all of us.
“Because I need your help. You’re my parents. It’s your Islamic duty to help me out. Bilqis’s parents require that you call them to make arrangements and do everything in the Islamic way.”
“I don’t agree with that approach,” Pops said, pushing food around on his plate. “I think they should call us.”
“They won’t, though. Bilqis said her family doesn’t like Punjabis.”
Pops scoffed loudly. Then Ammi scoffed. They were both insulted.
“You say you want us to abide by Islam,” Ammi said, “but they aren’t being very decent, are they?”
“Don’t want Punjabis? We don’t want them!” Pops thundered.
I stood up. “But I want her!”
“Forget it. We have dignity.”
“Do this for my Islam. If I don’t marry, I’ll end up fornicating!” I stomped to my bedroom, convinced that my parents weren’t taking me seriously.
I could hear Ammi and Pops arguing loudly in the kitchen, blaming each other for my hasty—and clearly faulty—choice in a potential mate. When they started blaming Bilqis for trying to steal their son, I was so upset at hearing my beloved’s name besmirched that I stormed back into the kitchen and upturned the dinner trays. I flipped one tray too hard and everything splattered on my chest. My dignity shot, I retreated back to my room.
For a couple of hours the house was almost silent. Occasionally Flim could be heard walking up and down the hall, but that was it. Eventually Ammi and Pops must have reconciled, because they came to my room together and knocked quietly.
“This Bilqis must be very pretty,” Pops said once they were in and seated on the narrow bed.
“She is.”
“You know who else is pretty?” Ammi asked. “Mountain girls. From Kashmir. Your father has a friend who has a daughter. Such rosy cheeks.”
“I don’t want a Kashmiri girl. I want Bilqis.”
“This Kashmiri girl I’m telling you about looks like that actress—the one with the rosy cheeks.”
“I prefer Bilqis.”
“Son, let me tell you a story about mountain girls,” Pops said, taking over. “I had this uncle. Big guy. He died before you were born. He was scary. One time he threatened to beat up a guy and the guy defecated in his own clothes. Anyway, this uncle’s first wife died, so he went to Peshawar and he paid a Pathan and bought a young wife. Do you remember the stone-faced widow that lived near Dada Abu?”
“Are you suggesting that we buy Bilqis?”
“No. I’m suggesting that we buy a mountain girl that looks better because the dollar-rupee exchange is pretty good these days!” Pops said with a wink.
I realized that I was being mocked. My love trivialized. My feelings stomped upon. I actually began crying. Then I pulled myself together and made one final appeal to Islam. “Why can’t you do things properly? Just call her parents, please. Where is your Islam?”
“So you want to do things the Islamic way?” Pops asked.
“Nothing more.”
“There’s a verse in the Quran which says that if your parents punish you, accept it, without so much as saying ‘Uff.’”
“I know it,” I said.
“Good. Because your punishment for getting into