My Dudley!

Red shalwar kameez, with the silver kaam? Err..no, too provocative; the yellow one with the patiala shalwar? No..too happy…The pale pink one, with grey borders? Hmm..perfect.

Looking for matching pink earrings in my FRIEND'S pencil box, I can literally see my future running in front of my eyes like a Bollywood film. Dressed in obnoxiously heavy gold sets, wearing bright red wedding clothes (with full sleeves, and with the shirt till my knees!), sitting on the bed, waiting for my ‘sartaj’ to come in and have the best experience of his life while I cry and whimper.

He comes in, ugly fair man, with a moustache. He has a huge sehra on his head, and lots of garlands around his fat neck. I think: ‘omygod, he looks like Dudley!’ but say nothing.

He quietly locks the door behind him, and comes and sits next to me on the bed. He puts his hand on my hand, and gently strokes it. The only thing I can think of is: ‘Damn, I wonder how big his thing will be…Damn,will it hurt?’ As he begins undressing me, I curse my parents and everyone who had a hand in getting me married to this sumo wrestler lookalike.

Thankfully, my mother comes in and awakens me from my daydreaming about ‘Rape of the innocent bride by the ugly accountant husband!’ I look at her as she is trying to put a little more rouge on my face, and blame her for the nightmares about whitewashed fat men getting married to me! I swear being 23 and not married is a crime in Pakistan!

‘Beta, it’s not as bad as you think it is! Raza is a very nice boy; he has a very educated family, and they are so well settled! Now come on, smile!’ she says as she tugs me towards the door. I look at the happy faces of my parents, completely oblivious of the fact that they were about to murder the true me. Walking towards our civic, I think: Raza .Ew.What a typical name for a boring fat accountant!

My mum and dad chatter away as we drive towards McDonalds, our meeting place with the Zahids. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. Those are the only three words running in my mind. Not fair that I have to marry a bloody Raza guy, when I wanted to marry a Hugh Jackman or Johnny Depp look-alike! Not fair that I have to pretend to be dumber than bloody Raza guy all my life, because he probably wouldn’t know shit! Sure, he’d be ‘shareef’ and respectful, but would he know who Mr. Rochester is, would he know that Adrian Brody was absolutely amazing in 'The Pianist', would he know that the perfect guy has to come on my balcony with a bunch of red roses, go on his knees, and sing..(In Salman Ahmed’s voice) ‘aap jahan bhi rahein…aap hamare to haen!’

The sudden jerk of the car as dad parks in the parking lot brings me back to reality and the huge yellow M of McDonalds stares me in my face. I curse Ronald the bloody McDonald for looking so happy as he stands on the sidewalk. I curse the steps I’m walking on for not being endless, and I curse the door which slides open too early.

As the familiar waft of chicken and French fries fills my nostrils, I look around to see where the bloody Raza guy and his family are…I see a very cute, tanned ‘jaanoo’ sitting near the door. Everything goes hazy, and I can’t say I’m astonished as he jumps out of his seat , gets a guitar out of nowhere, and starts singing in the most amazing voice, ‘Love is so alone without you, maybe you’d lonesome tooooo, just remeberr you belong to mee!!!’ As my dear mum gives me a forceful tug and shatters my beautiful dream, I give the cute tanned guy one last desperate look. She points me in the right direction.

And there I was. Face to face with... Raza…
Ok…he’s not fat…and he doesn’t look gay…He’s fair, but not exactly white washed. He has a slight beard ...he’s definitely not Hugh Jackman, but then at least he’s not a Dudley look-alike…

I sit down with my parents, on the three chairs that they have laid opposite theirs. I (no coincidence) get to sit on the chair opposite Raza. As he says ‘Salamalikum’ to me, I am surprised at the manliness of his voice. Sure, it’s not like Creed’s but more like Faizan’s (on IM), which is unfortunately totally acceptable. He seems completely at ease with himself, and acts all chummy with my dad. “Uncle jee, haan jee, mein Standard Chartered mein kam karta hoon…yes uncle, it’s a really hectic time of the year..” Aha! So he is an accountant! Typical! It’s sad, but almost all of the people I meet are accountants, who know nothing other than how to tally up their boring ledgers, are highly unsocial people, and keep fidgeting in the company of women!

I try to keep up with the conversation; even though I would rather not be here, I don’t want them to think I’m some dumb witted girl who won’t speak unless her parents tell her to.

Raza is having a discussion with my dad and uncle about how to curb inflation, and the ladies are talking about how expensive wedding trousseaus are nowadays..They’ve all happily forgotten about me...and the fact that I’m supposed to be the one who’s getting married! I decide to jump into the guy’s conversation..''

Raza is saying: ’It’s not that simple anymore. The rate of Inflation is going up every year, not because of a rise in the consumer demand but also because of the interruptions in supply caused by the floods, and the recent earthquake.’ Ok .That sounded like Greek, but I am determined to sound intelligent. I try to remember the economics I had learnt a few years ago, and give it my best shot.

‘Er, what’s all the hype about? Isn’t inflation caused simply because of an increase in the money supply?’ My dad looked embarrassed, uncle was expressionless, but Raza looked interested.

‘Of course essentially it is caused by an increase in the money supply (hah!), but what we’re discussing is what other factors cause an increase.(Oh) Like , suppose, the recent earthquake. It caused us to fall short on supply. The demand for certain commodities that these areas produced was more than the supply they could generate. And that caused an upward push on prices, which is inflation.’
‘Aaaah…Right. That sounds pretty reasonable.’ Showoff!

Raza made sure that I understood the rest of the conversation about bloody inflation and bloody budget, until finally, they came to the point.

Raza’s mum: ‘Times are changing, and kids nowadays are more independent, and not like us twenty years ago, when at least most of us girls were so doodh mein dhulli hui that for us marriage signified nothing more than wedding clothes and jewelry. (A comment which was followed by peals of laughter. err?) Anyway what I’m trying to say is today kids can’t be forced into marriage. That’s why I thought Raza and Amna should meet up, and atleast get to talk to each other. Ab hum itne bhi ultra modern nei haen, to send our kids on dates.But if they talk under our supervision, I think that’s quite reasonable. What do you say, Shama?’ (She asks my mum.)

My mum: ‘Jee haan, you’re completely right. But I think we should still give them a little privacy, and at least let them sit on a separate table. What say?’ All the parents give us huge smiles, and I look at my mother with disbelieving eyes….
‘Aankhon hi aankhon mein’, I try to send her (through ESP) the image of Junaid Jamshed singing... ’yeh to dhoka hae, dhoka hae, dohoka hae!’

Raza (of course he would readily comply, being the oh-so-obedient son that he was, and the fact that I was such a beautiful picture of a wife didn’t help much) got up from his seat, waited from me to get up, and gestured towards a table, away from the prying eyes of our parents. I felt very much like one of those couples in Bollywood movies, when everyone leaves the room, winking and giving each other big smiles, to leave the couple be. Sigh...

As I settle on my chair, Raza flashes a big smile, and says: ‘Well that’s better.’
Silence.

He clears his throat, ‘You probably want to ask me a million questions; you know, the usual, where do you live? Do you have a swimming pool? How many bedrooms do you have? Well let’s get those out of the way: I live in Guldusht colony, I don’t unfortunately have a swimming pool, and we have four bedrooms.’

Shucks..he doesn’t have a swimming pool. There go away all my dreams about making love in the pool…Damn!

I say: ‘well not really, I wasn’t going to ask you those questions, at least not now.’
He laughs... (I have a sinking feeling he knew exactly what I was thinking of. The bloody Raza guy not only is too smart for his own good, but can also probably read minds.)

‘Well that’s a relief…Ok let me start….you’re doing your masters in mass communication right? (I nod my head. He’s done his homework I think) ‘so what form of the media do you find the most appealing: print, visual or radio?’

Oh that’s easy. ‘Definitely print. (Responding to the look of shock on his face) Of course you wouldn’t understand. Your type never does.’ I shoot at him with the utmost disgust.

My comment is followed by guffaws of laughter... ‘My type? What do you mean, my type? Is it the beard? Do you think I should do away with it?’ He asks me with mock concern.

‘Humph. Your type. The boring accountant type, who have nothing better to do in their lives but calculate numbers, and worry about stupid balance sheets…and your beard, well you could do with a little trimming..’ (I think I’ve said a little too much, but amazingly, and annoyingly, Raza seems unfazed, and is definitely enjoying the conversation.)

“Woaah. Someone’s got issues!! But honey, who’s the accountant here? (Smiling) Just because I work at the bank, does not classify me as an accountant. Just for your information, I’m in customer services, which has absolutely nothing to do with accounts, ledgers, balance sheets, although a little bit of calculation can be required sometimes.. I hope that doesn’t pose too hazardous a situation?’ he asks with a smile.

I’m embarrassed. Not just normal embarrassed, but embarrassed to the point of wanting to jump up, throw my fries at his face, and run out of the joint.
Definitely sensing my embarrassment, bloody Raza guy changes the topic: (whatever! I don’t need his pity. Although, I have to admit, it is kind of sweet.)

‘Oh who cares anyway? Accountant ho ya customer services, baat to ek hi hae. Ok let’s see, what do you like doing when you’re free? Ok. No. Don’t tell me. Let me guess…I always know what ‘your type’ likes to do. (Giving me a wide smile, which I feebly return) Well, you definitely like reading; particularly classics. You love the thought of getting lost in another person’s world, where you can let your imagination turn wild, and maybe even imagine you’re the damsel in distress waiting for her frog prince to save the day?’

This is a plot. He’s definitely from the KGB or the CIA, wanting to do me in for the journalism class I bunked last week…I have a faint image of Raza, suddenly brandishing a gun at me, and flashing a golden badge at my face, ‘Miss, you have the right to remain silent, Anything you say or do, can and will be used against you in the court of law!’

I struggle to clear my mind, clear my throat, and notice that Raza dearie is staring and smiling at me. Again I have the uncomfortable feeling that he knows exactly what I’m thinking. ‘Ahem, um, ok enough of your interrogation. Now it’s my turn. You have to answer my questions, no lengthy ‘bhashans’, just limit it to a word please. And NO acting too smart or trying to be funny. This is serious. Kapeesh?’

‘Kapeesh.’

‘What do you think of Bush?’

‘Huh? Bush? What does he have to do with this?’

‘No questions, please. Just answer!”

“He’s an ass”

‘Ok. Michael Jackson?’

‘Wacko’

‘Favorite book?’

‘Devil’s Alternative.’

‘Vanilla or chocolate?’

‘Chocolate.’

‘Ice Lolly or slush?’

‘Both.’

‘Black or yellow?’

‘Yellow.’

‘Rory or Lorelei?’

‘Lorelei.’

‘Darcy or Rochester?’

‘Sorry, I’m not gay.’

I involuntarily let slip a giggle, which soon ripens to a guffaw of laughter, heightened by looking at the intense look of concentration on his face.
He has a comical look on his face.. ‘So miss, how’d I fair? At least a 7 out of 10?’

‘Hmm…Woh to aapko baad mein pata chale ga. Right now, I think I see mum waving her hands at us frantically, which I think must mean she wants us to go over to their table.'

He flashes me one of his broad smiles, and I notice (weird how I notice the stupidest of things) how white his teeth are. Faintly I try to remember if I flossed today.

We both make our way across to the parents' table, and Raza says from out of the corner of his mouth: ‘It was lovely meeting you. Hopefully, the feeling was mutual?’ He asks me with a smile.

I prefer not to answer. I like playing hard to get.

I notice that my parents are already standing, ready to leave. Ami is hugging aunty. “Aap se mil ker bohat khushi hui. Yes definitely, ill call you and InshAllah, the future will bring bright days for both of our families.’

The dads shake their hands. Raza hugs my dad, does the normal round of ‘Humein shukriya to aapka karna chahiye he uncle..’blah blah blah. I hastily hug aunty, really hating the kissing on the cheeks, and say all the niceties my mum has taught me to say at such occasions.

Finally, we make our way across to the door. The refreshing air of Lahore is a blessing as my mum attacks with a horde of questions.
“So how was he? What did you both talk about? Did he say you looked pretty?’
I look at my mom. “Ami, theek tha…I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it.’
My mum looks at me exasperatedly, knowing full well she won’t get anything out of me as yet.

We get in the car; my parents exchange their opinion, while I think.Hmm.so what do I think of him?

Weird images of marriage, me dressed like a bride, Raza dressed in policemen’s garb, clutter my mind, and I heave a sigh of relief as we reach home. I am the first one to get off, and before my mum and dad have even reached the door, I have raced onto my room. After changing, and washing my face, I go towards the computer, with black eyes from the kohl that had spread. I look over at my collection of songs, and pick Vital signs’ Aitebaar.

I connect the internet, and without even thinking, I type ‘inflation’ in the Google search bar, and before I know it, I, Amna Siddiqui, student of mass communication, am reading an article on what was, an hour ago, bloody boring inflation.

As Junaid Jamshed croons in his oh so lovely voice, I imagine Raza standing before me, dressed in a tux, flashing his white teeth, and singing ‘janglon mein bhi..raastein to haen..humein bhi koiii, mil hi jayegaa!’

Completely overcome with this image, I think to myself, with a smile,
Maybe not having sex in the pool is not that big a deal.