(8:00 am). Mother dearest barges in. “Wake up GuRiya! Half the day has passed by and you are still in your shalwar kameez!”

I knew it had been too good to be true. Chocolate unicorns really did not exist. Shaking off the imaginary laal duppatta I was gliding on top of my unicorn with, I looked up to see what mummy ji had in store for me that morning.

“This will look so nice on you Nazo (holding up a dark purple polka dot lehnga). The dark colors will accentuate your figure, and (pause) oh mere Allah why are their corn pops spread all over the bed? Do you have no bedside manners? What will your in laws think of you? They will not stand corn pops or any other form of cereal on your bed.”

“Oh my Allah, what will become of you Nazish? Oh God, what will they think? Has her mother not taught her any manners at all? This is entirely your daddy’s fault. If he had the nerve to scold you even once, I wouldn’t have to see this day. But don’t worry; I have prepared myself for the worst. We have set up a trust fund which will ensure that you lead a safe and comfortable life incase anything goes wrong with your marriage. Do you know girls your age have set up conglomerates, are spreading the word on evolution and at the same time raising a family? Look at Condoleezza Rice! She is ALMOST the same age you are. Why don’t you become more like her? ”

Condoleeza, right!

The walls were looking a shade whiter that morning. I could feel the reflection of my pupils staring back at me as I pierced the walls with my steady gaze. Suddenly, the room had stopped enclosing me.

Condoleezza Rice was my age? Who are my in-laws? (Pause) Did I get married overnight? Looking for my non existent wedding ring and Nikkah papers on my bedside table, my head hit the corner of my laptop which apparently had been left open by my other half. Before I forget to mention, some background information will shake off any doubts readers may have about me.

I am normal. But then again, normality has no boundaries. It lies within and goes beyond the realm of its definition. I am normal. My other half is not. To answer your next question, yes I do prefer a venti white chocolate mocha with no shot of raspberry over a tall white chocolate mocha with a shot of raspberry.

Also, my other half is not my sister, friend, boyfriend or husband. I do not have such people in my life. However, my other half does. She is someone whom I give utmost respect to, who appreciates the finer things in life, e.g. corn pops in a bowl filled with half and half. She is also not Condoleezza Rice. She is just simply put, my other half.

(I do not know where this article is leading.) I shut my laptop off, leaving the 32 year old single men on the chat room dismayed by my absence. But it had to be done. I was not ignoring them for a reason. They were subtly put, ugly.

I still couldn’t find my Nikkah papers. The suspense was killing me. I picked up a knife and dragged it across the bed to reach for my cell phone. After having looked through every pizza and Chinese take out on my speed dial, I came down to a number which seemed oddly familiar. Was he the husband my mother was talking about? I crossed my fingers and hit the “send” button.

These few seconds were going to determine fate. “Hey Nazish,” drawled the husky voice on the other end. My heart was fluttering like the soaked corn pops swimming in the liquidly cascade of half and half. Was he the one? Was he someone I could share my cereal with? I kept asking myself all these questions, while my “shohar” listened patiently to my anxiety filled breathing on the line. And then the husband decided to break the ice. “So what would you like to order today Nazish.”

Wow, I though to myself. My husband sure was kinky. Before I could put on my throaty voice and ask him to confirm my “shohar-ly instincts,” the voice on the other end uttered words no wife ever wanted to hear. “Our specials today are tandoori chicken Caesar salad with a side of mango chutney….” My heart made a vertical down by my bowl of corn pops. Luckily it had just missed the bowl. It had however, serrated the edges. Incase my readers still haven’t affiliated corn pops to my heart, indeed they are one and the same.

The non existent ring, Nikkah papers and the husky-voice heart throb had confirmed my mother’s prediction. My trust fund would not be enough to support myself and the pizza boy.

I had barely passed middle school when my parents, aunts, grandmother, cook, servants, neighbors, pets, started pestering me about how I would one day find a rich, educated, handsome husband, who would whisk me away to the moon (and for all I knew even leave me their). I would simply ignore them and return to the comfort of my corn pops (also known as pop corns in Pakistan).

My parents being educated individuals were obviously not too serious about “giving me away” at adolescence, however the thought always lingered with them. I sometimes wondered whether my parents had doubts about my level of intelligence. “Did she know where she was going with her future? Would she be able to survive psychologically past the age of 21 if she was still single? Would society still give us the respect we had lived up to? Why was she so hard headed when it came to issues such as marriage?” I was my parents’ only daughter. I was also their only “problem.”

“Nazo, look at him. What a young and dashing fellow, no?” screeched my aunt holding up a picture ten inches away from my face “Yes aunt, he’s perfect for you.” Why was everybody so worried about my “life partner” I wondered. Famine in Ethiopia, floods in Sri Lanka, aids all over Africa were only some concerns they should have been involved with. Instead they decided my life was an even bigger catastrophe. Was it like this for every girl in our “desi culture? With a few variations, we were all simmering in the same bowl of confused corn pops.

My aunt wanted my hand in marriage (for her son) before I was even conceived; my father and his best friend had put their children’s names on the waiting list for the best hall in town right after they got married, my mother had her wedding lehnga dry cleaned every five years so it would look as good as new on my wedding day.

Jewish parents open up college savings accounts when their children turn two. My parents had booked my wedding hall then. (Stop smirking, your parents are doing the same thing girls.)

Some of the readers are probably sympathizing with me. Some are probably even crying. I am used to it. I am actually more amused by the pictures I get on my hands every week, (the pictures obviously tell me if I am going to fall in love and spend the rest of my life with them.) But more than that, I am really just amused by the concept of marriage in our culture and my affiliation of corn pops with them.

End of part one. Thank Ooperwallah!