The Virgin Bride

“Well, I hear they’re all whores, yaar!” said Raheem as he dug his fingers into his daal and rice. “Shit, yaar! I can’t believe you’re leaving in a month! Not fair! All whores, except you don’t have to pay them. Pass the achaar.” Majid passed his friend the pickled mango that his aunt had made and watched him scoop some onto the side of his plate and then swirl it, bit by bit, into his food. “At least that’s what my brother says. You got your visa squared away, already? Lucky bastard! I can’t believe I’ve got to slog through another year here before I’m allowed to get out of this hellhole!”

“You’ll be in the States before you know it, yaar. A year’s not that long,” Majid lied sympathetically. A year was forever. And as the countdown for his departure to the US seemed to accelerate, he would gladly have changed places with Raheem. But he couldn’t admit that. He had won. He had convinced his parents to let him start college a year earlier than his classmates. But now, his victory felt hollow. He was terrified. He did not look forward to being a newcomer in a foreign land. This was his home. He knew the score. He was master of the elements. But there, the air was different. The elements were different. And, as his friend Raheem was now pointing out, so were the girls.



The problem was, he hadn’t yet managed to crack the mystery of the girls in his own country. And now, time was running out. If he had some experience here, some beginning level of knowledge, surely that would translate to a better understanding of American girls. Sex. It was sex he couldn’t stop thinking about. The idea of groping around in the dark with a member of the opposite sex was terrifying enough, exciting but terrifying. The idea of doing that with some sophisticated American bombshell, and here the images of Betty and Veronica from the Archie comics he had read all his life came to mind, was paralyzing. And this was a dilemma he could not share with his friend. Because at 17 years old, Raheem was a master at the boy meets girl game. Or so he claimed. And no one else knew, not even Raheem, that Majid, for all his outward sophistication, was still a virgin.

He was, like Raheem, only 17 years old. Age was not the issue. But he would be in America for four years. He would be 21 when he graduated from college. And according to all he saw on TV, the soap operas his mother watched on satellite television, the Oprah Winfrey show, Beverly Hills 90210 and good old MTV, 21 year old virgins just didn’t exist in America. Well, there was Donna Martin from 90210, but she was a girl and didn’t count. So, how could he do it? How could he get laid in the next month, so he could make his mistakes on his home turf, rather than making a fool of himself on foreign soil with foreign girls?

As if in answer, Raheem said, “Ready for the party? That was delicious…thanks for the dinner. I can’t believe Nadir’s parents are letting him throw this bash…girls, booze…must be nice to have such cool parents. Leakey…you know Liaqat don’t you? Leakey said he’s got a whole group of Convent girls to promise they’ll show up! Mmmm…can’t wait. I love the Convent girls! Our Grammar girls are so boring…once you’ve studied math with a girl, she never really seems like a girl again, if you know what I mean? But of course, you know exactly what I mean, don’t you, Majid? I mean, you wouldn’t be caught dead with one of our own girls, would you, PB? Lucky bastard! With all the action you get with the prudes around here, just imagine what you’ll be getting when you get to America!”

Majid’s school pet name, PB, stood for Pretty Boy. His thick, dark lashes and beautifully symmetrical features, along with a long, tall and lanky frame made him an object of envy among the other boys in school and the object of much attention and affection among the girls. Majid’s charm for the opposite sex was further enhanced by a quick and lively sense of humor (he was always muttering witty comments under his breath in class…usually at the expense of his teachers) and an unassuming nature. He seemed unaware of his good looks—seemed, in fact, to resent being considered a “pretty boy.” And he was always respectful of the girls, never throwing lines at them, like Raheem, or speaking lightly of them behind their backs like the others.

The party was the usual scene. A bunch of kids sitting around, chugging down booze, loud music blaring in the background. A few lame dancers scattered around. Young couples pairing off to neck in all the dark corners of Nadir’s house.

As usual, Majid had his fair share of feminine admiration. Therein lay his dilemma. In Majid’s world, there were two types of girls: good and not so good. The first he identified with marriage and motherhood. The second—well, the second he did not. Being a young man of principle, Majid had too much of a conscience to try to corrupt an innocent. His friends, of course, had no such scruples. And being an innocent himself, he feared the laughter and scorn of a less virtuous, more experienced girl. After all, whether it was justified or not, he had a reputation for success with the fairer sex. And while he may have done nothing to earn it, he was damned if he would jeopardize it to become the object of ridicule for some fast girl.

Tonight, one source of admiration stood out. Of course, Majid had noticed the group of Convent girls that Raheem had mentioned earlier. How could he not when Raheem kept elbowing him in the ribs every time one of them looked their way? They were students at one of the all-girls Convent-run schools that were established at the time of the British Raj. The parents of these students believed, very often mistakenly, that seclusion from the opposite sex somehow protected their daughters from the worldly temptations which could ruin the reputations upon which future marriage proposals were based. But these girls were so starved for male company that this often backfired. They were generally more susceptible to the corruption of male seduction than were the female students at local co-ed schools.

One girl in particular drew Majid’s attention away from his own anxiety. She was beautiful. But that alone was not what made him notice her. Her hair was long and braided. A bit old-fashioned, really. Her eyes, as she looked around the room, were wide and her expression bore the kind of shock that indicated this was her first foray into the Karachi underground party scene. Obviously, Majid thought, she came from a conservative family. The kind that fiercely protected its girls from the depravity of youth. She had the fearful, haunted look that gave away the guilt involved in her presence at this party. And she stayed close to one of her classmates, a tall, attractive girl who Majid had seen before at other parties by the name of Farida. From time to time, the girl looked his way and their eyes met a few times—though she turned away quickly and he pretended not to notice—she was obviously a good girl and not worth wasting his time over.

After circling the party a couple of times, careful not to linger anywhere close to the girl he had been watching, Majid parked himself in the center of the room with Raheem and a crowd of Grammarians all around him. It wasn’t long before Raheem’s friend Leakey brought the Convent group over.

Farida said, “Hey, Raheem—long time no see. Hi, Majid. This is my friend Mubeena. She’s engaged to be married—so don’t be getting any ideas, Raheem.” Majid thought he saw Mubeena’s haunted look became sharper as she glanced up at Majid through her lashes, but decided that he’d imagined it when she looked back down to check her watch.

“Majid, I hear you’re off to the land of plenty. Congratulations, yaar!” Farida continued.

“Thanks, Farida. Yes—I leave next month.”

“I’ve got a sister who is married and settled in the States. I’ve visited her twice. It’s fantastic, yaar!”

“Oh? Where does she live?” Majid really couldn’t care less, but he was nothing if not courteous.

“In Texas.”

“Oh—well I’ll be on the West Coast.” Majid turned to Mubeena and asked, “Is your fiancee here?”

Mubeena looked directly into Majid’s eyes, for the first time at close range, as she answered, “No. Excuse me, I need to find the restroom.” She was off in a second.

Majid was dumbstruck. She was even more beautiful close up than she’d been from across the room.

No one noticed his momentary loss for words as Farida jumped in to elaborate for her friend, “He’s, like, really old. Mubeena’s fiancee, I mean. It’s an arranged thing. Poor Mubeena! I can’t imagine being married off to some guy in his thirties. I think he’s like thirty-five or something. But her family’s pretty traditional and she’s always been pretty straitlaced. Pretty provincial, if you ask me. But it’s really affected her—I mean, I think she’s pretty depressed about it. You know, I’ve asked her to come to parties with me hundreds of times before, but she’s always said no. And suddenly—she’s asking me when the next one is. Lied to her parents and everything, just to be here. I really thought she was kidding. But no—sure enough—she gets dropped off at my house at 7:00 p.m.—on the dot—just like we planned. Man, I’m parched, yaar. Really thirsty.” Farida looked meaningfully at Raheem.

“The bar’s over there,” said Raheem, coolly.

She gave him another look, this time of utter disgust, before she walked away to get herself a drink.

“Tease! All talk—and no give. Last time I went out with Farida, I damn near came home with blue balls. She’ll let you do anything as long as she’s wearing her clothes. Who needs her?! Plenty of fish out there in the sea, eh Majid? That Mubeena friend, for instance. Now, she’s something, yaar! I’d like to get me some of that. Of course, she only had eyes for ol’ PB, here, eh Majid? You gonna take her up on it, you lucky bastard?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s engaged.”

“You heard Farida. She’s going to have to marry some old ancient budda. It’s probably her last chance to have a young guy—one who can keep up with her hot, young blood. Go for it, yaar!”

“Shut up, Raheem! Don’t be disgusting, yaar!”

“Suit yourself, PB,” Raheem shrugged and went off in search of a refill. Majid shuffled off to the nearest balcony to get away from the sudden explosion of smoke that had occurred as the rest of the Convent girls simultaneously lit up cigarettes and started to puff up a storm.

He leaned over the railing of the balcony and saw the drivers sitting outside the gate with Nadir’s chowkidar and wondered what the servants thought of this party? All the drivers and male servants he had known always seemed to have wives and families back home in their mulq. They came to the city for work. Majid couldn’t even imagine what their lives in the villages, in the mulqs were like. Some of them went home as little as once in two years. But they all had children. Majid had heard horror stories of how the ignorant bastards kept their women subjugated. He guessed the means of control were even tighter when their men had to be away for so much of the time.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised when he heard the click of a heel behind him and knew who it was before he heard her voice. “Do you mind if I join you?” It was Mubeena.

“Not at all.” Majid was ready for the sight of her this time.

“Majid,” she said his name softly, as if she knew him. “I came to this party for a reason. Farida mentioned that I am engaged. Well, it is an arranged marriage. He’s much older than me. I’m—I’m not attracted to him at all. My parents—well, my parents aren’t giving me a choice in the matter. They mean well—but I know what I want.” She paused.

“God, Mubeena, I’m really sorry! That’s—well, that’s a tough situation. Have you—explained how you feel? I mean, I’m sure if they knew, they’d see—“

“It’s no use. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m sorry. Is there anything…? I mean, I’m not sure I can…”

“Oh, no. I don’t need you to rescue me or anything. Though it was sweet of you to think of it. I couldn’t put my family through something like that. But, I do have a favor to ask.”

Majid swallowed, “A favor? What is it?”

“Sleep with me, Majid,” her eyes were deadly serious as she spoke the words.

For a second, Majid took her seriously—and then he realized. He laughed, “Oh, come on! I know Raheem put you up to this.”

She looked puzzled. “Raheem? You mean, your friend? No, he doesn’t—he can’t know. Of course I’d expect you to keep it a secret. In fact, I’d count on you to keep it a secret. You only have a month before you leave. It won’t be long for you to have to keep quiet. And it could be a life or death issue for me if anyone found out.”

She was still deadly serious. Suddenly, Majid knew that she wasn’t joking. His mouth was bone dry as he asked, “Why? Why me?”

“Why not? I’ve heard about you. Don’t be so modest. Half the girls in my school are in love with you. You’re handsome. You’re young. And you’re what I want.” As she emphasized the word, she turned away, for the first time since the conversation had begun, and clenched her fists. She turned back to Majid. “You’re experienced. You’re everything a girl could wish for in her first lover.”

Now, it was Majid’s turn to look away. And he did for a long time before making a decision and turning back to face Mubeena. “I’ve got a secret to share, too. I’m not experienced. I’m a virgin, too.”

Her eyes opened wide. There was a moment’s pause and then the beautiful sound of her laughter rang out as she said, “You’re a virgin? You?!” She laughed hard for a moment before Majid, too, saw the humor in the situation. And his laughter joined hers—creating a force of intimacy around them that was suddenly electric.

“So—now what?” asked Majid, as their laughter faded into smiles.

She looked down at the drivers. And looked back up with purpose into Majid’s eyes.

“So what? I still want you to sleep with me. Even more so, now.”

“Yes.”

It was agreed. They kept Farida and Raheem out of it. They arranged for an afternoon when Mubeena told her parents she was having lunch with her friends at the Marriott. When her driver dropped her off, instead of heading for the hotel restaurant, she walked quickly to the elevators. Her chadar pulled tightly around her head, and shielding her profile from the other people in the lobby of the hotel, she entered the elevator and met Majid on the seventh floor where he’d booked them a room. He was waiting outside the elevator and took her hand as soon as the doors opened.

When he turned the key in the lock of the door, he turned to her, smiled and lifted her up into his arms to carry her over the threshold of the hotel room door. “This is what newlyweds do in America.”

There were flowers everywhere. Rose petals were strewn all over the sheets on the bed, and there were candles lit all around, even though it was only one o’clock in the afternoon. There were little presents for Mubeena strategically placed all over the room. Majid had gone all out. He wanted to give her a taste of the honeymoon she would never have.

And that’s what it was like. They had only met once before. But they acted like young lovers who had been counting down for this moment for months. They laughed, they kissed, and they made love. Since it was the first time for both of them, there were plenty of awkward moments—despite all of his rehearsals, Majid had a tough time putting on the condom—but they laughed and joked their way through them all. At the end, they parted—friends once more and no longer lovers. They’d been together for only four hours.

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Just as he’d hoped, Majid’s introduction with Mubeena served him well in America. It was as if the magic of her initial invitation to him somehow became part of his own aura. He emitted something that drew women to him, more than ever before. Because just as had happened with Mubeena, Majid never had to ask. He was offered love wherever he turned. And he enjoyed himself thoroughly, rarely turning it down. He was very conscientious. Concerned about disease and pregnancy, he made sure that he and his partners were always protected. He never lied to women. He was always the perfect gentleman, opening doors and picking up the tab. But he also respected the minds of the women he was with, and American women marveled at his feminist enlightenment. He had learned the magic of laughter from his brief experience with Mubeena, and he made sure there was always plenty of it in the air around him.

His four years at college passed. He graduated and looked for work. He found a job in his field with a company that was willing to sponsor his immigration and he settled in the United States as a matter of course, without any conscious decision. He shrugged off his parents’ attempts to find him a wife when he went back home for visits. He was having too good a time to want to change the status of his life.

Unlike it had been with Mubeena, the laughter he now shared with women was never spontaneous. He studied American humor, watching old sitcoms in order to understand the culture better. He wanted to fit in, and always laughed at the jokes others told, even when they went over his head. He’d file away the punch lines for later research, using humor as a means of becoming assimilated. He was good at it, too, often thinking up funny things to say in advance. Yet, he never sounded rehearsed or unnatural. But he knew the laughter was different from before, without ever really understanding why. His accent changed within a year of his arrival. A hint of the foreign remained, but it was barely noticeable and probably enhanced his charm.

It was no wonder that women loved him. And he fell in love, too. Not with any one person. Rather, with life itself. That is, with his own life. He loved being in America. He loved having his choice of women. But he never loved any single person. For Majid, love was a universal feeling…not in any spiritual sense. It was something to be felt and tasted in each moment that one experienced. Monogamy seemed unnecessary and rather wasteful. It was the here and now that mattered. Ultimately, most of the women he became involved with asked about the future. Again, Majid never lied. He just didn’t see the importance of it. And most of his encounters with women ended on a dissatisfying note merely because they ended. He couldn’t understand the need to end them. They could never fault him for anything he had failed to do or for any way in which he had hurt them.

Years passed, one blending into another in a seamless pattern of satisfaction and contentment. Majid looked better than ever. And the women he attracted were still beautiful, still young, and still plenty in number. Most of his old school friends were married by now. Raheem had three children. He, too, had settled in America. On a recent visit with his old classmate, Majid could pinpoint the moment when he began to want a change.

Raheem’s daughter, Sakina, had fallen down in the park. They were way off in the distance; Majid couldn’t even hear their voices. He saw Raheem run over and put his arms around his daughter. Her little arms had come around her father’s neck, her fingers tangled in his thinning hair. She had buried her face against the curve of Raheem’s neck and he gently stroked his daughter’s back in a soothing motion. It was the most commonplace of scenes—one that happened in every park in America at least five times a day. Suddenly, Majid knew that he wanted what he saw. Wanted to protect and comfort a little person who was a part of himself. And he started paying attention when his mother mentioned the names of eligible women.

Majid was in his thirties. How the years had flown! He had officially passed the halfway mark which meant that he had spent most of his life in America. It made sense to search for a bride in the country he had adopted. There were plenty of good Pakistani families in America to search from. And he did.

Finally, he found her. A friend of both families had set up the meeting. She was beautiful. A recent graduate from college, she had just begun a career in marketing. She was bright and intelligent. Her family loved him. Whenever he looked at her, he knew she was good. She made him think of matrimony and motherhood. She was a young woman of few words—reserved without being coy or timid. Modest without seeming prudish. He was patient, wanting to take things slowly. He felt differently for her than for any of the other women he had ever known. With the possible exception of Mubeena. But then, he had been a child. And so, he acted differently, too. His courtship, which began after their official engagement, was slow and formal. He maintained a distance, figuring that they had a lifetime to get to know one another and that there was no hurry. He had been around enough to be able to wait for the sexual fulfillment of the relationship, and limited their interaction to a few chaste kisses, sometimes testing the waters for underlying passion. He was more than satisfied with what he felt. There was a desperate passion in her embraces that excited him all the more because it seemed discordant, somehow out of step with the cool, outer reserve that she normally projected. Delayed gratification was part of the whole wedding scenario, and he felt nostalgically traditional about his own wedding. Given his own past, it would have been hypocritical to make virginity a requirement in a bride, and the fact that she was a virgin was an added bonus.

Finally, the wedding day arrived. The occasion was joyous. His whole family flew in from Pakistan. Cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces. They congratulated him on the beauty of his bride. The couple left immediately after the wedding for their honeymoon. Without realizing it, he had whimsically set the stage of magic and romance that he had once produced for Mubeena. This time, the acting did not rise to the occasion and Majid was a little disappointed. Oh well, she was young and inexperienced and there was plenty of time to perfect the details. Otherwise, the brief honeymoon was wonderful. They played in the sun and the sand. The weather was picture perfect. Majid told himself that her reticence was charming—that her shyness would pass.

Home again—he carried her over the threshold. They unpacked. He was tired and it was late. He went to bed. She had to phone her mother and would be up soon. An hour later, he woke up to the sound of muffled sobs. He walked softly down the stairs. His bride was on the couch, quietly sobbing into the phone as she spoke, unaware of his presence: “I can’t, I can’t! I’ve tried, but I can’t! He’s so old! It’s you I love…I don’t care anymore what they say…Oh, baby, I’m only 21. He’s 37! I can’t stand it when he touches me. It’s you I need inside of me…I’ll never be able to forget what we had, what we did. It doesn’t matter! Please forgive me, you were right…you were right…I love you, I love you!”