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Asim and Nida say ... `I accept'
The day Asim Bukhari will marry
someone he has never met begins like any other in his family's His sisters and nieces peel
themselves off sheets they've spread on the floor throughout the house, brush
the sleep from their eyes and settle down in rumpled shalwar kameez, cotton
dresses and pants, to the dining table for pieces of crunchy rusk bread
dipped in cups of sweet, milky tea. At He doesn't feel nervous. Only when he is inside a nearby,
cramped women's store, giggling over lingerie with his nephew Farhan and
friend Asim Ali, does the realization begin to hit him. In a few short hours,
he will be sitting on a stage beside a woman he has only spoken to three
times on the phone. And she will be his wife. "I don't know what I'm
going to say to her," he whispers dryly. Less than a kilometre away, his
future wife Nida wraps a beige shawl over her head and leaves her family's
apartment for a beauty salon around the corner. She hasn't stopped crying since
she woke up early this morning. She is nervous and scared, but mostly upset
about leaving her family. After tonight, she will move in with Asim — first
into his sister Aapi's Karachi home where he is staying, and then, once her
sponsorship papers are approved, to his home in Pickering. The farthest she has ever
ventured from She settles into a chair at the
back of the dark, tight Moon Beauty Parlour, and wonders how her life will
change after tonight. An Indian song warbles from
dusty speakers: "How can I live without you ..." At 22, she has never had a
personal conversation with a man outside her family. She has never been
kissed. And she's been told absolutely nothing about sex. As a rule,
Pakistani mothers don't sit their daughters down for that delicate
conversation. She has been told that Asim is
gentle and kind, but she knows nothing first-hand about his character. She
hasn't even seen a photo of him. What will the first thing she
says to him be? "I have no idea," she
says quietly, tilting her face up for a coat of light foundation and closing
her eyes. It's dusk, and Aapi's home
whirls with preparations. All three of her sons are busy: Farhan is taking
the rental car to a florist to be decorated, Amjad is arranging the
musicians, and 18-year-old Umair is covered in glue, dotting the ceiling in
one of the family's three bedrooms with coloured Styrofoam hearts and stars.
Tonight, this will become the bridal suite. "Everyone is busy,
busy," clucks Aapi's husband Ghulam, settling into a dark brown bamboo
chair in the family room for a five-minute respite. The bedroom behind him resembles
the dressing room for a high school play. Most of the furniture, including
the bed, has been hauled out behind the house to make space for Asim's six
sisters and their eight daughters, most of whom will sleep Legoed together on
the floor. Their new, freshly tailored shalwar kameez hang from the
window bars and light fixtures on the wall. They sit in clumps, applying one
another's makeup, sipping tea, and reminiscing about their own weddings. Only Shahina will admit she was
nervous. "It's the start of a new
life," she remembers thinking the night she married Ather 10 years ago.
They also had never met before their wedding day, but to see them now, you
would think they had spent their lives together chatting on a couch. As the minutes click forward,
Asim revises the advice he's gleaned from married friends, all of whom had
arranged marriages. He should make Nida feel comfortable on the stage, when
they sit together for photos. Tell her she looks beautiful. Explain later
that his parents have died, and Aapi and Ghulam now head the family. She must
respect them like he does. But he's getting ahead of
himself. What will he say first? He unfurls a prayer mat a few
paces from the bridal suite where Umair is now stringing up garlands of
jasmine over the bed, and asks Allah to bless him and Nida with happiness. "Give us a good life,"
he prays, falling to his knees and pressing his forehead to the ground. At 9 p.m., the time the
invitations say the ceremony will begin, Asim begins to get dressed, dabbing
gel into his black hair, exchanging his glasses for a new pair, and pulling a
hot iron over his new white pants. He is so nervous, he forgets to
spray on the cologne he bought just this afternoon. "I don't know what's going
on," he says, watching the preparations as if from inside a bubble.
"I was at my friends' weddings, and now I'm in their place. It's a weird
feeling." Finally, just before 10 p.m.,
everyone is ready. The men are in new suits and freshly pressed shalwar
kameez. The women's faces are pasted white, their hair clipped up in
curls. Asim pulls on his long,
gold-coloured wedding jacket and burgundy turban. He slides his bare feet
into a pair of leather shoes that curl at the toes. His brothers-in-law surround him
with a pink cape of pink roses and jasmine, and tie it around his head. It
hangs to his knees and is so heavy, they have to use extra string for
support. They clear a small space for his glasses, but still he can hardly
see. It is really happening. He is
getting married. The crying begins. Aapi hugs
him, sobbing, and whispers through the flowers that she hopes his future will
be great. "We are all here with you," Ghulam says, taking his hand
and leading him like a blind man down the small alley beside the house and
out the front gates to the car. Red, green and yellow lights glow from the
gate and upstairs balcony, making the two-storey house look like a Christmas
display. It is a warm summer night, not
too hot, and the eucalyptus trees that line their small, muddy street rustle
in a gentle breeze. A caravan of three cars and two
buses makes its way to the wedding hall, four blocks away. Inside one bus,
his nieces erupt into song: "Listen, listen," they sing. "We
are coming to take the bride." Through his mask of flowers,
Asim can't see the flashing purple and green fluorescent lights, or the
reception line of Nida's family at the entrance, waiting to shower him with
rose petals. He grasps for guiding arms, and
is led along a red carpet into a garden dotted with white tables and chairs.
Two small stages sit to one side, separated by a concrete hut. He climbs up
one, settles on a hard, brown couch and waits. His heart pounds. Ten minutes later, Nida arrives
in a cluster of her female relatives and is whisked quickly to the hut. This
is the makeup room, although it seems more like a change room at a public
pool. A fluorescent tube light blinks from one wall, and a rusty floor fan
stirs the warm air around. She sits quietly on an old wooden couch, her head
bent down shyly. For the rest of the night, she will not look up. Her three uncles come in and sit
beside her. One holds up the marriage contract and asks her three times if
she accepts Asim as her husband. Three times, she says "I accept"
so quietly, her mother can't hear from two metres away. A video camera's white light
blazes down on her right hand, painted deep red with henna designs and
bejewelled with rings, as she signs the legal document. The cameramen then leave the hut
and walk across the lawn to the stage where Asim sits. A bearded qazi — an
Islamic religious man — settles beside him, asks him if he accepts Nida, and
then pulls back his mane of flowers so he can sign his name to the marriage
contract. The qazi then blesses
their union with a prayer from the Qu'ran in Arabic. There is no exchange of rings,
no kissing of the bride. It is over in 15 short minutes: Asim and Nida are
now officially married. And they still haven't laid eyes
on one another. The three-man band strikes up
and warbling nasal flute music fills the garden. His sisters hug one another
tearfully. "Mubarak," they say. Congratulations. Food is served on large silver
platters. Chicken biryani, spicy beef curry, warm rotis, rice custard. Bottles
of Pepsi and fizzy Teem are handed out with straws. Unlike more traditional
weddings, the garden has not been partitioned with dividers, formally
separating the sexes. But, the guests have naturally segregated themselves,
with the women congregating at tables near the far stage, where Nida has been
moved to another long, hard couch, and the men eating at tables near Asim. An hour and a half after they
were married, Asim is finally ushered along the red carpet toward her stage.
His rose mask has been removed, but he still can barely see through the crowd
and the glare of video cameras. His eyes dart back and forth as he climbs the
steps. He wants to look at her, but is too nervous. Everyone is staring. He
feels trapped in the spotlight. An hour-long photo session
begins, with all of their family members mounting and descending to have
their snaps taken on either side of the couple. She holds her red purse
tightly and looks down demurely. He folds his hands on his lap and looks up,
smile frozen. They seem like two strangers crammed on a subway bench. In the
few breaths between photos, while seats are exchanged around them, Asim
searches desperately for something to say. But he can't think of anything. He can barely see her out of the
corner of his eye. "They haven't even looked
at one another," his nephew Amjad exclaims from the crowd. "Talk, talk, talk,"
Farhan hollers, and then says under his breath, "Can you believe Asim
hasn't spoken a single word to Nida yet, and it's been an hour? "Offer her some chewing
gum," he shouts in jest. By 1:30, two-thirds of the
tables are empty and only close friends and family members remain. It is time
to go — which means Nida's turn for the cape of flowers. Her brother holds a
Qu'ran over her head as a blessing. As they walk down the carpet
toward the exit, Asim reaches down for her hand to help guide her. But he
can't find it. Then, when he isn't even
thinking about it, the words emerge. "Are you okay?" he
whispers. She nods her head. "Can you see?" She
shakes no. In the canopied hall entrance,
her family weeps. Nida will not be coming back to their home, except to
visit. Her father, Shakir, pulls Asim into a bear hug. "Please treat her
right," he sobs. They are driven back to his
house, where another lengthy photo session awaits. It isn't until 3:30 a.m. that
she is led into the bridal suite, now carpeted with rose petals. He follows, but is barred by his
family at the door. "You can't come in,"
they holler. Not unless he pays them. This is tradition. So, laughing, he offers up a
bank card. "Noooooo," they shout. How about a credit card? Only when he pulls out a second,
crisp 1,000-rupee note, worth about $25, will they let him pass. He steps inside and looks out at
them, smiling tensely. In a few seconds he will get to look directly into his
wife's face for the first time. And, five hours after being married, they
will finally be alone. He reaches up to slide the lock
into its bolt. What will he say to her? Follow the series and browse
the photo gallery online at |
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