Blank.

I'm drawing a blank here people. What should I write about? I have a list of possible topics, but I don't feel like writing about any of those today. So, suggestions anyone? Any holes in the story you'd like filled? Any weird cultural tidbits you'd like explained?

Inspire me, dear readers...

Do You Know What Masoor Daal Is?

I have this weird Catch-22 in my head. 

Sometimes, I'm a party to conversations in Urdu. I do understand a lot of the conversations, but throw in one difficult vocabulary word or some of those "bonus words" that I have trouble with, and all of a sudden I'm completely lost. I hate this. Actually, it doesn't only happen in Urdu. Sometimes a desi friend or family member will be speaking in English and mention something that I have no idea about. If the conversation is very fast, I might not have a chance to inquire about what it was. M is a really great translator for me, and he often knows when I've missed some important part of a conversation and can clue me in, but M is not always around, either. While it's an understandable part of living a multicultural life, it can get annoying to feel like you don't know what's going on. 

The reverse of this is even more difficult to explain. Sometimes people assume I DON'T know things that I do know, and THAT gets annoying too. I know, you're all like "What? Woman - pick a side!" but it's difficult to explain. (LuckyFatima does a better job of it in a post she wrote about the same thing.)

An example, perhaps: Once, the wife of a very close friend was asking about my cooking. She said that she really needed to get a daal recipe from me. 

So I said, "Oh, you know, daal is one of the easiest things to cook, I think. The one we're eating now is just a cup of Masoor daal, a half cup of Moong---" 

and then she cut me off "You know what Masoor daal is?" She asked, giggling. 

OF COURSE I know what masoor daal is! Why are you asking me for a daal recipe if you think I have no idea that there are different kinds of daal? (LF - why is it always daal!!) 

Another example: another friend of M's was visiting and talking about his family; something about his older cousin and his older cousin's wife, who he called Bhabhi. Then he told me that Bhabhi meant sister-in-law. I said "I know what Bhabhi means. I AM a Bhabhi! I married the oldest son - EVERYONE calls me Bhabhi!" He was offended by that. 

I know this is inconsistent. How can I be upset when people assume I know TOO much, and also be upset when people assume I DON'T know certain things? And how the heck is anyone supposed to know what I do or do not know about desi culture? Well, I don't really know how to explain it either. I will say that the examples I gave above were all about people who should know me very well, and therefore should have know that I'd know these kind of pretty basic things. 

I did meet one woman at a party for the first time once; I had been to her wedding as a guest of the groom, but she'd been too busy to do more than meet & greet. At this party, I finally got the chance to really talk to her, and I complimented her on the beautiful wedding. She said that it was actually more of a Valima function (a post-wedding celebration) and proceeded to explain what a Valima was. I wasn't upset at all because how was this girl supposed to know that I would know what a Valima is? In that kind of situation, I was actually appreciative that she would try to make sure that I was up to speed. I guess what I'm really trying to explain is that if you KNOW me, and know me well, you should not underestimate what I do know, and if you don't know me, you should not overestimate what I know. Not that you have any responsibility to me at all one way or another. Just a courtesy tip. 

Social Awkardness

I'm going to confess something. Again. But I'll only make this confession if you all promise not to make fun of me. If you're the sort that will poke fun at someone when they're baring their soul to you, then perhaps you should skip this post. Thanks.   

All right. Now that they're gone, I can speak freely.   

I am not always the most social person. I can be very shy. I am actually pretty good mingling in a group of strangers - as long as we're all on the same page and no one knows each other, I can mingle really well! But when people have already made groups, and *I* am the only stranger, I can't seem to force myself to break into the already-formed groups.   

Another aspect of my social awkwardness is that I never know how to broach the topic of my half-desi life.  

Imagine that you go somewhere and meet with a group of people and two or three of them are desi. I can't just blurt out "Oh, HEY! My husband is Pakistani!!!" First, what do they care? Second, maybe they're Nepalese for all I know? Perhaps they're Bangladeshi and their entire family suffered at the hands of Pakistanis in the 1971 conflict? Third, I'm afraid they'll think "What - does she think she's desi too? and fourth, see above: shy.

Basically, just because some is desi, or looks desi, doesn't mean they care that my husband is desi.  

But if I don't announce that my life has a Pakistani link to it, I run the risk of it becoming weirder and weirder as I go along. What if I become best friends with this person, and a year down the road they're blown away by the fact that I'm leaving for a month long trip to Pakistan?   

So, I've found a way around it. I needed a way to subtly annoucing my desi links without looking like an idiot. Enter the mehndi. Every time I'm going to a new group setting, or to a desi party where I won't know anyone, I slather the henna on my hands.   

It's such a great conversation starter. If there are any desis around, they're often drawn to me and ask about it. That way I can broach the topic of my Pakistani husband without feeling like a fool. Often we can then move onto talking about my travels to Pakistan, how I like my mother-in-law, and eventually onto the non-desi aspects of my life. (there are some, I swear!) Even if there aren't desis around, people usually ask me questions anyway - usually whether it's a tattoo. Yeah, I've had my HANDS permanently tattooed in BROWN. Even in a desi party setting, the ladies will ask who did them mehndi and be impressed when I say I did it, or they're talk about which kinds of mehndi they like (which can then leads to talks about beauty tips, or even once about the construction of beauty in different societies!) Once I even did it for a interview because the interviewer had a very Pakistani last name. She turned out to be an Indian muslim, but we spent more than an hour talking about non-interview related stuff after the interview. Score!  

If you're socailly awkward like me, I highly recommend it as a way to encourage social interactions. People will flock to you!

The Name Trick

I flew to Pakistan for the first time in December 2004. It was one year after I'd married M, and more than 2 years since we'd met. In that time, we had talked a lot about his family. I asked about his family on our very first date, actually. We talked about just his immediate family at first, but as I began to learn more and more about Pakistan, I realized that often Pakistanis are very very close to their extended families as well, and we even began discussing his aunts, uncles, and cousins. And then one step further: his Uncle's wife's family in Lahore who he's also close with. Or his Aunt's husband's step-mother who invited M's family to every wedding function (so we had to reciprocate, of course!) And because a lot of family members were interrelated because of the practice of cousins marrying, I was often left wondering how his mamus were related to his chachas. 

M was always a great storyteller, so even before we were married I knew a lot of these people. I did have a problem with names, though. Seriously - I have only 1 aunt and 3 uncles. Only 3 first cousins. M has 87 first cousins on his mother's side alone. His father was one of 21 children that he knows of. (He was the next-to-youngest, so there may have been more who passed away before he was born. Also, the only reason his parents stopped at 22 was because his father passed away...) That's 21 Puppas and Chachas to remember. My 2.5-kids per family America brain had a hard time with all those names for awhile. 

When we got married, things got a little easier. At my request, M's parents had brought with them a big stack of old pictures. It was one of the activities we'd planned to do together to help us start to feel more like a family - we'd all sit around in the evenings, after M came back from work, and look through the pictures together. Very often each picture would serve as a jumping off point for more stories, too. 

After having spent two years hearing all about these people and looking through their pictures, in the days leading up to our trip I asked for a sort of refresher course. I knew I was going to have difficulties with all these names, so I tried to map out a quick family tree; just the aunts & uncles and their kids - M's cousins. I kept that piece of paper folded up with me when I was in Pakistan, but I didn't need it very much, and not at all after the first week. It was surprising how much our prep work had helped; after meeting everyone the first time, it was like I already knew them all!

The trick I want to write about didn't start out as a trick at all, in fact. The first night of our visit, we were to attend a cousin's nikah, or wedding ceremony. Because the entire family would be there (both M's mother's relatives and his father's relatives) not that many people came by the airport or house to meet me beforehand. I was going to meet everyone for the first time at this event. As soon as we walked in, it was a whirlwind. (I didn't even have time to consult my family tree!) 

After meeting a handful of people, I saw a gray-haired man approaching me. I had heard so many stories about him, and seen his picture so many times, that I already knew him. The eldest maternal uncle, or Mama. I already knew about how Baray Mama had brought M his first bicycle from Saudi Arabia when he was young. I knew about how M would go to sleep over at Baray Mama's house in the summers, and how Mama would sneak into the boys room when he thought they were sleeping (they weren't) and visit each boy, stroking their heads and then raising his hand to kiss the fingers that had just swept through the boy's hair - as if he was saving a little piece of each boy's youth for himself. I knew how Mama had helped M to get special treatment at the Karachi airport because he'd worked in the airline industry all his life, and poor M was so nervous about flying to America. I knew how Mama had instructed M to make sure to pack two outfits in his carry on luggage because his airline, TWA, would surely lose his luggage (they did.)

So of course I recognized this man when I first saw him walking towards me. Seriously, it didn't even feel like I was meeting him for the first time! As he was approaching me, I happily called out "Baray Mama!!!" and it was only the look of surprise on his face that reminded me that this was our first encounter. "How do you know who I am?" he asked as he grasped my hand. "I...I....I already know you..." I sputtered... "I've seen so many pictures of you." 

The smile on his face was very big, and I realized that M and I had done something right. Just this first greeting had helped M's uncle realize that M's choice of an American wife could be a good one. He could tell that family relationships with M's family still in Pakistan was going to be important to me, and that M would not lose his connection with his roots (two common concerns that I hear about desi-nondesi marriages.) That mama has since always been very kind and very friendly with me. A first impression really can go a long way!

M and I quickly realized we could use this to our advantage, however, and sometimes for significant family members, he would whisper the names to me. Or as we were driving to someone's house, we'd review the names of the people we were going to meet. After a while, I developed a bit of a reputation for already knowing everyone's name and I even started to get quizzed on them. Luckily, I did pretty well. (My short-term memory's pretty good. Your results may vary.)

So that's my trick - make of it what you will. If you plan to meet some desi family members, try your best to look at pictures and ask for stories about these people. Giving yourself a backdrop to work faces into will help you remember and retain their names, and facilitate relationship building early on. Plus, it will make them happy! You can even give yourself some clues and hints to remember people's names. (Like we called one cousin of M's "Beauty Store Appi" and that reminded me of who she was, and it made her laugh when she heard it!) 

What's in a name?

The first words out of M's mouth when he first met me were "What's your name?" (Well, I guess he said hello first, but you know what I mean.) I replied with my name and M repeated it and mangled it. It's not a VERY very common name, and he couldn't pronounce it. I led him through the pronouciation again, and he screwed it up again. Then I said "Say it with me!" and sounded it out v.e.r.y.  s.l.o.w.l.y. Eventually he got it, except for one phoneme that's difficult for him. 

After that, I of course asked M what his name was. This may shock some of you, but M's name is not really M. It doesn't even start with the letter M. M's real name has two syllables, the second syllable of which is actually a pretty common American name. M introduced himself to me with this very common name. 

It's difficult to explain this without an example, so let's assume that his name is Amir-Jaan. (I don't think Amir-Jaan is really even a name, it's just a combination of the name Amir and "Jaan" which means Life and is very commonly used as a loving nickname, and is sometimes included in a person's name.) He was afraid I wouldn't be able to pronounce the full name, or maybe that I'd be scared off by the foreign-ness of his real name, so instead he just introduced himself to me as John. I actually asked him how he spelled his name even, because there are a couple of different spellings of John. I was like, "How do you spell it? Is it John, or Jon like in Jonathan? Or maybe the French spelling, Jean?" and he said "None of those, I spell it Jaan!" and I said "Oooooh. Aren't you different?" 

I called him John for several days until on one of our meetings that first week, I asked to see the inside of his wallet and got a peak at his driver's license. At first I was confused, but luckily M was able to explain the situation to me before I got up and walked out of the restaurant. But it had already stuck in my head, and also I just assumed that he still wanted to be called by this nickname. When he explained the wallet thing, he didn't indicate that he didn't want to be called John anymore. So I continued to call him John. Six weeks after we met, I introduced him to my parents. As John. It was only two months later, when I'd invited him to attend my family's Thanksgiving dinner, that I asked him "Do you prefer to be introduced as John or as Amir-Jaan?" that the truth came out. 

No one had ever called him John before. He'd invented that nickname on his own when I asked his name. His family didn't call him that, none of his friends called him that, he didn't think of himself as John. And yes, he said - he would prefer to be introduced to my extended family as Amir-Jaan. 

Well, NOW what was I supposed to do? He was John in my head. My parents called him John. All my friends called him John! And now he wanted a late-in-the-game name change? 

I did introduce him that way, but of course it didn't take. Even if I said "This is Amir-Jaan," I still talked about him as John. I would say "John, could you pass me that plate?" Of course all those John references would overshadow that first lone initial Amir-Jaan introduction.

My friends and family still call him the Americanized nickname. I could never really get around it either. The full name just sounded weird coming out of my mouth when I was talking TO him, and when I was talking ABOUT him, I still called him the nickname. The only solution for me came soon after we were married, I somehow settled on the nickname "Mian." It means husband, and sometimes desi women use that as a nickname instead of calling their husbands by their first names. 

Mian has been pretty useful for us. It's endearing to his family, who think it's cute that this white American girl calls their son "Mian." It seems like I'm honoring some of their culture. It's now pretty well settled, as if in my mind his first name IS Mian. He's even listed in my cell phone contacts list that way. One day, the husband of one of his cousins actually told me I should call him Mian-JEE (the jee part adding even more respect to the nickname) or even Sartaj (meaning crown, as if he is my king) rather than just simply calling him Mian. 

Yeah, right!

So now you know when the M comes from!

Very Curious Indeed.

This is, I think, one of the cutest stories about M and I. It's all about the differences in experience and assumptions about each other's knowledge that an intercultural couple goes through. Plus it's about how cute my M is...

Very soon after I met M, I wanted to learn more about his language. Due to some inconsistencies in M's story, for a little while I thought that language was Malay. When the truth came out, I realized it was Urdu. Do you know how hard it is to try and learn Urdu? I will answer for you. It is very hard. There are almost no books, no tapes, no cds. It was even worse six years ago. I guarantee that your local Barnes & Noble won't carry any. I found one book & tape set online (of the Teach Yourself series) that was all but useless. I found a "Colloquial Urdu" book and cd at M's school library, but I could only keep that checked out for so long until it had to be returned to the library. So M and I set out to make our own way.

First, we bought a kid's picture dictionary. This particular dictionary was geared toward Spanish speaking kids learning English as a second language. We didn't mind. M just wrote the transliterated Urdu words underneath each picture, and I studied from that for a long time. It was a pretty big big book, and several months into this project, I had amassed a large amount of vocabulary. But, I could still not communicate in Urdu at all. 

The problem was (and still is, unfortunately) sentences. Urdu sentences are backwards. Or maybe I am. Like many (most?) languages, it follows a subject-object-verb sentence structure which is not the same as English. This means that when I think of what I want to say, and translate it in my head into Urdu, all my sentences turn out backwards. Another problem with sentences is that there are all the extra bonus words at the end of sentences. Tha, raha, hoon, hay, chucka. All these little leftovers to sort through in my head. Some of this is verb conjugation but some of it truly is just leftover words, I'm convinced of it. I quickly realized that vocabulary wasn't enough - we were going to have to work on sentence structure as well. So we figured that we would just buy another English kid's book, work through translating it together and writing the Urdu at the bottom of the pages, and my Urdu would improve. M said we should start with something easy, so we picked up a Curious George book. 

Life intervenes, as always, and while we still worked on the vocabulary book, it was a long time before we ever got around to the sentence structure book. (I admit, I'm stubborn and a bit OCD. I wanted to finish the first book before moving on!) M has had a Curious George book sitting on a shelf in his room for months at this point. But the day finally came, and we sat down with our yellow-covered copy of Curious George Visits The Zoo. We had our pen and we were determined that we were going to go through the book and translate all the sentences together. We opened the book and we both silently read the first page, and then M said:

"Oh. Curious George is a monkey?"

Meeting the 'Rents

So after M's parents were told that while they were visiting American to attend his Ph.D. convocation, they'd also be attending his wedding to a foreigner, they quietly accepted their fate, boarded a plane, and got down to business. Jewelry was purchased, as well as wedding outfits for both of us. Phone calls were made. I first talked to Abbu on the phone via a three-way call since M and I lived in different states at the time. I think I needed an hour long pep talk beforehand. To my great relief, Abbu is a very jovial person on the phone, laughing and just generally making me feel at ease. Not that I understood much of what he was saying. It was all mostly general greetings, so happy to have you part of our family, etc., etc, except with a LOT of repeating of sentences. Then he asked me for my father's phone number so he could talk to him too. (I was like, Huh? Really? But luckily that went similarly well.)

You cannot believe how crazy my life was at that time. I was still in school, finishing up my bachelors, and now I was planning a wedding at the same time. Early-to-mid December is finals time, and that was also when M's graduation ceremony was. I was also studying for a graduate school test and I could not for the life of me find a wedding dress. (Simple, but with long sleeves and no plunging neckline!) The day we'd picked for our wedding meant that I had to go to all of my professors and ask to take my exams early. (Plus study for four early exams! Gah!) It ended up that I took the LSAT test on a Saturday, all four exams Monday and Tuesday, drive the four hours home & found a wedding dress on Wednesday, met my in-laws for the first time on Thursday, found a last minutes tailor for the wedding dress on Friday, and got married on Saturday. (Valima on Sunday, Graduation on Monday, fly to M's house on Tuesday, and then 52 days of all of us living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. More stories from THAT time another day.)

With all that insanity, the thing I was most stressed out about was the dreaded meeting of the in-laws. They were to come to my house Thursday night for dinner with my family. The strategics alone were nerve-wracking enough. What would my mother cook? There was no place to get the special Kosher-like meat some Muslims eat, so it would have to be vegetarian, but I knew they'd be expecting something grander - and some meat! Was anyone going to slip up and mention too much about our 16 month long prior relationship? And what about the fact that they didn't speak English?!?! (Ammi doesn't speak any English and while Abbu is fluent, he's still not easy to communicate with.)

I was a nervous wreck. I tried on so many outfits, it's not even funny. I could NOT decide what to serve for dinner but landed on cheese lasagna.  I couldn't sit still. And then they were an hour late. And I died right there waiting.

Well, almost died. But then there was a knock at the door, and I had to open it. As with most situations like that, the night was a blur. Ammi said later than she could tell how nervous I was. Also, looking back, I don't think they liked the lasagna. (The don't really like Italian food much, they think the tomato sauce tastes "raw" because they're not cooked for hours into an indiscernible curry.) Abbu talked and talked and laughed and ended up stretching out on the floor towards the end of the night. (A sign that it was a big success.) Ammi brought all the jewelry, wedding clothes, and even presents for my family; a watch for my father, a wallet for my brother, gold earrings for my mother. We looked at pictures from my childhood.

The language barrier wasn't that bad because M is an excellent translator. He then - and still to this day - makes sure that I always know what's going on in a conversation. He also was my biggest cheerleader, so like, while we were going through the pictures, he would highlight all the wonderful things about me. "See, Ammi, this is when she won the award for best writing in her entire school, and this is when she got her black belt in karate, and this is when she caught a 45 pound fish." (<== All hypothetical examples, of course...)

Abbu is a really, really social person, so he was in his element and very happy to be there. He also is really pro-western, so he was really excited to be in our living room, talking to all these American people. Ammi was a little more reserved, but still nice and polite. In looking back at pictures, you can see her smiles are a little tightened, though. All we could do was try to make the best first impression we could, and luckily, I think we were able to do that.

The wedding dress, or Sharara, that Ammi brought for me.

The Shervani for M.

The wedding jewelry.

Shopping Tales

I like shopping in Pakistan. The first time I went to Pakistan, I had a lot of shopping I wanted to do. 

First, I needed clothes because we didn't bring much of our own clothes. Also, after a year of Ammi, my mother-in-law, picking out clothes for me (including my wedding dress), I wanted to pick out some of my own stuff, especially the Valima outfits we were going to wear. I also wanted to buy souvenirs for my family & friends back home, stock up on some kitchen staples (Nimco, anyone?) and lastly, I wanted to bring home stuff to decorate my house. We mostly shopped at places like Saddar, Zainab Market and Bohri Bazaar, because that's more in line with the kind of shopping M's family does. Oh, and Lalukhait. 

Lalukhait is a pretty old, huge shopping center in what is probably not the best part of town. I really, really, REALLY wanted to go to Lalukhait. M's family home is actually pretty close to Lalukhait and that's where his family shops a lot of the time. M had described it to me even before we were married, and he's such a good storyteller that I could almost smell the pakoras, hear the tinkle of chooris and see all the brightly colored dupattas - even before I knew what those things were (vegetable fritters, glass bracelets and women's scarves, respectively.) 

But everyone was against it. Wouldn't I rather shop at some NICE place? (Nope.) And they didn't think it'd be very smart for a uncovered white girl to venture into such a supposedly brusque, untamed place. The aisles are very narrow in Lalukhait, and not everyone in that market is a very nice person. I was still undeterred, so M and his family pleaded with me to be rational. They suggested that if I insisted on going to Lalukhait, I should consider wearing a Burqa. 

(I won't get into the wrestling I had to do with that idea. Suffice it to say I was against it, but eventually agreed, and one of my brother-in-laws procured one for me, and the next day my mother-in-law helped pin me all up inside it. I don't mean to make light of burqas or the countless women who've been forced into them. My family felt this was a necessity for my safety and I obliged for their comfort, and it did end up making me feel more comfortable also. I am still completely against the idea of forcing burqas on anyone. Seriously - any trolls out there, I'm warning you. I will not entertain comments about this.) 

Anyway, all of a sudden no one had any idea that I was a white American girl. I "passed" as a typically Pakistani. M and I perfected the dance pretty quickly. He dressed up in his shoddiest pair of dingy shalwar kameez, on-their-last-legs flip-flops, oldest hat, and wrapped a shawl around himself. I wore my loudest, most colorful geometric print shalwar kameez with black socks and gloves. We decided that M would talk to me in Urdu as if I understood and I would just keep quiet. If I needed to say anything or ask questions, I would lean in and whisper as if I was a very fundamentalist, religious person who didn't want my voice heard. Everyone could still see my blue eyes and the very light skin around my eyes, but they just assumed I was a fair-skinned Pakistani, or perhaps that I was Pathan. This little shopping setup of trying to pass as if we were very poor was really successful. No one had any idea. And it led to some of our most interesting anecdotes!

First, in Lalukhait, we went shopping for a man's shawl. I was looking for a souvenir for my father and I saw one hanging on display at the entrance to one shop, and they looked alright. M asked the shopkeeper how much and he very rudely and offhandedly said 200 rupees. (less that $4) M let out a little gasp and said "200 rupees?!" then he starting talking to me in Urdu (which I only understood a bit at the time) about how expensive it was. I didn't know what he was saying, so I pointed to ones further inside the store that I had just noticed; they were obviously nicer than the ones we were asking about. M went over to touch the new ones and asked how much they were. "400 rupees" said the shopkeeper. M laughed, and started talking about how expensive everything was these days, telling me that it was too much. "Yes," he said, "they ARE much nicer than the ones over there, but FOUR HUNDRED rupees?!?!" All of this was for the benefit of the shopkeeper, of course. I had no idea what was going on. I was just browsing. And then I spotted the most beautiful camel-colored shawls, much thicker and the most beautiful designs. I immediately knew my father would love it, so I pointed it out to M - It was ALLLL the way in the back of the store, behind the shopkeeper who had not moved an inch from his chair to get up and help us shop. (Normally when shopkeepers see us, dollar signs flash before their eyes and they jump up to help us with any and every question we might have.) M asked the shopkeeper about the price of the shawls - which were clearly the nicest ones in the shop. And the shopkeeper responded "Don't worry about it. You can't afford it." Instead of laughing out loud right there, M kept up his facade and said sheepishly "Ok, I know, but how much anyway?" and then when the shopkeeper told him, M was like "600 RUPEES?!?" and scoffed. (About $12 at the time.) The shopkeeper said "I told you not to worry about it." I don't know how he did it without breaking out of character, but somehow M was able to go from poor idiot villager who could not imagine a shawl costing 600 rupees to buying and walking out of the shop with TWO OF THEM!!! (M liked them so much he'd decided he wanted one for himself.) And bargaining down to 700 rupees for both! What must that shopkeeper have thought? Why is this poor guys wasting his money on these nice shawls, why doesn't he just buy some he can afford? He's obviously controlled by his wife!

At another store we went to we saw a small jewelry box. I'd seen the same jewelry box a few days before in Zainab market and asked how much it cost and the shopkeeper had said 2,000 rupees ($40). I stopped M and pointed to the jewelry box and he asked this shopkeeper about the price. M even held up the end of his ajrack and covered part of his face with his mouth as he waited for the response - a very lower-class thing to do. The shopkeeper took one look at us and sold the jewelry box to us for 400 rupees - $8!!! What a difference a day makes, right?

By far, the best shopping story I have is when we happened upon the choori stands. Chooris are these glass bracelets that Pakistani and Indian women wear. They're made in all different colors and they're so beautiful. I had bought my first set in Houston at a wedding we'd gone to; the set had been metal (easier to export; glass breaks) and it had cost $20. I whispered to M, asking how much they cost. M asked the shopkeeper the price and then did a quick conversion in his head for me and said "About 25 or 50 cents each. I said "Each bracelet? How much for a whole set?" and M said "No, 25 cents for each set."

That was all I needed to hear. My pointer finger was a blur after that, pointing out one from each and every option. "I want this one and this one and that blue one and oooh, these green ones too...." We didn't even try bargaining the price down!

M was obviously comfortable in his role now, and he started chiding me in front of the shopkeeper, saying something along the lines of "Yeh bhi lay lo, Voh bhi lay lo...." "I want this, I want that..." He continued on: "You want one of everything! What am I supposed to do after you've spent all my money on useless things? We'll have a house full of bracelets and no food to eat!"

And the shopkeeper's response: "Allah ka shukr kero, bhai. Kitni achi bivi hay. Aap inti dair se bhole rahain aur in hona aik lufz bhi nahi kaha. Aaj kul aesi bivi kahan milti hain"

Basically, "You should thank god, bro. Look what a good wife she is. You've been saying that stuff for so long and she hasn't said one thing back to you. Where can one find such a wife these days?" 

Ha! Indeed. If only he'd known where M had found ME! 

(Although I think M said that his Ammi had found him a bride.)

Bringing Gifts To Pakistan

Or: Why my four suitcases only hold 3 items that are mine.

Or or: No, sir, these are NOT my belongings in this bag

I don't have much insight as to how or why this custom began. But when M and I are traveling to Pakistan, we load up with gifts for every conceivable family member. The first time we went, we took 5 full-size suitcases. We were each allowed 2 bags that had to weigh 72 pounds or less, and we paid for an extra bag as well. I kid you not, dear readers, less than 1/2 of ONE of those bags actually contained things for us. (We both only brought a few items of clothes because we expected to buy some when we got there, and only essential toiletries that wouldn't have been available there.) That is 4.5 suitcases full of gifts. 324 Pounds of American crap.

And yes, it was crap. I hadn't honed my gift-shopping-for-Pakistanis yet, so I mostly just followed M's lead. We brought candy & chocolate for everyone, shampoos and lotions. We brought sweaters for every aunty and jewelry for every close female family member. 

These things may sound like okay gifts, but they're actually not: western candy & chocolate are available there at a similar price, shampoos and lotions are similarly available and terribly space inefficient - they weigh so much and take so much of your luggage weight limits, but you can't really split a bottle between two people ("Here Khala (maternal aunt), this bottle of lotion is for you. Well, the top half, anyway. When you're done give it to Mami (paternal aunt-in-law.") Sweaters seem to be the ubiquitous gift so everyone's already got a boatload of 'em, and American style jewelry is so different in style and expensive that a $50 or $100 necklace bought in America looks pretty cheap in Pakistan. The rest of the bags were full of various dollar store finds. 

The next time we went I had better ideas. I spent the interim two years scouring various clearance and sale racks for the one or two great items that somehow make it to clearance. Instead of lotions, I though of a great idea - purses! We got a purse for every Khala and Mami and Bhabhi [and two for Ammi ;)]. It was a big hit. It wasn't something that was really available in Pakistan, and you can get nice purses pretty cheap at places like Target & Burlington Coat Factory, especially if you have a year and a half to wait and pounce on sales & clearance. 

I also took some nicer facial moisturizers and soaps instead of big bottles of crappy lotion, I took candies that the kids would have never tasted rather than the ever-common Kit Kat & Almond Joy. (Those fireballs and lots of sour stuff. Nerds.) I found these great mini flashlights and switchblades and mini-Leathermans-like tools to give to some of the guys. (After Christmas sales are great for these kind of things. They'll be 1/2 off or more for a few days!) I even found some beautiful picture frames and put in pictures of our family.

One of the bigger ticket items M bought for his parents this last time was one of those digital picture frames. He set it up so that it cycles through pictures of our (very very cute) son, and he even taught them how to add new pictures as he gets older(slash cuter.) They love it and everyone who visits the house loves it to.

The first person to go abroad in M's family was a female cousin, and when she came back she had all sorts of American products that she gave to everyone. Candies & hair care products, bath puffs and dish scrubbers. Actually, it even goes farther back than that - M's uncle worked in Saudi Arabia most of his adult life and would always bring back clothes for his sisters, books for his nieces & nephews, and even a bicycle once. 

Sometimes, though it can seem like people expect you to bring them things. Rather than gifts they're just disappointed you didn't bring more. One cousin, who is one of M's favorite and therefore gets better gifts than other people - got one of those great hand-crank flashlights last time and he looked at it and said "Hey, bring me a Blackberry next time." 

But I do really like bringing gifts. Ammi has come to visit us a few times by herself and when she goes back, I try to fill her bags with great American products that could improve her life or make some chore easier, and stop her from taking only things to give out to other family members. Over three trips we've been able to outfit her with a full set of really high-quality nonstick pots and pans. Somewhere in Karachi, in an outdoor kitchen attached to government housing, are all these crazy-expensive pots & pans. Cracks me up.

Other successes: fake silk flowers, foodstuffs other than candy like gatorade powder, Pringles, cookies, and nuts - even Hershey's syrup (although we're getting into the inefficient for space/weight shampoo issue there). Oddly enough, hairbrushes were a hit one year. I found a great place in America called Ulta that a couple of times a year offers those makeup kits that have some of everything. Usually less than $20 and pretty good quality, too. 

But now I'm at the end of my rope. I try to think of new and interesting things to bring with me, but all I see is more of the same. What about you, dear readers - what have your experiences with the bringing of gifts? Any good ideas of what to take next time (or what not to, as the case may be.)

(And let's NOT discuss the stupidity of shopping discount for almost two years just to add $100 extra-luggage fees to those prices when you go to pack...mmmkay?)

Getting To Knooooow You...

I'd much rather answer questions than have to come up with my own ideas! So here, goes (from Gori Girl)

What are your middle names?
My middle name was Paige before I got married, but I took M's last name and now my maiden name is my middle name. I still use all three names because I don't want my father's name to stop being used. My father is a great man who adopted me after marrying my mother, and I fought to have his name as my own throughout school, and I've always been honored to have it. M doesn't have a middle name. My son's middle name is my father's first name, which sounds pretty funny sandwiched between his very Pakistani first and last names. 

How long have you been together?
We met August 2, 2002, and we married 16 months later. Our son showed up almost three years after that in 2006. 

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
Uh. None? Zero? What's the appropriate answer for that? We talked for an hour one night and went on our first date the next. 

Who asked whom out?
M did. Well, he actually said something like "So what are you doing tomorrow?" and I said I was seeing a movie and told him he was welcome to come with. I still say that's M. He opened the door, y'know?

How old are each of you?
34, 28 and almost two and a half (respectively.)

Whose siblings do you see the most?
M's. His has a sibling in the states, and I see the other two siblings when I travel to Pakistan. One of them is hopefully coming to America soon for his studies.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
I think year 3 of marriage was the hardest. All of a sudden all the things you loved about each other become the worst things ever - and you realize they're not going to go away. Probably ever. Other than that, probably having to change the oil on his motorcycle together.

Did you go to the same school?
Nope. 

Are you from the same home town?
Decidedly not.

Who is smarter?
M. Definitely M. And I'm pretty darn smart, so that's saying something. He's just brilliant - the smartest person I have ever met in my entire life.

Who is the most sensitive?
Me. I'm very sensitive, although M says I've made him into a softie. I think the softie inside him was just *yearning* to escape all those years.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?
Oh wait, maybe THIS is the thing that's most difficult for us as a couple! I love to eat out and M doesn't get it. Growing up, his family almost NEVER ate out. He just can't fathom why we'd spend so much more when we could eat the same thing at home for a fraction of the cost. Over the years we've learned to split the frequency/cost debate down the middle and eat at VERY cheap places so that I can get my eating out fix at a reasonable rate. (I mean VERY cheap places. Taco Bell. The Costco food court. Anita's & 5Guys for all you locals!) Once, In Karachi, we were all going to go out as a family to Pizza Hut. M was getting changed into something nice (because his brother said he had to dress nicer because we were going to a nice place - Pizza Hut!) and in the few minutes we were waiting for him, I told M's younger brother that I loved Pizza Hut because when I was growing up, my family always had a family game night where we'd play board games, eat Pizza Hut and later have ice cream. His brother was like "Pizza Hut every WEEK!" and I was so embarrassed I was like, "Oh, no, I mean, uh...uh...not EVERY week" (It totally was every week.)

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Well, I always say traveling to Pakistan doesn't count. (It's not the "travel" kind of travel, it's my life) and the only other foreign travel we've done together was Italy. So Italy. 

Who has the craziest exes?
Well, I have very few "real" exes, and I don't have any contact with them. Perhaps one turned out crazy, I don't know. But M has *no* exes (at all. seriously.) so I guess me.

Who has the worst temper?
What's your poison? Are dirty looks, grudges and sarcastic digs worse than the silent treatment?

Who does the cooking?
Me. M is more of a Shan Masala guy, and can't follow a recipe to save his life. I like predictability. Plus I know most of his mom's recipes by heart now.

Who is the neat-freak?
M (in comparison, I guess. He's not really a neat "freak," he's just likes normal cleanliness, but I am terrible. I don't ever clean. Anything. I try, I swear I do, but somehow I always fail.)

Who is more stubborn?
Me. Oh yeah, me. Don't tell M I admitted this. 

Who hogs the bed?
In the morning, somehow all the covers have migrated towards my side of the bed. I don't know how this happens.

Who wakes up earlier?
M. Always M. I could sleep all day. M often lets me sleep in on the weekends, too, and my boys have boy-ish Saturday mornings together.

Where was your first date?
Movie theater, seeing The Road To Perdition. We were supposed to see Signs, but he ended up being 30 minutes late. We both brought friends, and M and I talked throughout the movie, eliciting many hisses and dirty looks. I still have no idea what The Road To Perdition is about.

Who is more jealous?
Me. I'm not really very jealous, but sometimes I think M has absolutely no jealousy in him at all. He's never asked about any prior relationships I may have had. Never. I sometimes get a little jealous of his time just because he's so in demand. Seriously, it's like everyone in the world wants a piece of him and sometimes I'm last in line.

How long did it take to get serious?
Hmm. What does serious mean? We were probably "Eyes Only For Him/Her" from the first minute, 7 days later he called me his girlfriend. But marriage was never on the table until the last minute.

Who eats more?
Our son. He's a big eater. Luckily he's got his father's metabolism so he's still rail thin.

Who does the laundry?
IF the laundry gets done, we both do it. Sometimes I put a load in, sometimes the boys spend all night folding. It inevitably never gets put away and we just dress from piles of folded clothes neatly stacked on the floor for the next few weeks.

Who’s better with the computer?
M. It's what he does. But he's taught me so much that in my non-techy field I'm regarded as a computer genius. Only M and people like him know that I'm still a novice.

Who drives when you are together?

M, even though I am a MUCH better driver than he is. And we both grew up in families where our mothers drove all the time. In fact, his father has never driven a car and to this day doesn't know how to - his mother was always the driver of their VW bug. Sometimes I drive on short trips, though. 

The V/W Distinction

I'm sure that most of you who hang around desis, or if you're desi yourself, you know what I'm talking about even before I write a word about it. The dreaded v/w issue:

When I try to speak Urdu, there are a lot of phonemes that my English-trained mouth just can't seem to make. The g/gh thing, the h/Kh thing. My Kh as in Khan is getting better, and I've almost mastered the half-r, half-d thing. But I'll never be able to roll my R's properly. Believe me, if my high school language teacher couldn't reach me in THREE YEARS, I don't think it'll ever happen. Oh, and the Gh like ghazals thing is difficult for me too. And there's a T thing - somehow there are two different kinds of Ts, and I can't even HEAR the difference between the two, much less pronounce them differently.

Other language speakers have similar issues. One of the phonemes that is especially difficult for Hindi and Urdu speakers to master is the difference between V and W. They often pronounce both as if they're one hybrid letter than sounds like a mix between the two. 

The most common example is West and Vest. A lot of desis I know pronounce them the same way, and some actually can't even hear a difference between the two words when I say them. M had this same issue when I first met him, but speaking to a white girl all day for the last six years has really changed his accent a lot. He now has no problem with it - unless we've been in Pakistan for a while, or he's been speaking in Urdu a lot, or sometimes when he's just thinking so fast his mouth can't keep up - then sometimes he relapses back to the V/W hybrid. I go to school four nights a week, and my boys stay home together those nights and speak in Urdu. Sometimes at the end of the week, when M has spent four night this way, I can hear a V creeping back into his Ws. 

Perhaps this is a terrible thing to fess up to, but we actually kind of use the V/W thing as a way to try and determine how desi someone is, or how recent an immigrant they are. (Or how much Zee TV they watch at home!) I know it's not a scientific or accurate measure of someone's des-ocity, but it's something I always notice!

Now, don't let this bother you if you have this language issue. It's nothing bad - like I said, I have a LOT more urdu phonemes that I can't pronounce properly. And even within America, there are regional phonetic differences. There's no right or wrong, no one is being judged or made fun of here at The Gori Wife Life! 

Ve love everyone!

Moo Dekai

There's something is Pakistan (and I assume in India as well) called Moo Dikai. It means "Face See" and it's when someone gives you money on the first occasion that they meet you - or see your face. Get it? Moo Dekhai is also a part of wedding celebrations. I found this explanation: The first time the groom sees the bride's face after the nikkah [ed: wedding ceremony] is during a ceremony called moo dikhai. This literally translates to "the showing of the face." The way it works is that the bride's face has been completely covered by a veil up to this point. A mirror is then brought to the couple and while they both look at the mirror the bride's veil is lifted. Another name for this custom is Aarsi Musshaf. (Found here) But I'm not talking about wedding moo dekhai (which may or may not be accompanied by a present or money.) I'm talking about HARD COLD CASH that *I* got, when I first traveled to Pakistan. Every single place I went, people gave me these white business-style envelopes. I had no idea why or what was in them. I think that M and I were separated at the time, so I actually accumulated a couple of these envelopes before I got back to M and could ask about it. He said they had money in them. A few moo dikhai pointers: It's almost always money, but sometimes it can be a present instead. Sometimes the money is in odd numbers. Usually it's like, a 1000 rupee bill and a 1 rupee bill. This is an older custom that's not always followed anymore. When someone hands you the money, you're supposed to say "Assalamu Alaikum" which means "Peace be upon you." I think it's because they're giving you such a nice gift, you wish them peace in return. (Remember that often, Pakistanis don't say thank you.) New brides get moo dikhai when they're debuted to the family. Sometimes that's not the actual FIRST time you meet someone. Some people gave it to me the first time I came to their house. Babies get moo dikhai too! Our son, who was 14 months old the first time he went to Pakistan, got a LOT of moo dikhai. I helps that his moo is so cute, I think :) New babies get moo dikhai when they're born. I've seen lots of pictures of new babies with money sticking out of the folds of their swaddling blankets.

And because what's a baby going to do with money - the parents get to keep the money for themselves! Woo Hoo!

Forks For Another Wife

When M graduated and found a job and moved away, I thought that would be it. A few people had asked me if we would get married, and I had always said "Of course not!" I had done my reading, I had asked the right questions. I knew what kind of family he was from and they were the kind of family that arranged a marriage for their son. I knew that we could only have whatever semblance of a relationship we had until his parents pressured him into an arranged marriage - I never knew there was any other option. So I'd always say that No, we couldn't get married. Yes, he was eventually going to have an arranged marriage. No, I didn't think I should end our relationship now because I enjoy every minute I have with him, and no matter when we have to stop seeing each other, this month or next year, at least I will have had as much time with him as possible. And I'd always have the memories, at least.

So with a heavy heart, I saw him off at the airport, thinking this was probably it. I had no idea if I'd ever see him again. He was going halfway across the country, and I had no place in his future. 

But less than 36 hours later, I had a plane ticket. I had a hotel room. And M had even gone to my hotel to leave an envelope with money for a cab (What?! I was a poor student!) Only four and a half days after he flew out of my life - probably forever - there we were, having dinner in the Indian restaurant across the street from my hotel. (We actually ate at this restaurant every other weekend for years after we were married because of its significance!)

It was so nice to see M, but even nicer to know that he hadn't yet closed the door on us. Absolutely nothing had changed, there were still no answers, but I was happy that at least it wasn't over yet. 

This limbo - this relationship-yet-maybe-nothing-at-all - will always be symbolized by our dishes. Yes, dishes. You see, M needed help that first weekend I went to visit him. The life of an international grad student is sometimes one spent sleeping on the floor. M didn't own many of the things a young, newly employed professional needs to run a household. He hadn't bought a mattress until he'd been in the US for two years. He had only 1/2 of the necessities because he used to live with a roommate. He owned a blender but his roommate had owned the microwave. When he was moving, a moving truck came to pick up his things; his car, his motorcycle, and his seven tiny boxes of personal belongings. Now that he had a steady income stream that was 10 times his tiny grad student stipend, he needed to SHOP!

We went to his local IKEA and spent four hours there. You can really get lost in that place the first time. I knew the style he wanted because one of his friends (yes, one of them) had already been working for a while and had this gorgeous, sleek, modern bachelor pad. I knew how much M like his friend's place and that he probably wanted something similar. I helped him pick out SO MUCH STUFF. He kept asking, "Do you like this?" and I'd always respond "It doesn't matter if *I* like it, do YOU like it?"

But inside, I kept thinking the real question - will your future wife like it? I knew I was helping pick out the pots and pans his wife would cook with, the couch they would sit on together. No, it certainly didn't matter if I like them.

Of course, you all already know how this story ends. Not much suspense here at The Gori Wife Life. Let me just say that 'sleek, modern bachelor pad' is NOT my style. Luckily, IKEA isn't very durable, and most of that stuff has made it's way out of our lives (via craigslist or freecycle or the trash, if need be.) But still there are a few remnants of the things I picked out for M's future wife. One blue teacup, a couple of blue cereal bowls. And the silverware. These horrible, ugly, forks and knives. Heavy and modern with a dull gunmetal finish and elongated proportions. I hate them so so much. I would have NEVER encouraged M to buy them if I'd known they would somehow make their way into MY silverware drawer. I should have told him that his future wife wouldn't like those ugly spoons - and I knew that because his future wife was ME!

Chicken Vinda-loser

A quick story about the first time I ever cooked for M. I had never really cooked. I actually was a vegetarian for almost ten years as an adolescent, and I subsisted on mostly cheese pizza and salads and somehow missed learning almost anything about how to cook from my mother - who is known as a spectacular cook far & wide. But alas, I was 21 years old and knew nothing - NOTHING - about how to cook. And suddenly, I found myself all domesticated wanting to whip up a delicious meal for my man! What the heck? How did that happen? I get this big idea to cook something for M - a surprise, of course, and I wanted it to be something authentic. 

My mom actually told me I should cook something American because she thought feeding a desi guy desi food would be like "him taking you out to McDonald's." But I could not be swayed.  

I really don't know if it's just me, but it seems like 6, 7 years ago there were almost NO resources for someone who wanted to learn about the Indian subcontinent. In my local bookstore, there was one - ONE - cookbook, one of Madhur Jaffrey's books, of course. I picked out something that sounded exotic (Chicken Vindaloo), copied the recipe down with my pen & paper right there in the store. (What? I was a poor student - I've bought the book since then! Stop looking at me like that!)  

I went to a grocery store. And that's where I encountered my first problem. Somehow the employees at the Wal-mart Supercenter didn't know what "garam masala" was. Or mustard oil. Or fenugreek. Or basmati rice. Or even coriander leaves. (Turns out most Americans call that cilantro.) So I had to call my mom, and she helped me make some substitutions (regular oil for mustard oil, regular rice instead of basmati), and let me know what I could probably leave out (the fenugreek), and let me in on the coriander/cilantro thing. And it took a bit of looking, but even the Wal-Mart carried tumeric!  

Then I went home. And encountered my second problem. What the heck to do with all these ingredients. I didn't know how to slice an onion. Or what the heck to do with a clove or garlic. I didn't have measuring spoons. And raw chicken squicked me out. So I had to call my mom again. And again. And again. I actually called her six times while I was trying to make the stupid chicken/potato part of the dish. Then I drove to my parent's house (I lived in an apartment pretty close) because she had agreed to make the rice FOR ME! It was all cooked and beautiful and in a Ziploc bag waiting for me.  

So, hours and hours and many phone calls later, M called and made plans to stop by. We chit-chated about the day and he tells me he's coming from a meeting with his advisor and a couple of other students, where they'd eaten PIZZA! Crap.  

Well, I wasn't going to let it all go to waste. I "suprised" him with it anyway when he got to my apartment, and he was really happy. In retrospect, he must have actually hated it - he was already stuffed, and now I'd obligated him to eat a whole 'nother meal!  

And the worst part was - he's from Karachi. He had NEVER eaten Chicken Vindaloo in his life! He's such a sweet guy that I didn't know that for a little while. He ate so much and praised my cooking so much (especially the rice, dammit) you'd have thought it was his favorite dish!

Ajrak

I love ajracks - they are these beautiful shawls and fabrics. They're essentially colorblock prints, which I love in most any form. Mostly they're red, black and white, but I've seen a few other colors too, and sometimes there are little mirrors sewn in as decorations. They're very symbolic of Sindh - the southernmost province of Pakistan and the province that Karachi is in. They used to be handmade and generations of craftsman passed the tradition on to their children. Ajracks were a symbol of honor and pride, and a sign of friendship and hospitality. An ajrack was a gift you'd give to a special guest. These days, there are fewer and fewer people who know how to make ajracks by hand, and most of them are machine-made. They're still beautiful, though!

My husband is not Sindhi, though, but my father-in-law has done a lot of work in interior Sindh and he'd brought a lot of beautiful, authentically made ajraks back with him. They were just languishing in a closet until I found them. Little known lesson: In Pakistan, if you express some interest or fondness for anything, you might just end up taking it home with you. Pakistanis pride themselves on their hospitality and I can't count the number of times I've said "Oh your ____is so pretty!" and ended up being forced to take the blank home with me. So now I have huge stack of beautiful ajraks sitting in my closet. It's nice in the winter because I can use them as shawls and scarves, and I've even used them as decorations around the house. As tablecloths and draped across chairs or the foot of the bed. I even pinned one on a wall once. But I'm nervous about pinning them and I've never cut one up because M once told me a story: One of his elementary school teachers, who was herself Sindhi and was teaching the Sindhi language - made a big scene and sent a female student out of her classroom because the girl was wearing an outfit made from ajrak material. She said that the ajrak was such a symbol of Sindh and pride that one should never sully it by cutting it with scissors (and then turning it into a shirt & pants, I guess.) So, in my attempt to be culturally sensitive, I try to treat my ajraks with great care!

My beloved, blurry M, wearing an ajrack as a shawl, and opening the grossest cotton candy ever.

The Proposal

We've gone through some of the backstory. I wrote about meeting M, some things about our early courtship, meeting his friends and the issues we had with them. I wrote about how he lied about where he was from. I wrote about how, a little more than a year later he proposed. And about how he finally told his parents. But I didn't tell you guys HOW he proposed.

So he buys a ticket without telling me, flies down, calls me from the airport at 6am, and I pick him up. It was all very surreal. It was just like a normal visit, and we were just talking about the weather and stuff. Eventually, 30 minutes later, the conversation stalled and M said to me: "I was thinking about doing it when my parents come for my graduation ceremony." 

I knew what he meant, but I was speechless. He was talking about us getting married.

M had already started the US visit visa applications so that his parents would be able to visit America and attend his Ph.D. graduation ceremony. It was only 49 days away. It wasn't the time issue that had me at a loss for words though, it was the way he'd put it. He'd basically just said he wanted to marry me, but he'd done it by saying "I was thinking about doing it when my parents come..." Not exactly the words a girls dreams of hearing all her life...

So I said "Do WHAT when your parents are here?"

And he said "Uh....you know..."

(. . .)

Me: "You know, you have to say the WORDS"

Him: "Oh! Um. Will you marry me?"

Me, exasperated: "Yes."

So that was it. We were engaged. Of course, with such little notice, there was no ring. I actually wanted a very specific kind of ring, so I was a little relieved I'd be able to help guide him to the right style. (Small, understated, simple)

Two weeks later, I went to visit him and we decided to go for a movie. It was probably an 8 o'clock show and we got there pretty early and walked around the nice downtown area. There was a fountain and tables and chairs and lights in all of the trees lining the street. We sat at a table to pass the time, and got lost in conversation. Eventually I got antsy and it was getting to be close to the movie's start time, but he was just blathering on and on. Something about the moon...beautiful? Didn't he know we were about to be late? I tried to interrupt, but he wouldn't let me. Fine. The moon. It was full. 

Oh, yeah. It does look beautiful, doesn't it? 

What? I'm beautiful, too? 

Thanks. 

Yeah, I'm excited to spend the rest of my life with you, too. 

I love you too.

And then, all of a sudden, he was down on one knee. And he was holding a little velvet box. 

(I must admit I was immediately nervous about opening the box, because I'd had no input and I really only wanted one thing.) 

If there's one good thing about M (and there are actually many good things about M,) it's that he knows when to make an occasion special. He knew he'd fumbled the ball on the first go-round, so he was gaming for a do over. It was spectacular. It wasn't as cheesy as my name in lights at a football game, but there was a smattering of applause from people around us. He had the most beautiful ring - I have no idea how he'd been able to pick out exactly what I'd wanted in an engagement ring, but it was perfect. (I thought he must've asked my friends or family, but it turns out he just has the exact same taste as me.) I was so giddy, and I just stared at the ring throughout the movie.

I don't know how to explain it, but being with M makes everything better. It's like, I love having so many options in my life, so many different things converging into what is our life. So many people, so much culture, so much love. And it's not just the intercultural parts. Life is just so much richer with him. I got two engagements, two different stories I get to tell when people ask. Two wonderful memories. I got to have four different wedding functions. My life is so much richer than I could have ever expected it. 

Of course, that 2nd engagement was 2 weeks later. 14 days our of 49 days had already passed. I had only 35 days to plan a wedding. Two weddings, actually, and a Valima! (The 4th function was a valima in Karachi when we visited a year later.)

Don't worry, we'll cover everything, just give me time!

Rambling Rant

I want to be very clear about the stance of this blog. I love Pakistan. I love desi culture. I adopt a lot of it into my life. That doesn't mean I have given up my own culture or customs, and it doesn't make me less of an American, less of a feminist, or weak. People in the world today have a lot of options with their lives. It's not just me - a lot of people decide to spend thier lives, or part thereof, outside thier own culture or country. Men and women volunteer with Green Peace, they feed children, they do missionary work, they work in international business of international law, they learn languages. They are STRONGER for it. The world is a better place as a result. The fact that I was first exposed to desi culture through a man I later married does not make my love of desi culture suspect. The same is true for anyone - who am I to judge. For that matter, who are YOU to judge? People convert to hinduism and live part of thier life in India to explore a love of Yoga, or worship a goddess, yet look down on me - or people in my similar situation - because they think MY love of desi culture is different or less than their own. MY motivations are questioned. I must be a sheep, I must be weak. My husband must control my life and he must not feel any similar desire to explore western culture.  Clearly the fact that I converted to Islam after meeting my husband is definitive proof of this. And while I glorify my experiences in Paksitan and with Pakistanis, I am clearly the minority because of the all-powerful and completely anonymous "I know people." So you know people who have failed marriages with desis, so you've had bad experiences in the Indian subcontinent. This is not the right place for you if that's all you want to talk about.  And what do you care what my husband does or doesn't do? Maybe he loves America, maybe he hates it. Lots of whitebread Americans hate aspects of America, too. Ever heard of the Civil War? And loving every aspect of America & western culture, or familiarizing yourself with Protestantism or hamburgers, is not a prerequisite for citizenship or marrying an American girl. How I structure MY life and MY marriage around the many varied options I am presented with is entirely up to me. A desi man who asks his wife to address his parents with traditional respectful langauge is no different than many, many, MANY Americans who hash out differences with the in-laws everyday. (Because let's remember that the ideal "preppy tennis playing lovely inlaws" is NOT the usual conception of inlaws. We have in-law tension too, remember.) And another thing. If you have experience with, say, Pakistan, you certainly shouldn't make generalizations about the entire country, or the entire people. Probably the first thing I leanred about Pakistani culture was that I could never learn everything. Pakistan is too varied, and India is even more varied. I think of it like a paintbrush smearing the whole reagion into a blur. In my mind I envision the crazy-spicy-dark-skinned-fisherman populations of the very southern tip on one end, and I think of the cinnamon-and-clove-strong-jawed-light-skinned-moutain-dwellers of Afghanistan, and I imagine that there is every possible combination in between. It's just too much. To think that ANYone can speak for ALL Indians or Pakistanis or Afghanis - even if they ARE Indian or Pakistani or Afghan, is preposterous. I don't care HOW many desis you know - you don't know enough the say desis are a certain way, or do a certain thing. Take a note from ACTUAL desis, few of whom think they know EVERYthing about thier own country or culture. How could you? I'm not saying desi culture doesn't have its share of problems. Certainly it does. This isn't the place to hash them out, or try to solve them. I suggest we all go find appropriate places to effect social change, and leave my poor blog and it's comments to its true purpose. The main purpose for my blogging is to connect with non-desis who have married into a new culture and those who truly LOVE and/or WANT to know more, explore more, expand thier horizons. And while I do believe in free speech, I must remind you that your free speech ends at my front door. You're on my doorstep right now. Welcome to the Gori Wife Life.