Madiha

'Hi Madi! I don't know if you know this, but my family and I are coming to Chicago for your sister's wedding'

I looked at the text message that Jawad had sent to me almost 2 days ago. The nice thing about being in the ICU is that you can pretty much ignore anything in your personal life and have a very valid excuse to do so. But ignoring issues, unfortunately, doesn't make them go away.

So as I was leaving work that day I texted my mom and dad on our family group chat.

'Mama and Papa, will you both be there for chai today?'

A few minutes later my brother, Moin, messaged saying, 'Get samosas and jalebis from Devon...plzzzz'

Devon Street in Chicago is famous for its desi eateries. There you will find everything from to imported chutneys and spices and other household items to all sorts of desi street food and fine dining restaurants. Fortunately for my family, but unfortunately for me, that street was just a few train stops away from my hospital so it wasn't infrequent that I would get requests to pick up desi food or even groceries on my way home.

The day my mom made me stop on Devon and bring home a jharoo (Pakistani/Indian style broom) on the train, while I was still in my scrubs and white coat was the day that I had finally asked my parents to do their own desi grocery shopping. But picking up samosas and jalebis was something I would never say no to!

I hadn't heard back from my mom and dad, so I messaged my brother and bargained with him, 'Make sure Mama and Papa are home for chai and I'll bring you what you want'

He messaged back two seconds later, 'Deal 😛'

Sure enough, by the time I got home Moin had rounded up mom and dad, and even Maliha, and the chai was already made and kept warm in a thermos. Chai time was one of those daily rituals that I was pretty sure only our family did in the entire neighborhood, at 6 pm when everyone else was sitting down for dinner. It was one of those things my parents had vowed to never give up when they moved to the US from their hometown of Karachi.

'What's the matter beti (daughter)?", my dad asked in a concerned voice, as he poured the chai for all of us.

"Yes, Madiha you had us really worried with your text...", my mom said. She never called me Madiha, unless she was stressed or mad at me.

"I didn't mean to stress you Mama, Papa, but I really need to talk to you about Jawad", I got straight to the point.

My siblings looked at each other and Maliha declared, "We're out of here..."

Part of me cringed a little bit as the two scrambled to get their food and rush out of the dining room. Sure, this was my engagement and maybe not of interest to them. But I was always dragged into every life event of theirs. As the oldest sibling I had been like a third parent to them. Neither of my parents had any experience with the US schooling system or college applications. So, I was the one who had stayed up past midnight many times checking my sibling's homework, or fixing their college essays, or when I started driving, taking them to all their extra curriculars.

I did it all without complaining, because I was their older sister, and in my mind I was fulfilling my duties to my family. But it still hurt that whenever I needed them to be on my side they always ducked out, like they had no responsibility towards me.

Let it go Madi...you have more important things to discuss right now!

"What about him beti?", my dad asked.

"Why didn't you tell me you had invited his family to Maliha's wedding? I told you I am having serious doubts about him. Papa, you told me that we would discuss this after the wedding, what am I supposed to do now when I meet him? I trusted you to listen to me and yet you went behind my back", I couldn't hide the betrayal I felt.

My parents had always assured me that even if they arranged my wedding, I would have a final say in everything. And yes, I had agreed to marry Jawad, but we hadn't even had a Nikah yet and the doubts I had were based on tangible concerns.

Mom reached out and placed a hand on my arm, "Madiha, we didn't have a choice. Jawad's mother called me and said that that he was sorry about how he talked to you at your hospital and those pictures were a misunderstanding. And they wanted to meet you in-person to sort everything out, so we thought...why not invite them to Maliha's wedding"

"Mama, you always have a choice...and was it also your choice to not tell me any of this?", I wasn't trying to make her feel bad, but they should have asked me before agreeing with his mom.

Now it was my dad's turn to launch into another lengthy explanation, "Madi, beti...listen. You have to realize that not everyone who is outside the medical field realizes how tough your rotations are. Even we sometimes forget how little time you actually have when you are on service in the hospital. We didn't tell you about Jawad coming because we have barely seen you this month"

I took a deep breath in to calm myself. I hated it when my profession was used as an excuse to justify not including me in things, especially decisions that pertained to my life. My parents could also have not agreed to anything at all, or even called me at work...just like my sister does all the time to discuss her wedding planning.

"So are you saying that he almost yelled at me standing inside my hospital because he didn't know how tough my work is...well maybe he shouldn't be marrying me then! And Papa I've told you this before, that wasn't the only thing. Every time we have talked about finding a job after training, he insists that I should move where ever he is. But what if I can't? What if I get a better offer in some other city? Am I supposed to just forget about it, because my career doesn't matter? I have worked so hard to get to where I am, how does he expect me to just give it all up?"

To be quiet honest, his inflexibility about the location of our jobs after training had bothered me the most. I was training at one of the top institutes in the country, I had a great academic track record, all my advisors had reassured me that I would be a leading candidate no matter which job or subspecialty training position I applied to.

The world is your oyster - one advisor had said. How was it fair then for my future husband to not even be open to the idea that he may need to follow me where my job or training took me? And if this was a sticking point before marriage, what else would he stop me from doing after marriage. I knew marriage was a compromise, and I was open to having those discussions. But the compromise had to be both ways.

"And Mama", I continued, "If Moin had put up the pictures that Jawad did, would you just brush them off as a misunderstanding? I don't think so...so why do I have to be ok with it?"

There was silence in that room for the next several minutes, before my dad spoke up again, "Madi, your Mama and I will never force you to do anything you don't want to. If you are not comfortable with this proposal, we would be fine calling the engagement off..."

"Ahmed...!", my mom exclaimed, clearly as surprised as I was.

"Sanam...", my dad turned to my mom, "She is our daughter, and she has come to a decision. We need to honor it...I trust that she has thought through this like the sensible girl that I know she is"

But I knew my mom wasn't one to give up easily, "Ahmed, this is ridiculous. You know very well that in our society and culture, women are expected to follow their husbands, not vice versa...maybe you shouldn't be instilling these ideas in her head...independent women are not the ones who get married. Besides, we had so much trouble even finding a proposal for her in the first place..."

Independent women...I had heard that term before, and never in a good way. Every time I had heard it, it was said about a woman with a career who couldn't get married in the first place, couldn't keep her marriage, or couldn't/wouldn't have children.

But I didn't want to dismiss my mom either. After everything she and my dad had done for me, it was also my duty to not let her get worried about my future. It wasn't as if I never wanted to get married, I just didn't want to get married to Jawad.

"Sanam, if God wills, another suitable match will come for her...", my dad said.

Then he turned to me and asked me gently, "Beti...all the reasons you have given for not getting married to Jawad are valid, but I have to ask you this...is there someone you are interested in, which is why you want to end this engagement?"

What?

The image of a man in pajamas standing in front of the freezer aisle at a 24hr pharmacy flashed in front of my eyes, as did his smile when he stood next to me trying to make a cup of coffee for himself. He was a man who seemed to see me like no one ever did. But then I also remembered the way he had balked when Salman mentioned us being together, and the way he kept calling me a friend. So, I immediately pushed him out of my mind. Even if I was interested in him, nothing would ever come off it.

"No Papa, there isn't..."

"Ok beti...I will call Jawad's family tomorrow morning. Sanam, don't worry, we will find a way...", my dad squeezed my mom's hand, as she sat there with sorrow in her eyes.

I was feeling really guilty about making my mom unhappy. Marrying off a daughter, was a big responsibility. And I knew my mom had thought that she was done stressing out about both her daughters. Except that she was back to square one with me.

"Mama, I am open to considering anyone that you think is suitable for me...really", I tried to soothe her, "I am not against you arranging my marriage at all. Maybe we can even meet that aunty who arranges marriages..."

"That aunty is out of the question...", my dad said sharply.

"Why?", I asked, surprised.

I hadn't enjoyed meeting her and answering her bazillion questions or posing for the rishta pictures, but I had been willing to do it. But then we never heard back from her.

"Leave it, Madi...she wasn't a good woman", my dad said, without looking at me.

But my mom pushed him to explain further, "Ahmed...tell Madi, why she wasn't a good woman...if she is so willing to survive in this world on her own, she should know what the world holds for her"

That really confused me, what did my mom mean? What had this aunty done? But my dad stayed quiet, so I looked at my mom questioningly.

"Madi...we have always sheltered you from undesirable parts of the desi culture we are a part of even in this country...but you are a grown woman now..."

"Sanam...", my dad said, but my mom continued anyway.

"So you should know that the aunty, and a couple of others like her that we had approached in both Chicago and New York, all wanted us to photoshop your picture...to make you more...uh...likely to get a rishta. They said a good picture would at least get some family interested and then we could see the rest later", she paused.

The rest later? That was the stupidest plan ever, but also the most unethical one...

"Photoshop how?", I had an idea what she was going to say, I wasn't as oblivious to the world around me as my mom thought I was, but I needed to hear it from her anyway.

She didn't say anything. I knew this wasn't comfortable for her, I knew she loved me just as I was, and so did my dad, but I needed to confirm what I already knew.

"Mama...photoshop how?", I asked again.

"They wanted us to see if we could lighten your skin color and make your nose more narrow, apparently there are apps now that can do this...but your Papa and I refused, so they backed out from helping us"

I expected this would be the answer...every time I looked in the mirror I knew the undesirable physical qualities I had. I had known that since I was 8 years old. Till that age, every time some desi aunty at the mosque we frequently visited said that I looked like my dad, I used to fill with pride. I loved my dad, he was my hero in so many ways.

But by 8 years of age, I had learned enough Urdu to understand that when the women said, "Hai bechari...bilkul baap jaisi lag ti hai, wohi kaala rang, wohi chora naak...Ami to itni khoobsurat hai (Oh poor thing...she looks just like her dad, the same dark color, the same broad nose...the mom is so pretty)" they were not complimenting me, rather there was something very, very wrong with me.

I remember coming home from the mosque one night in tears, and my mom trying to console me as she asked me why I was crying. But I was afraid that if I told her, she would not love me either because of my dark skin and broad nose.

So as I sat there in front of my parents, I wasn't upset because I had found out something new, I was upset that my parents were worried that I couldn't get married just because of the color of my skin and the structure of my nose. As if the rest of me, the qualities that were actually under my control, and perhaps those that I had subconsciously tried to gain perfection in because I always knew my physical attributes wouldn't get me anywhere, didn't matter.

I got up from the table and went into my room and shut my door. But even my room was a reminder of what my mom had just said. Every family picture that I had cherished, was a reminder that I looked like my dark skinned dad, and Maliha and Moin looked like my light skinned mom.

I heard a light knock on my door, and my dad's voice called out gently, "Madi, beti...are you ok?"

When I opened the door, he was standing there with a cup of chai and a plate of samosas and jalebis.

"Here beti. The world is a cruel place, but don't let other people bring you down. They are never worth it", then he gently placed his hand on my head and said, "You will always be my beautiful daughter..."

I couldn't help but smile at him. I loved my mom, but my dad held a special place in my heart. Maybe, because I saw myself in him; despite his background he had been extremely successful in building a life for himself and his family, and that's what I wanted to do. Or maybe, it was because when people said it was unfortunate that I looked like him, I felt that I needed to defend him.

After he left, I sat on my bed and had my chai and half a samosa. I skipped the jalebi, because the last thing I wanted to do was gain weight, and give the world another excuse to dismiss me.

I still hadn't changed out of my scrubs so I grabbed my night suit, got into the shower, and turned the warm water on. Even before that water hit the bathtub floor, I could feel the tears wetting my face. And then as the water flowed over my face, I remembered the child in my 5th grade class who had said that I should take a bath more often, because I looked dirty all the time. And the girl in my ninth grade science class, who told me and my African-American lab partner to go back to where we came from, because America did not need more ugly people.

Racism...colorism...whatever you wanted to call it, was somehow ingrained in us even as children. Not that its the children's fault. They are like sponges, and will accept and absorb whatever they see and hear.

The younger version of me often wished that someone would invent a soap that would automatically lighten my skin...the older version of me had accepted that I could never change my reality.

But even though I had vowed to not let the words of strangers ever affect me, I was human. And just because I accepted my reality didn't mean I was immune to the pain it caused. So, today I let the tears flow. At least they would be washed away by the warm water, unlike the color of my skin.

And I told myself again, that tomorrow I would be the strong, intelligent woman that everyone expected me to be, because without that, I was a nobody.

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