Chapter 2: What's To Become of Me?

Unlike my Bollywood-crazed Desi cousins, I grew up singing and dancing to every musical production by Rodgers and Hammerstein. My Fair Lady and The Sound of Music inspired and enhanced my passion for entertaining! So naturally, I often found myself reenacting scenes from these movies. I would however, advise against doing so in public places! Especially any parks that you take your children to. When I see a gazebo in a park, I can't resist the urge to entertain whoever is with me with my rendition of, "I am 16, going on 17!" I'm not sure why parents begin shuttling their children to the parking lot when I arrive, or why Hamzah suddenly disappears into the bushes. Maybe, because it's like dinner and a (freak) show when I'm around!

It is, however, harmless to spend your nights (alone) lying awake, afraid of the thunderstorm, wondering what the future will hold for you. And since both Hollywood and Bollywood have spent decades romanticizing the whole, Singing in the Rain concept, I was quite sure that my future involved me singing and dancing in the rain, while wearing a white sari, joined by the love of my life, who would later have to fight some f'ugly looking bad guys to defend my honor. Sadly, I would eventually have to die in childbirth after his mother had finally come around to accepting me for who I was: A Pakistani-British-American-Delusional-Muslim! Not necessarily in that order!

Cue Real Life: At the ripe old age of 29, I was a newly divorced, single-mother, eagerly awaiting the end of my agonizing twenties. There was never a singing in the rain moment for me, and that's one of the many reasons I'm now completely turned-off of all Indian movies. Except Bride and Prejudice, that wasn't too bad, or too long, or have unrealistic fight scenes with unrealistic sound effects! "Ttshoong Ttshing" are not real sounds! OK, so Bride and Prejudice is obviously not an Indian movie. Glad I was able to clear that up for myself!

In this new chapter of my life, I found myself asking that famed Eliza Doolittle question again: “What’s to become of me?” I’m sure my parents and extended family were wondering the same thing. As a Pakistani-Muslim (delusional) female, I may as well start digging my own grave, because as one uncle so tenderly put it after I told him that my marriage might be over, “Why are you going to leave him now, you have a child. No one’s going to want to marry you if you have a child. And anyway, men want virgins. And you have a child, remember!” Oh dear, the dreaded V-word again. This time my uncle said it, and listen, if it’s used in the Qur’an and Hadith, (our holy book and the books compiled with the sayings of the prophet, peace be upon him) I’m pretty sure I can use it in my memoir as many times as I need to.

So apparently, the moment I left my husband, I was supposed to be thinking about the likelihood of getting remarried. WITH A CHILD! Wow! If I had known that, I would’ve just stayed with Bilal. My God! What is wrong with our people? Can’t a girl just end a marriage without being harassed about the prospect of never getting married again? Note my use of the word prospect. What some see as "doomed," (never getting married again) I see as an "opportunity" to live a free and happy life, and never having to worry about getting pregnant again! Oh no! You're not even over the V-word yet, and here I go with the P-word! To my non-Desi readers, any words that can be associated with “marital relations” should be strictly reserved for doctors visits. Female doctors visits that is! I could be caned for my loose tongue!

So back to the nagging question: “What’s to become of me?” Will a “misogynistic and snobbish phonetics professor” take me in and teach me how to be a proper lady; a lady that doesn’t go around using vulgar words such as virgin and pregnant. Oh, wooouldn’t it be love-er-ly? Maybe I could take Hamzah with me. I'm sure Professor Higgins wouldn’t have minded the fact that I HAD A CHILD! Especially since had I waited until after I was married to conceive it! (You know what I'm getting at!)

To be honest, I didn’t allow myself much time to ponder that question. Two months after I had filed for divorce, I enrolled full-time with the University of Phoenix online. Hamzah was only three- years-old, and I was still committed to being a stay at home mother. (Again, note my use of the word committed. Another double entendre!)

I resisted the urge to put Hamzah in preschool, and abandoned any dreams of having a social life by pursuing my degree online. Playing with Hamzah by day and studying by night.

“I am a Phoenix!” is my new mantra now. At least that’s what the commercial for the University of Phoenix has suggested it should be! I’m not here to debate the validity of online education, because no one is paying me to do that. But I will say that UOP is an accredited university with over 200 branch campuses all over the United States. Yes, I did get that from Wikipedia. I’m an online student, what do you expect? Seriously though, I have had a great experience, (I’ll be graduating this December) and I find that the flexibility of an online school is much more conducive to my current stay-at-home-mother lifestyle. I can attend classes without brushing my teeth or my hair!

Some people were worried that the heavy load of coursework would send me into an early grave. One which, according to my uncle, I was supposed to be digging anyway! However, I noticed that the less time I had to wonder "what was to become of me" or whether or not I would get proposals again, the better off I was. It was also better for Hamzah to know I was capable of being more than just a domestic diva! (I prefer "domestic goddess," but I don't want anyone to think I encourage shirk! -Associating partners with God).

I was desperate to finish college, especially since I'd had such a late start, and I knew that a degree would provide me with something tangible. Something that I could say I had accomplished, and worked hard for. Also, a degree puts you in a position to say, “I have a degree, I don’t need a man!” Although, I won’t feel completely secure until I can say, "I have a job, I don't need man!" Because it’s the security of having your own money that makes man an unnecessary appendage! (No, I’m not a feminist man-hater. I just think, talk and write like one sometimes!)

Completing my education was also important because I wanted to prove that I wasn't a quitter. I was the daughter in the family who always got bored quickly and couldn’t stick to a music lesson long enough to get passed the Doe a Deer assignment. I was much happier teaching myself a new tune on my own time, without having to worry about proper hand placement and measured beats etc. Nowadays, parents don’t need to pay for stuffy lessons anymore, because you can learn how to play anything you want on YouTube! Thank you, Internet!

My piano teacher failed to inspire me, because he used to smack my fingers with a pencil if he heard my finger nails hitting the ivory keys. Our teacher was this old white man, and it seemed to me an unsympathetic technique to use on a child of immigrant parents; who are well-known for beating their children! My mother would sit-in on my lesson, watching it all, and wouldn’t say a word! She would just raise her eyebrows when I looked at her, and it was as if she was saying, “Don’t you wish I only used a No. 2 pencil to hit you, instead of the rubber chuppals and lakri ka chamchas?” (Urdu words for flip flops and wooden spoons - the two objects that are manufactured in Pakistan, India, and of course China for the sole purpose of beating your children.)

No need to call child services now, the emotional wounds are all healed, and I’m not carrying on the tradition with Hamzah. I use my bare hands instead! Only because I’m smart enough to know that tools can be used in court as evidence!

Think: "Your Honor, I have here exhibit a) Bata Chappal, and exhibit b) Dollar Store wooden spoon that came in a pack of ten."

I’ve also learned that the use of your bare hands will ensure a swift beating while you’re still in your fit of rage! My mum usually had to go searching for her weapons, and that ten-second delay always gave us enough time to run for our lives and lock ourselves inside the bathroom. The only room with a lock! Another reason why bathrooms/toilets are my favorite place in the house! That delay also helped to calm her down. By the time she found us, she was usually laughing hysterically. Once she was inside... I don't even know what happened. I've blacked it all out now! Maybe it was just a tap. It was such a long time ago. I can’t remember the details anymore!

My mother is standing over me as I'm typing this, and has asked me (barefoot and empty handed, phew!) to insert this disclaimer:

"Rabiya loves to exaggerate!"

She's gone now, and you should all know that my reputation for being honest, is as sound as my judgment and knowledge of men!

Anyway, back to music lessons. What I remember is that I became more interested in guitars, but I was too scared to admit it. You can understand why, what with all those weapons of mass destruction hidden in our home.

When I finally mustered up the courage to ask my mother if I could kill her dream of having three daughters who were accomplished pianists, she said, “Fine, but I’m not wasting any more money on you. If you want to learn how to play guitar, you can use your sister’s one and teach yourself.”

So I took off the protective helmet and padding, and picked up the guitar. It only lasted a couple of months, but this time it was my parents' fault, because they told us we were moving to America, and that's where my love of guitar was replaced with a love of tap dancing on our new front porch. Something English homes don’t have: front porches, or children tap dancing on them!

Moving to America wasn’t the best idea my parent's ever had. My sisters and I were happy in London. We were used to the gray skies and cold summers. But like many desi parents who want to live closer to their family and long for the heat of back home, they decided to move here! The desire for warmth explains the influx of South Asian’s to the warm continent of North America, but doesn’t explain why half of the Desi population lives in England!

Moving here also seemed like a bad idea, because it put my parents under financial stress for the first time. I think they should be applauded for being able to hide that fact from me and my sisters. We never felt as though we were without, because they gave us what children need more than anything else; unconditional love and a trip to Disney World. Twice! My father saved all his pennies in a jar to take us on an epic adventure along the east coast. (Another reason why he's the best man in the word!)

The immigrant application process is another headache that we could've lived without, and it was especially frustrating for my mother, because it meant that she wouldn't be able to send any of us to Juilliard! We didn't qualify for financial aid, because the government doesn’t encourage "aliens" to pursue a degree. If they do that, who will work on all the farms and perfume stands in the mall?

I knew moving here was a bad idea as soon as we arrived, because as we were driving around, I noticed something quite unsettling. America was full of grown-ups who wore flip-flops. Grown-ups who wore flip-flops to the Dollar Store…to one of the millions of Dollar Stores located in every strip mall in America.

It was now painfully clear "what was to become of me" in this "land of the free, home of the brave."

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Sadly, I have to ruin my humorous tale of corporal punishment (or disciplinary action rather) with another disclaimer, because some people don't understand the world of comedy: Writers need to exaggerate their stories (just a little) in order to get a laugh. Why that isn't common sense for my people, has a lot to do with why I feel the need to write about these things even more. Also, my mother is awesome and a very loving woman, but writing about timeouts, "naughty spots" or other ineffectual punishments - which are turning children into monsters - were not around when I was a kid!

As for my mother: She'll get over it once I get a book deal and send us somewhere we've always wanted to go. Like Italy, where she will probably see other "children" getting beatings in the street, and then she'll begin to feel much better about her disciplinary past!

Copyright 2009 Rabiya Khan

Sneak Peak at Chapter 3

After my divorce, I was beginning to wonder if I was a quitter of relationships, the way I quite all my music lessons! According to the uncle mentioned earlier, the one known for his gentility, “Being married to someone for five or six years isn’t long enough to say you have tried. Women stay married for decades, and they’re miserable, but they stay anyway. Don't just think about yourself.”
If you had seen the look on my face as he was speaking to me, you might have thought I was staring into the eyes of ... (I'll let you figure that one out!) The wrath that was spewing beneath the surface of my still-delicate-almost-30-year-old-skin was about to boil over, but luckily for him, my cousin noticed my countenance, and quickly interjected with, “Why don’t we have some chai?” A cup of tea will solve any problem for a Desi. If you’re thirsty, drink tea. If you’re cold, drink tea. If you're hot, drink tea. If you’re sick, drink tea. If it’s cloudy, drink tea. If it’s sunny, drink tea. If you’re in a good mood, drink tea. If you have just been diagnosed with cancer, yep you guessed it, drink a nice hot cuppa tea.
And if you see that your emotionally drained cousin is about to attack her uncle, and is getting ready to launch that stand-on-one-leg Karate Kid pose that made Ralph Macchio famous and forever remembered as the cutest White boy ever, drink some tea. RIGHT NOW!

Copyright 2009 Rabiya Khan