Chapter 6: Just Breath.

Wanna know another secret about me?
Too bad!

I was once married at the age of 16, just like my grandmother. (Please try to understand the reasoning behind this one before you decry “child brides” again!)

Let’s just chalk it down to a temporary lapse of sanity on my parents’ part. All has been forgiven, because I was able to call it off after my “husband” tried to touch me on the way home from a dawaat. (Or mandatory dinner, that newlywed’s must attend every weekend after they’re married; basically for a chance to show off the one-hundred or so sparkly outfits a bride receives as part of her Jahaiz. (Or dowry, which islamically, is supposed to be given by the groom’s family, but which Pakistani’s changed- when they adopted several practices of the Indian’s- thereby placing the entire financial burden of the wedding on the girl’s family instead. Another reason why the announcement, “It’s a girl!” produces more frowns than smiles in rural villages across the Far East.)

And breathe!

Anyway, when, my (first) ex-husband- the one I didn't consummate my marriage to because I was only in high school - tried to hold my hand, I almost slapped him and jumped out of his (moving) vehicle!

He was twice my age, and felt that by lying and telling me he was “only 26” that I might find him more appealing. He also thought that being Punjabi would somehow turn me on. But it didn’t, oddly enough!?

His ethnicity shocked many of my relatives, mainly because of the racial and political strife that seems to exist between Urdu-speaking Pakistani’s and Punjabi-speaking Pakistani’s. I can’t comprehend any of it, to be honest, because all I’ve been able to distinguish between the two groups is that Punjabi’s speak a different language than us, listen to more upbeat -yet incomprehensible- music than us, will fight anyone to become the president of their masjid better than us, and eat a hell of a lot more chickpeas than us.

According to my first ex, all of the above made him a pure Pakistani. Something my Muhajir ancestors could never be. (Or immigrants to Pakistan from India, and prior to that, from Afghanistan. Which explains why we’re better looking!)
So I let him have that title, because he was right; he was a pure Pakistani, because he was BLOODY WELL BORN AND RAISED THERE.
So basically, he was my worst nightmare come true!

Just breathe!

Anyway, my parents were desperate to get me and my sisters married off, because we were facing tough times, (read: financial and immigration problems) and so when a franchise-owning millionaire asked for my hand in marriage (even though I had an older sister, who –according to unwritten desi customs- was supposed to get married first) my parent’s begged me to say yes, kindly reminding me that he lived in Maryland, (my favorite state at the time) and that he’d mentioned something about a brand new BMW…but only if I gave my consent.

So that sealed the deal! (Bribery works wonders with children. I was only 16 remember!)

Get out the mehndi (henna paste) and put on the bhangra! (The Punjabi music that was going to be blaring from the speakers of my brand new, 5 Series, black-top convertible.)

Not quite! How shallow to do you really think I am? Don’t answer that please.

So after my parent’s finally saw the light and realized it was 1993, (not 1893) we went to court to have my first marriage annulled. But we soon learned that annulments are only granted to inebriated celebrities who run off to Vegas for a drive-thru marriage. Since I’d had my parent’s consent and was only slightly drunk off of Rooh-Afza, (a rose water and milk concoction) my unconsummated, “paper” marriage had to be granted as a divorce. But what the judge should have asked was whether or not my parent’s or the groom had elicited my consent; without the use of guilt-trips, or bribes, or rose water concoctions that make me gag every year during the month of Ramadan. (Islamic month of fasting.)

It didn’t end without a lot of drama from the guys side, or without a lot of, “Pallice Rabiya, don’t do dis, I lowe you” from Mr. “I’m only tventy-sex.” (No, I’m not trying to be vulgar and use another “bad vord!” These aren’t typos either, that’s how desi immigrants pronounce the number six and the letters V & W. Think: Volkswagen!)

I was perplexed though, by all the “lowe” he was professing. I mean, we barely spoke or saw each other during our very short marriage, but I guess I’m just one of those people you instantly fall in-love with, or instantly hate. Lucky me!

He was actually a nice guy, and I shouldn’t be so mean, because it wasn’t entirely his fault that I had been conned into marrying him. He had an older brother who was running the show. A "Big Brother" who made my betrothed lie and flaunt his wealth. He also had the audacity to tell my parents that "good parents don't allow their daughters to make decisions for themselves." So when my folks finally called off the wedding reception, he responded, "You vait and see, she'll run off with an Umreecan (or American) if you continue to giwe her all dis freedom."

Turns out he was psychic too! Because much to my own detriment, I later used this little incident to defend my other suitor: You know the African American convert and veteran of the United States Army whom my parent’s didn’t care too much for.

See where I’m going with all this? I had the one-up-man-ship that every naive desi girl wishes for. I finally had the freedom that "Big Brother" had cursed upon me!

So when the time came for me to get married again, (this time in my twenties), my argument was something along the lines of: “Well, you guys obviously don’t know what’s best for me either, so how about I chose my own husband this time? At least this one’s taller than me, and speaks English (properly), and accepted his premature balding by shaving his head, rather than hiding it with a comb-over. And he lives closer to New York City (Philadelphia) and drives an Acura. And that’s close enough to a BMW for me!”

I was 23, what the hell did I know!

What I do know, is that I hate having two divorces on my record. I’d rather have 14 points on my license...I think I’d feel less dysfunctional!


Anyway, who cares, it’s not like God’s going to ask us how many husbands we had on earth. Hopefully he won’t ask us how we felt about them either. I’ll stop while I’m ahead on this one.

I know that everything happens for a reason, and that I'm merely the vehicle being driven towards my fate, and if I may, I would like to take this time to ask who ever is driving my vehicle, "TO PLEASE STOP TAKING ME IN THE WRONG DIRECTION!"

Clearly, I have a ways to go until I figure out how qismat, free-will, and God are supposed to work harmoniously together.

If only my new GPS unit had a “Search Mr. Right” function. All I would have to do is type in the city: Manhattan, of course. Hit the street name: Fifth Avenue, of course. Then the “Begin Your Journey Towards Ever-Lasting Love” button. Peace-out people! I’m outtie! Keep your seat belt fastened at all times, and resist the urge to blare bhangra music when you approach your penthouse suite, because this one is going to be a Pathaan, just like you. (A good looking descendant of an Afghani tribe.)
You have reached your destination. Remember to breathe. And don’t drink too much Rooh-Afza!

BAM! The perfect ingredients for a senile single mother on her quest for true love.

As you can see, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this new gadget that I will someday invent. (After my book becomes a New York Times Best Seller).

Laugh now, but when everyone runs out to Best Buy -and you know you will- just remember who thought of this. NO! Not the Geek Squad. ME!
(Oh, wait a minute; you were laughing at the NYT Best Seller part, weren’t you?)

To be honest, I myself am beginning to wonder if I have what it takes to write a book. When I tell people that I’m in the process of completing my memoir, they usually give me that look. The one that suggests, “But you don’t even have an interesting life. Why would people want to read about you? Who the hell do you think you are, you little narcissist! Do you really think you’ll find a company to publish your rants and raves?”

Honestly, to tell you the truth, the answer is yes! I really do think someone will be desperate enough to publish my work, and that someone just happens to be…yours truly! (And blogspot.com) Because you see, I’ve already published it; on my blog and on facebook. So hah! In your face! (People don’t really say that anymore, do they?)


And since life is so short, I've decided to give myself the benefit of my doubts and just do it!

Well isn’t that sort of my practical application to life? My motto these days does seem to be: “Who gives a crap what you think, I’m gonna do it anyway!” Not very eloquent, I know, but you get my point right? (Sorry for all the questions in this chapter. I’m trying to be more engaging, and bringing you into the bathroom with me was obviously not intimate enough!)


And no need to worry, because in the event of (my imminent) failure, I have back-up plans in place. For example, if plan A fails; getting on the coveted New York Times Best Seller list, thus allowing me to own Target shares, I’ll resort to plan B: Keep entering sweepstakes that guarantee me either $5000/week for life, or at least a $500 gift card to Target. And when plan B fails, as the calculated odds in fine print suggest it will, then I will swallow my pride and implement plan C: Ask Hamzah’s dad if he wants to give it another shot, because my get-rich-quick schemes and GPS man-hunts have all been in vain, and because a full-time job won’t afford me the luxury of being there for our son when he arrives home from school.

Whoa breathe!

When he rejects me, (and possibly calls his lawyer and child services) I will go ahead and join the rat race by posting my highly unimpressive resume on Monster.com. Actually, I’ve already done that…so I need a plan D. Pronto!

Now that I’ve completed my degree, (and have failed to impress companies with my resume) I feel myself slipping back into the constant state of worry that had been my abode for several years.

I think I need to watch, “The Secret” again. The inspirational documentary I rented a few years ago and forced my parent’s to watch with me. I was fully prepared to be enlightened by another Aha! Moment, but was disappointed when I didn’t learn anything new. I agreed with the overall message: State your intention. Remain positive. You get what you give to to the "universe." (Karma.) After all, these are the fundamental teachings of most faiths. I even agree that perception plays a role in how our lives unfold. However, I also believe that good genes play a role too. Unfortunately, I inherited my mother’s “worry wart” genes instead of my father’s, “It’s all good in dah hood” genes. (Which when spoken in his desi accent, will make anyone feel good!)

I’ve also noticed a pattern to my worrying. Not as pretty as the patterns you see in Persian rugs or Amish quilts. But a pattern nonetheless.

Here is my own (un)scientific theory. Ready?

• When I worried about not finding Mr. Right, I found Mr. Wrong.
• When I worried that my husband would not be truthful, he was dishonest.
• When I worried that the sunny patch I was experiencing after my divorce would end, I suddenly found myself standing under thick, heavy clouds. Drowning in a torrential downpour, thanks to my own self-inflicted misery.
• And when I worried that I wouldn’t get someone’s voicemail (because I didn’t have time to talk) they always picked up the phone. (What is up with that?)
  
  Ready for the epiphany? Too bad!
  

• So when I worry that my memoir will never be published (in book form)… it should become a New York Time’s Best Seller. Right?
• And when I worry about finding another Mr. Wrong, I should end up with Mr. Right. Right?
• And when I worry that he’ll be dishonest or mean, he’ll be truthful and kind. Right?
• And when I worry that the clouds will never clear, the sun will shine brightly. Right?
• And when I worry that you'll answer your phone, you'll have your ringer set to silent and miss my call; because you dont want anybody disturbing you while you're reading the latest NYT Best Seller by an emerging author. RIGHT?

WOW! I just figured something out on my own; without a therapist, without my collection of self-help books, and without psychotropic drugs.

The flaw in my old worry pattern was this: I worried about not getting something good, and as a result ended up getting something bad. So since opposites really do attract, I’m going to start worrying in reverse.

Still with me?

Let me break it down for you like this: Whenever I would feel depressed in my youth, I would put on, “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley, and my frown would instantly be transformed into a smile. But now when I listen to him croon, “Don’t worry about a thing, cuz every little thing gonna be alright” I’m reminded of the lyrics to my new worry song: “This is my message to you-ou-ou, singin’ do worry, about everything. Cuz every little thing, gonna be alright!" Yeah- man!

Fine Print: I will not be held liable for any miserable outcomes, in the event that you foolishly follow this unscientifically proven theory.

BTW, I thought it would be interesting to note that while I’m sitting at my desk, typing this chapter, the sun has just poked its head out from behind the bitter, bleak, clouds of February.

And we’re both shining brightly. Long live the sunny patch! xxx

And remember, Just Breath!

© 2010 by Rabiya Khan

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Bonus Material:
Lyrics to the National Anthem of The United States of Rabiya Khan.

Breath. By, Anna Nalick

2 AM and she calls me 'cause I'm still awake,
Can you help me unravel my latest mistake,
I don't love him,
Winter just wasn't my season.

Yeah we walk through the doors, so accusing their eyes
Like they have any right at all to criticize,
Hypocrites, you're all here for the very same reason

Cause you can't jump the track, we’re like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
But no one can find the rewind button girl,
You cradle your head in your hands
And breathe, just breathe,
Whoa breathe, just breathe

There's a light at each end of this tunnel, you shout
Cause you're just as far in as you'll ever be out
These mistakes you've made, you'll just make them again
If you only try turning around.

2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper,
It’s no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to
(MY FAVORITE VERSE)

But you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable,
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
Well no one can find the rewind button now
Sing it if you understand.
And breathe, just breathe
Whoa breathe, just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jPz3YaIJkjQ

(Listen to the song on youtube)

Isn’t that kinda sorta what I wrote about! Less poetically of course! ;)