Courage to Say No Read online

  I immediately agreed, and within the month, I was packed and ready to travel away to college. While preparing to leave, I realized that my crying was the first time I had ever shed tears in front of my parents, especially Father.

  I did not think of my tears as a form of manipulation, but as a desperate expression of my most profound desires. I needed to be on my own, out of their sheltered protection, in order to find myself. That he listened and relented to my request pleased me. That I had parents who were willing to help me realize my dreams, gave me a sense that I possessed a beautiful life. I had every reason to expect a happy future, and that with my parent’s support and guidance, I would find lasting love and happiness.

  Even though Mother had spent her entire life worrying about me, I felt ready to be on my own. If I needed help, Father would stand by me. Surrounded by my loving siblings, my life ahead appeared secure and bright. I thought God was my best friend; He so far had listened to all my deepest desires.

  In the days before my departure, my Uncle Hamid (the one who had destroyed his shoe on Sharif’s head) came to see me off. He sat me down and began to speak earnestly, offering me some advice, which I was glad to receive, since I respected and enjoyed my uncle’s company.

  “Baby,” he said, “now that you are going to live in a different city independently, you will meet many boys. You have to be careful and—”

  At this point, Mother, who was sitting with me, cut him off. “Hamid, my daughter is very intelligent. She does not have any interest in boys. She will only focus on her studies. We do not need to give her any advice about boys. We trust her.”

  Uncle looked frustrated, but he would never contradict Mother or Father. He said slowly to Mother, “Ridha Bhabi, Sharif says he will use magic to destroy your daughter.”

  Mother’s face turned pale, and she started having difficulty breathing. I said confidently, “Magic has no power to harm me. Believe me, I read the Quran every day, so I know it will protect me from magic, Satan, and evil. I am not afraid of Sharif and his magic.”

  Mother relaxed after that.

  The next day I boarded the train to Nawab Shah and rode away to begin my five years of medical study. I was very sad to leave the house. I would especially miss my youngest brother Rafhan, but at the same time I was very happy; I felt free and independent, on my way to becoming a doctor.

  On the long train ride, the abbreviated conversation with Uncle Hamid came to mind. Before Mother cut him off so abruptly, he was going to give me some practical advice about boys. The fact that Mother thought I did not need practical advice struck me in a way I had never thought of, for as beautiful as my childhood had been, so full of cherished and loving moments, I had not been given much training in practical matters. To my embarrassment, I still had not ever taken a shower without Mother’s strict supervision. I never understood her doting on me as a lack of trust in my abilities, but rather a manifestation of her fear that somehow water would destroy me if she did not carefully supervise me.

  I knew many things from my studies and reading, but I had little experience with everyday life. Despite Mother’s beliefs that I had no interest in boys, I was nineteen and needed to know certain things. What if I met someone and I wanted to open my heart to him? How would I know what to do and say?

  As the train swished along, hurrying me toward my new home for the next five years, I could not help wondering what Uncle Hamid would have told me. Would his advice have prepared me for what I knew would happen inevitably? What girl my age did not want to meet a handsome, charming, intelligent man who would love and protect her? One who would appreciate her intelligence and ambitions? How would I know whom to trust without some guidance? Mother’s advice simply to ignore the reality that boys existed, though impractical, was the only guidance I left home with.

  At Nawab Shah, I quickly fell into a routine of classes, study, and various social activities with new friends and classmates. Living in the dormitories was very different from living at home, but I enjoyed every minute of it. I felt free of Mother’s fears, and liberated from the men who were pestering me, such as Sharif and Furqan.

  After a few months, I received a letter from my mother that my youngest brother, Rafhan, who was only two years old, missed me. He had contracted a fever that did not respond to medicine. She wanted me to come home to visit him. I took emergency leave and rushed home. As soon as I hugged him, his fever went away.

  When I was leaving, I saw Furqan at the train station. I was distraught that he was still following me. Seeing me, he mistakenly believed that I had changed my mind about him. But I had not.

  He told me that he loved me.

  “This is not loving. Don’t you understand? Mutual feeling is love,” I said. He did not listen. He said he planned to use magic spells until I no longer wanted to live in Nawab Shah. He wanted me to move back to Karachi where he could see me easily. I was relieved when the train pulled away from the station that I lived far away from Karachi.

  After that, I began to dream that I was set to travel somewhere, and I always arrived at the train station late, with my train just leaving the station. I hear the whistle and begin to run, but it is useless. The train moves swiftly and disappears into thin air. These dreams continued to plague me for years until they finally stopped when I completed my medical study.

  I did not think there was any connection, but in real life, I did begin to miss trains, buses, and later, when I started traveling abroad, missing flights, which was unusual for me. I was normally so punctual. Something was wrong.

  Student life opened me up to so many new experiences. I began playing table tennis and regular tennis. These new activities were fun and challenging, but I still wanted to learn more skills.

  I joined the Girl Guide Training Association. The instructors taught us to shoot a rifle and to march. At the end of our training, the President of Pakistan, Zia-ul-Haq, visited to award us our certificates of completion for Girl Guide Training. One by one, we marched up to him. When I presented myself, he asked if I enjoyed living and studying in Nawab Shah, a small town compared to the bustling Karachi. I replied that I liked this college. He appeared surprised and said that he received many requests from students to transfer to Karachi. I said, if I returned to Karachi, I would focus more on becoming an artist, and Father would not like that.

  He laughed, and asked, “You want to become an artist?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He was very friendly. He put his hand on my head during the conversation, the same way in our Punjabi culture that my uncles and grandparents did. It was a sign of affection. In a fatherly tone, he said, “You are a very sweet and intelligent girl. If you ever need help transferring to Karachi, contact me.”

  I smiled and nodded, and I moved on.

  Later, when my classmates asked me what the president had spoken to me about, I explained about his offer to grant me a transfer. They were astonished that I wanted to stay in Nawab Shah and not return to Karachi. I was happy here. The distance from Karachi allowed me to focus on what I wanted most—becoming a doctor. In every way, I considered myself fortunate to have this opportunity. My school was also far away from certain men who continued to pester me.

  In letters from home, my sister told me that Furqan had shown up in our neighborhood, talking to some of my friends. He wanted more information about me. He mainly wanted to know Mother’s name. I was curious why he would want Mother’s name. Later, I discovered that those who practice magic need specific information about the person they want to put a curse on or want to influence. To cast their spells, they need the name of a person’s father and mother, date of birth, and often want clothes and other personal items. I did not believe in any of this, but it further convinced me of Furqan’s ignorance. While I worked hard to make a future for myself, he wanted to use the forces of the supernatural to get his way.

  One day a colleague handed me a letter outside of class. It was a love letter from one of my professors. This same pr
ofessor began sending letters to my dormitory room quite regularly, until I did not know what to do. I expected more from my professors, a mentoring relationship, not a romantic one. This professor was a young man, who had just recently graduated and been appointed to teach. The whole situation seemed odd to me, and I no longer wanted to attend any of that professor’s classes.

  It got to be too much, and I finally complained to the dean of the college, Dr. Ahsan Karim. The dean asked me, “What do you want me to do? Should I fire him?” After thinking, I said, “Tell him we need to have a teacher-student relationship. And he needs to apologize.” The next day, Dr. Karim called me into the office and informed me, the love-letter-writing professor, after listening to my complaint and request, had decided to quit. That uncomfortable episode was over.

  CHAPTER 3

  Becoming a Doctor

  SEVERAL OF MY FRIENDS FROM Karachi found out that I had had a conversation with President Zia, and he had offered to help me transfer to Karachi if I asked. They pestered me until I agreed to help them. Twenty-one girls in total wanted to transfer. Even though I wanted to stay in Nawab Shah, I decided to help them. We planned to approach him the next time he came to Nawab Shah or Karachi, which was closer to us than Islamabad. We read in the newspapers that he planned to attend a ceremony marking the birth of Pakistan at the mausoleum of Mr. Mohammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan, in Karachi.

  All twenty-one of us took a train to Karachi and arrived at the mausoleum to look for him. When I spotted him striding across the grounds surrounded by a military guard, I approached him. He was by the grand marble staircase, which ascended a steep rise to the towering mausoleum, and gleamed in the sunshine. The twenty-one-cannon salute for Mr. Jinnah had already been completed, and now he strode to the tomb for the recitation of Darood and Fatiha.

  I felt the urge to speak to him. His guards tried to stop me, but I avoided them and was able to get close enough to get his attention by calling to him loudly. A big soldier with a rifle blocked me, threatening to arrest me if I did not go away.

  “President Sahib,” I said again loudly.

  The president turned to face me, a blank expression on his face.

  “Do you recognize me? We met at the medical college several months ago for the Girl Guide Training.”

  He considered for a moment. “Yes, yes, I do remember you. Is there some trouble?” He motioned for the guards to release me and allowed me to approach him.

  “Yes, sir. You said I could contact you when I wanted a transfer to Karachi.”

  “Yes, yes, I remember. But this is not the time or place to discuss those matters. You must come to Islamabad. There I will consider your request.” With that, he turned from me and ascended the gleaming white stairs leading up to the mausoleum to attend the Fateha Prayers.

  We all returned to Nawab Shah by train, disappointed, but still hopeful that he would grant the request of the girls who wanted to transfer. My friends were quite amazed at my courage, that I would approach President Zia despite the threats of his bodyguard. They wanted me to go to Islamabad and meet with him at his presidential palace. They were confident that if I showed up, he would grant all twenty-one of them their request to transfer.

  I did not want to travel to Islamabad, and I did not need to transfer. I refused to go, but some of the other girls finally convinced me that I should take a group of four girls and travel to Islamabad. The girls collected money. With only enough for four of us, we took the train to Islamabad.

  The older sister of one of the girls lived in Islamabad. She was a CSS officer. We stayed with her, and in the evening, three of her colleagues visited us. Two of them were Ashraf and Tahira, and the other looked exactly like my favorite movie star, Waheed Murad, who was known for his engaging personality and romantic roles.

  This man was introduced to me as Mansoor Suhail, a CSS officer of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. His appearance struck me because he also dressed like Waheed Murad, in a dark suit and tie, with a starched sky blue shirt. He had a real sparkle in his eyes and a surprisingly pleasant, high-pitched singing voice. When he began singing a popular romantic song, the girls gathered around him. His voice sounded sweet and soft, which made him pleasant to listen to.

  As he sang, his eyes fell on me, searchlights seeking for something in me. Between his romantic words, his charming smile, and glancing looks, I began to feel a real attraction. This was something I had not felt for any other man before. Did he know that he stirred such feelings in me? Was he doing this on purpose?

  With everyone talking and having fun, I felt suddenly speechless, as if anything I said might seem trite. I did not even know him, but it was apparent that he could charm a snake out of its skin.

  After one song, he leaned toward me and asked. “How old are you?”

  “I will turn twenty soon,” I replied, wanting to sound older and worldlier than I was.

  “When?”

  Did he want to purchase a gift for my birthday? Was he trying to gauge whether I was old enough for romance? I was too tongue-tied to ask. “October 25,” were the only words that came out of my mouth.

  “Don’t you talk?” He leaned back, flashing me an inviting smile.

  I returned his smile, but I still could not speak.

  He began singing again, and telling jokes, making everyone laugh. After a couple of hours, the singing was over, and we were all exhausted. My friend’s older sister, who was our hostess, did not appear entirely happy with me. Later, my friends told me Mansoor and my friend’s big sister were more than colleagues. Did she think Mansoor was interested in me? I did not know what to think of any of this. I hardly knew the man.

  The next day four of us waited for hours at the gate of the presidential palace, but President Zia did not appear. That evening Mansoor and his group came again. Mansoor resumed singing his romantic and tender songs, and between the songs, he tried to engage me in more conversation. He spoke slowly and softly, gradually drawing me out. His attention sparked a genuine sense of attraction. This was so new to me. It was like nothing I had never felt before.

  Was he flirting with me? Did he mean anything by all of this attention?

  I could hardly sleep that night, all of Mansoor’s words running through my mind, trying to figure out what all of his attention could mean.

  Over the next four days, us girls waited by the gate until the president finally appeared. A long black limousine approached; I stepped up to the car, and his chauffeur slowed. President Zia rolled his window down and smiled at me. He was with his wife and his daughter, Zain Zia.

  “You have made it here!” There was a real surprise in his voice as he instantly recognized me.

  “Yes, sir. You requested that I come here so we can speak about the transfers.”

  I had in my hand the applications for all twenty-one students who wanted to transfer. I tried to hand them to him, but he would not take them. Instead, he glanced behind me to the girls who stood with me.

  “I will transfer all four of you.”

  My heart began pounding. We had come this far. I had to plead my case. “Sir, there are twenty-one of us who want to transfer to Karachi. They collected money and sent us here to represent them. Can you please transfer all of us?”

  Behind me, my friends were saying to me we should accept what he offered.

  President Zia motioned with his hand for me to come close so he could speak to me. He stared directly into my eyes and spoke in a low voice with a big smile. He spoke so softly; I had lean down to hear him, to the point he was whispering in my ear. “I will give you two options. First, you can agree with me and all four of you transfer. Or, second, all four of you can go to jail. Those are your choices. Which will you have?”

  I felt a cold chill down my spine. Maybe I had pushed him too hard. I had thought of him as fatherly, but now I sensed his cold side. I quickly turned toward my friends and related the president’s choices. Their faces turned white with fear. None of them wanted to go t
o jail.

  I turned back to him. “No, sir. We don’t want to go to jail.”

  His mood lifted, “Good girl! Well then, go to Murree for a few days. Enjoy the sights of the beautiful resort, and then return home.”

  “Yes, sir. That is a good idea.”

  He smiled and disappeared behind a darkened window. The limousine rolled on, leaving us alone in stunned silence. All that night we fretted about what to do. I did not intend to transfer, but now I was in the middle of a big mess.

  The next day we took a bus to Murree. We debated during the entire ride what to do—would he actually send us to jail? We arrived at the resort town, high in the mountains to the north of Islamabad in a deep quandary. We were still shaken from our brief meeting with the president. None of us knew for sure what would happen.

  We had enough funds to stay two days. The next day we forgot the threat and enjoyed our stay. We had not taken any warm dresses with us, so we wrapped ourselves in bed sheets and went horseback riding. Mansoor and his friends did not go with us because they had to work. After a short holiday, we returned to college. The other students were disappointed, but they were satisfied that we refused to transfer because of them. What more could we do?

  Besides the president’s threat, I had other things on my mind. As soon as I arrived back at school, I received a very romantic greeting card from Mansoor. The photo on the front had a couple walking hand in hand. The caption read, “A beautiful era has started.” I was surprised but happy. He had given me a lot of attention over the four evenings I listened to him singing and charming everyone. I still did not know how I should respond to him. Should I write to him? Would that be too forward?

  Then on my birthday, October 25, I received a beautiful birthday card. He had been asking me questions for a purpose. He must be interested. Shortly after that, he began writing me love letters, telling me how much he wanted to get to know me. Then he started calling.