“I am not leaving without my bride,” the man spoke on his cell phone. Armed with a gun hanging by his shoulder, he was standing outside his parked car in a residential neighborhood in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. Seated inside the car was his father with the barrel of a gun against the window, along with his brother, cousin, and an armed guard in uniform—all men. “Just tell your father to hand you over to us,” he said as he switched his phone from one ear to the other and looked over to the house looming behind the seven-foot white wall.
Inside the house a wedding party was seated in the living room, the groom dressed in a white tunic with a garland of flowers draped over his outfit, flanked by his parents and siblings. His father was roaring as he jumped up and down in his seat, “We are not leaving without the bride. She is rightfully ours.”
This drama unfolded on both sides of the wall nine years ago. I learned about it firsthand when I visited the same house in November 2022 on my visit to the land of my birth, with my husband Khalid and our nineteen-year-old granddaughter Laila.
We were visiting Auntie, my late mother’s best friend, and my sister Neena who lives in Pakistan had driven us to the house I mentioned above. We were seated in her sunroom, the morning light brightening the spacious room. My eyes fell on Uncle’s photo on the mantle. This was my first visit since his passing five years ago. I was still thinking about him when Neena’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Auntie, how are your cook’s daughters doing?”
“They are doing great.”
I didn’t know her cook, I didn’t know his daughters, so I just took a nice long sip of Auntie’s cardamom-flavored tea.
“You don’t know this story,” Auntie said to me. “We had a cook who had been with us for many years. He and his family lived on the premises and were like family to us. The cook’s daughter had been engaged to her cousin since childhood.”
My granddaughter Laila’s eyes popped open wide.
“Auntie, sorry to interrupt you.” I turned toward my American-born and raised granddaughter. “Laila, in some families in Pakistan, particularly in the rural areas, it is customary to betroth the cousins when they are still children. And you know that in Islam marriage with cousins is permitted.”
Laila nodded.
I turned towards Auntie, giving her the cue to continue.
“She was a bright girl and seeing her potential, your uncle and I persuaded the cook to enroll her in college,” Auntie said. “There she met a young man, a fellow student. They fell in love and decided to get married. She knew that her parents would never agree to the match since she was already engaged. So, she and her boyfriend got secretly married. She didn’t tell her parents and continued to live with them. Sometime later, her fiancé’s family approached the cook for a wedding date. She still didn’t tell her parents. A wedding date was set. She still didn’t tell them.”
I gulped, the hot tea burning my throat. Laila gave me this quizzical look.
Auntie continued: “Our cook asked if we could host the baraat [wedding party] in our house and we said yes. Of course, we had no idea that their daughter was secretly married. The wedding day arrived and her fiancé with the entire wedding party showed up at our house and we seated them in this room. It was then that the daughter told her parents that she cannot marry this man because she is already married.”
“Did all hell break loose?” I asked.
“The cook was raging in anger, swearing ‘I’ll kill her.’ Your uncle was furious,” Auntie said.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Before we could do anything, the daughter called up her secretly married-to-husband and told him what was going on.”
“What did he do?” I almost choked on Auntie’s breadcrumb cake.
“He showed up together with his family, all armed with guns, demanding that ‘this marriage cannot take place.’”
“Oh, my God!” Laila looked horrified.
“You mean they all showed up at your house?” I asked.
“No,” Auntie said. “They parked their car outside our house to avoid a scene or possible violence. Her husband called her on the phone and told her to let her father know that her wedding party has arrived for the rukhsati to take their daughter-in-law home with them.”
I interrupted Auntie once again and explained to Laila that in the Pakistani tradition, a rukhsati is the occasionwhere the groom’s family arrives with his family, the bride’s parents give a ceremonious send-off to their daughter, and she departs with her husband and his family.
“So, auntie, you had two wedding parties, one inside your house and one outside, both claiming the same bride,” I said.
“Exactly. The fiancé’s family refused to take no for an answer and kept saying: ‘She is engaged to our son, and we are not leaving without her.”
“What do you mean ‘they refused to take no for an answer!’ How can their son marry a married woman?’” I said as I stole a look at Laila who almost spilled her tea.
“They said, ‘Our community will laugh at us. We told people that we are bringing back our son’s bride. We cannot go back to our village empty-handed. What will everyone say! We will have no social standing left,’” Auntie said.
Khalid chuckled. Laila had this look that said that makes no sense.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I didn’t know what to do, so I called Neena,” Auntie said, looking at my sister.
Neena is an attorney at the Supreme Court of Pakistan. Putting down my cake, I looked at her, my eyebrows arching.
Neena picked up the story: “The first thing I asked auntie was: ‘What is her age? Is she over 18?’ The answer was ‘yes.’ I told Auntie that she is legally an adult. Her marriage is legitimate. Tell the cook to do the rukhsati for his daughter and allow her to depart with her legal husband. Auntie asked me, ‘What do I do about the fiancé’s family who won’t leave without her?’
“What did you tell Auntie?” I asked Neena.
“I said to Auntie, ‘Does the cook have another daughter?’ Auntie said ‘Yes, a younger daughter, but she is a minor.’ ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I told her. ‘Have the cook marry his second daughter to the fiancé. This way they won’t leave empty handed and the older daughter can depart with her husband.’”
The tea sputtered out of my mouth.
Khalid choked.
Laila looked aghast.
“I told the cook and your uncle what Neena had instructed,” Auntie said. “The cook agreed to marry his younger daughter to the older daughter’s fiancé, and the fiancé’s family agreed. But when I said that we should give the older daughter a proper rukhsati with her legal husband, both the cook and your uncle refused. The cook said ‘I want nothing to do with her, ever’; and your uncle said, ‘Not from my house. No way!’”
“Why did Uncle say that?” I asked.
“He was angry that she had embarrassed the family and put them in this situation. I didn’t know what to do, so I called Neena.”
I looked at Neena.
“I told Auntie that she should go to her neighbor’s house and ask if they will allow their house to be used as a venue for the rukhsati. Explain to them that it would involve hosting the wedding party in their house for just a bit,” Neena said.
“What’s the big deal? Why not just let the daughter leave with her husband?” Laila asked.
“Laila, rukhsati is a matter of honor in the Pakistani culture,” I said. “Even though one is legally married, the formal send-off blesses the union, a ceremonial hand-over of sorts.”
“I went to the neighbor across the street, but they refused. I didn’t know what to do so I called Neena again,” Auntie was now chuckling.
“I said to Auntie, ‘Go ask your other neighbor,’” Neena said.
“So I went to the other neighbor, and they agreed. I called Neena again. ‘Ok, so now how do I proceed? The cook and his family are refusing to have anything to do with their daughter’s rukhsati?’”
“I told Auntie, ‘You become her family’s representative. Look for a red fancy dupatta [shawl] in your closet, drape it over her head, and escort her to the neighbor’s house. Tell her husband’s party to come there and you do the formal send-off. If you need me to come over, just say so.’ And I got my lawyerly outfit ready.”
“I found a red dupatta and a pair of fancy sandals, draped the dupatta over her, walked her over to the neighbors, and did her rukhsati.”
“And what about the second daughter?” I asked.
“While I was in the neighbor’s house, the cook’s wife got their younger daughter dressed up in her sister’s bridal outfit and jewelry, showered her with all the trousseau they had saved for the older daughter, got her married to her sister’s former fiancé, and she left with them.”
“The younger daughter agreed?” I was beyond disbelief.
“She had no say in the matter. She did whatever her parents told her to do,” Neena said.
“But she was a minor!” I was appalled. Laila looked stunned.
“It’s culturally acceptable in the villages. The alternative was violence, and we were able to avoid that.”
“How long ago was this?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s been nine years.”
“How are the two sisters doing?”
“They are both happily married with children,” Auntie said.
“And the cook and his wife?”
“Well, for many years, they refused to have anything to do with the run-away daughter—totally disowned her—but eventually came around. Your uncle was angry for a long time,” Auntie said.
I could almost hear Uncle’s outrage. A passionate person, he had a presence. If he were telling the story, it would have tasted—different.
But the person I’d give anything to have a heart-to-heart with is the younger daughter—the last-minute bride.
Sabeeha’s memoir Threading My Prayer Rug was short-listed for the 2018 William Saroyan International Prize for Writing and won San Francisco Book Festival honors. She has published in the Wall Street Journal, Newsweek, and The Baltimore Sun. Her recent book is titled It’s Not What You Think. www.sabeeharehman.com