My mum couldn't process what had happened and began wailing loudly as her sisters held her.
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Nadia's mum dragged me downstairs, hissing angrily that I was a wicked girl, and I burst into tears, partly of fear and partly of relief. Though I swore her to secrecy, she told her mum. It was hard to pretend to smile when I knew, as each hour passed, it would be night again and he would return to my room.Įventually, two days before the final ceremony, I told my cousin Nadia everything. As everyone excitedly dressed up in their sparkly outfits and shared jokes, I was at the edge of the happy picture, not quite a part of it. Every time I looked up, his eyes were following me. I kept thinking I could feel Uncle's touch, like insects crawling over me, and showered over and over again, but no matter how hard I scrubbed, the feeling wouldn't go away.ĭuring the day, he always seemed to be angry with me and I felt like I was walking on eggshells when he was around. Then he left to perform his morning prayers. When the call to prayer echoed from the mosques at dawn, he said it was my fault for tempting him, and I would go to hell. He began to caress my back, then his hands slipped under my clothes. My heart was beating swiftly and I couldn't breathe. He sat on my bed and placed his hand on my forehead to check my temperature, then began stroking my hair.Īs he did so, he talked softly, his voice caring, yet menacing, like honey on a serpent's tongue, and his breath smelled sour, of old cigarettes. I was half asleep and barely noticed him come in. Uncle told me to undress for bed and he would check on me later.
GAY TEEN SEX URDU STORIES FULL
It had been so full of people and activity, but now it was silent. It felt strange being at the house alone with Uncle. My cousins were upset that I wouldn't be able to join in and my mother said she'd take me home, but we could tell she was disappointed.
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My family was not particularly religious, and Uncle spoke with such authority that I thought Allah was hanging around waiting for me to mess up and prove what everyone suspected all along. He often cornered me to talk about religion, and how girls growing up in the west were already halfway down the road to sin. Always in white traditional clothes, with prayer beads in hand, he was able to quote lines from the Qu'ran on any subject. He was a large man, dark skinned, with a small beard. He worked in the Middle East, successfully educated his brothers, and married off his sisters in respectable homes. On the death of my grandfather, Uncle had taken responsibility for the family and never married. We used henna paste to decorate our palms, the muddy trails leaving pretty, spider-web patterns on our hands the next day.Ī week before the wedding, Uncle arrived. To prepare for the mehndi, we had parties called dholkis – after the dholki drum – which the girls played as the rest of us sang wedding songs from the latest Bollywood films. The first ceremony, the mehndi – or henna party – was what we were most excited about, because that is when everyone dances, and the bride's sisters compete with those of the groom to see who can sing the loudest. I was excited about wearing traditional wedding clothes for the first time, and my mum glowed with happiness as the sister of the bride. There is no more exciting place for a girl to be than Karachi in the run-up to a wedding. My mum's fantasy had become my fantasy also. I was a misfit at school, and dreamed that I, too, would find somewhere I could belong. I was drawn by her wistful expression as she talked about stealing sugar cane from the fields, and holidays near the mountains. My parents hadn't been able to afford to return home for years, so my mum was excited about seeing her family, and I was looking forward to seeing the place where she had grown up. Her youngest sister's marriage had been arranged, and we would be going.
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One day I came home from school and my mum was talking excitedly on the phone in Punjabi. "It's OK for English people, but in our culture we don't have boyfriends, and you are having an arranged marriage, OK?" Sometimes I felt guilty of something before I had done anything. Some days I'd be watching TV, and a romantic scene would come, and it would trigger a lecture from my mum. Culture became our religion, and most of our parents were fundamentalists.
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They were paranoid about us becoming too westernised, so they kept us cocooned at home. Like most of my friends in the UK, our parents were, ironically, much stricter than those of our cousins in Pakistan. Ultimately, it means the worst sin is for a girl not to be pure – in other words, a virgin – before marriage. While there are dozens of words in English to describe its different facets, there isn't an equivalent. We have just one word for it in our language, izzat. Although we knew nothing about sex, we all knew about shame, purity and family honour.