Folklores are queer stuff. A twitching eye brings good fortune. A hiccup is a result of remembrance. And when Benazir Bhutto, the then Prime Minister of Pakistan, met Rajiv Gandhi, the then Prime Minister of India, she in characteristic form supposedly piped, 'Rajiv, I should have just married you and our respective issues would lay sorted.’

If her son decides to fall in line with that fable though, what happens?

A mighty inconvenient affair results - socially, politically and diplomatically. And many hiccups.

“Why couldn’t he find himself a good Pakistani girl?” The next time I hear that question I swear I’ll round up that well-meaning Begum and sentence her to BBC’s disgraceful Urdu and even more embarrassing mess in the kitchen after he’s done making coffee.

That’s why ladies and gentlemen, BBC is mine. BBC, being my nickname for my fiancé of four months. He’s mine also because not many can tolerate, as amiably as he does, my massacre of their names through the endless stream of nicknames that I supply. That’s a precious trait in a man. Hence, not once I shall relinquish my claim easily.

My riling is taken well too. “Are you going to become PM because your grandfather and mother were?” I tease. He looks slightly affronted, but is conscious that I understand political dynasties; the Gandhis across the border were spectacle enough. I look out of the shaded window, into Lyari, his future constituency. We are riding the dusty streets of the old, impoverished neighbourhood. It had recently seen a round of violence and as our car slows down to survey the surroundings, I jump on the offensive again. “A surname doesn’t guarantee a thing – not ability nor initiative.”

“A vote is a voter’s initiative in the candidate’s ability.” The fiancé states calmly. “A symbol of personal choice. Just like how a surname is a sign too, a symbol of the sacrifices a family has made in the name of democracy. A guarantee, of a promise to secure basic rights – maybe to even make that choice – and fulfill aspirations of the people.”

I refuse to give in. “The Congress was rounded up, last assembly elections.” I say pointedly. “Yet, an unnervingly high percentage of the country clamours for Mr. Gandhi as PM … while the rest of us question.”

“Easy tiger!” BBC chuckles. Then turns serious. “My name is a cause…”

“But you don’t even know Urdu!” I protest. He reads beyond my words, identifying the attempts to provoke as valiant cover-ups of my apprehensions regarding the dangerous nature of these politics. “Our lives begin to end, the day we remain silent on things that matter” He quotes. I remember his mother, recognise his determination and finally … remain silent.

I however, am apparently, the only one. “Chotte babu is the most eligible bachelor in Islamabad. Nay, in all of Pakistan.” sniffs his nanny. She would have continued to add “in the entire Allah’s good Universe” and broken down in dismayed anguish, but a look from BBC stops her. The look is not frightening, rather filled with amusement, but there’s a mastery in those eyes that is quelling. Ugh, I hate it. It is the look that also prevents me from acidly correcting her, “was a bachelor Ammijaan, was.”

I quite like the old lady. If she would let me, I would worship her. The number of absurd childhood stories she knows of the fiancé warrants the adoration. I am sure she would love me too, considering both of us disapprove of his many annoying habits jointly. And common hatred is the best bet for friendship, I have heard. The ugly reality of my having ensnared her darling charge however, understandably, dampens her efforts.

His friends are another matter altogether. The males especially, enthusiastically welcomed me into the fold. I think they were overjoyed that another of them was headed to definite doom, with “I do”. The friends frequently smuggled me away to the colourful bazaars, Pakistani sights and beautiful night skies. I loved it, laughing with them, passing by the shopkeepers as they displayed their wares and tried forcing some on me. Those times, I usually became virtually unrecognisable; large glasses, shawl, hat, covering even parts of the face. But I always noticed that his friends (now mine) kept guard, never letting anyone come close. Bet my assassination makes for uncomfortable headlines.

He rarely accompanies us on our outings. Just twice, and he was recognised the last time. Then, I was instantly hidden and quickly ferreted away while he switched on his politically pleasing smile and assured the general public about the wonderful heights the country will occupy, once he assumes power. Watching him from a jeep, parked some meters away, I first wanted to laugh and call his bluff. But I knew the sincerity he was oozing was real and the visions he saw were mine too. As he elucidated our shared dreams I wanted to run up and squeeze him in the snuggest hug possible. But both my reactions were earth-shaking scenarios in a society walking the tightrope to stability. And with familiar reservations in my heart, I held my peace.

He brushes them away, of course. Somehow whatever worries me are no issues for him. Or so, he claims but I see through my fiancé’s sham. And love him all the more for it. My conversations with BBC follow the precedent that our respective nationalities set. We discuss every issue, skirting over the critical ones. Consequently, the legality of our marriage is a subject we have broached upon just once. The enormous problems at so many levels tear me between amusement and panic. One fact was certain – without the approval of the long overdue Hindu Marriage Registration Act by the parliament, I couldn’t even dare to imagine a future together. He looks uneasy. “There are ways around” he begins.

“Quaid-e-Azam ka Pakistan.” I wonder aloud. “Jinnah’s idea of Pakistan was a constitutional liberal democracy. A country where we are free to go to our temples and mosques … ! Now when that progressive Bill becomes an Act, we let Hindus, a limb and link of the nation, claim their democratic matrimonial rights. We are living out his ideals. Why, living out every proud Pakistani’s ideals! His, Fatima Jinnah’s, yours, our driver’s, that school girl’s … your grandfather’s! Remember how he said, Islam is our faith, democracy is our policy.”

The fiancé ignores my elaborate discourse. “Islam allows for a man to marry a non-Muslim.”

“Yes, a non-Muslim but a person by the Book – a Christian or a Jew. Not a polytheist…” I inform him. “This Act is critical for us.”

“It is a Hindu Marriage Act; I don’t see how your legal mind perceives a way for inter-religious marriages.” There is a pause. “Maybe, conversion…?” He asks quietly. I don’t answer. He catches my stubborn countenance, and frowns. “This is not your battle. Nothing here is. Do not get embroiled in any issue. Do not rub anyone the wrong way.” My eyes twinkle mischievously. His disapproval deepens. “Don’t even flatter yourself with an assassination. It is possible to make your death look like a tragic truck accident.” He remarks grimly, proceeding to list his detractors and supporters who would approve of that plan.

“BBC,” I am firm. “Our lives begin to end, the day we remain silent on things that matter.” My gravity then transforms into a grin; at least now some people shall look forward to our union. He smiles dryly.

Maybe he should have just found a ‘good Pakistani girl’. I gaze curiously at those on display. There were so many of them – from powerful political and business families. Great alliances, if BBC ever chose one. I like their pretty Islamic names. How they sound quaint and establish a style statement simultaneously. Makes me wonder about my long, old-fashioned Indian name. I wish my parents had at least taken a cue from Bollywood and given me a reasonably trendy one – Anjali, Pooja, Tina … No, they had to unearth one straight out of an ancient Hindu Sanskrit text. Forget the names; the girls all looked uniformly exotic too. Life wasn’t fair. Long fair hands, heavily kohled eyes, thick straight hair ...

Some of them had degrees from the Ivys, Oxbridge etc. One of them was BBC’s and my classmate. I got along fabulously with most of them. They were smart, good-humoured and great to talk to. And beautiful to boot! My BBC is short-sighted, but speaking to those females I realised he was truly blind. Remember how I said life wasn’t fair – turns out it’s sometimes graciously biased in my favour. Ha! One – two of those girls were snobs of the highest order, with upturned noses and eyes only for BBC. At least, under my watchful eye, he had the manners to try and dodge their flirting. Even Ammijaan, fiancé’s nanny, couldn’t take to them – valiantly she did try! – and I was suddenly grateful that these sour lemon species were everywhere and the high society of Pakistan was no exception.

Many pleasurable hours are spent plotting ways to get even. But as I begin to rise to their bait, some benevolent well-wisher shoves an ‘existential crisis’ study under my nose. “If India and Pakistan engage in even a limited nuclear conflict, a billion people shall starve.” I am sagely informed. BBC, for all his prominence, was no billion people, but analogising a conclusion comes easy. I must not wage war.

I knew the fiancé to be a charmer, when he wanted. I could only guess at the number of hearts he set fluttering when he walked past. And I could only ruefully guess the number of daggers being swung into mine as he walked past holding my hand. Maybe that is why he was sometimes so aloof in public. Maybe people will think that is the reason I am breaking off our engagement. Our friends shall believe it is because of the constant threat to my security. Ammijaan shall shake her head knowingly and mutter, Masha Allah. The sour-lemons shall shrug and hanker after my BB-, I mean, fian- I mean … the Destiny’s Prince.

He shall know, that when I go off to field questions on “why, hai Ram, you couldn’t just find a good Indian boy?” I am waiting for the day we won’t have to answer these questions anymore. I know he shall herald that day in, he knows I will be waiting. That is enough.

The author is currently studying Economics and Law at the Singapore Management University.

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