Matches Are Made in Heaven

Family, silence, and a carefully ruined tea on the third day of Eid

Photo by Anita Austvika on Unsplash

Today is the third day of Eid. Yesterday, on the second day, we all dressed up nicely and took beautiful photos.

This morning, my father casually announced, “One of my colleagues is coming today for tea.” My mother didn’t take him seriously. In our home, everyone handles their own guests due to the almost non-existent communication between my parents.

It has been so long since they got married. I am the eldest daughter, and I am almost 33 now. Yet, they still haven’t learned how to communicate with each other. None of them clearly announces their plans, and they never share what they are thinking. Instead, they assume the other person will magically understand.

They have become so accustomed to doing the opposite of what the other chooses. For example, if one of them washes a utensil and dries it, the other will wash the same pot again shortly after and leave it dripping in a way that makes everything else wet.

Similarly, if one insists on using the washing machine and spinner, the other will separate their clothes, wash them in the tub, and then carry dripping clothes to the roof in a basket with holes, leaving a trail of water from the washroom all the way upstairs.

I don’t know how it happened, but it has become a habit for them to act against each other. One thing that hasn’t changed is their tendency to taunt each other and badmouth each other’s families. I sometimes wonder how they never get tired of it.

All of us siblings have developed the same defense mechanism: we leave the house whenever we can. Unfortunately, on public holidays, when workplaces are closed, friends are busy, or we’ve already spent most of our salaries, we are forced to stay home.

Most of our lives have been spent in a nuclear setup, with relatives living in different cities. This isolated and chaotic environment has made us emotionally detached. We often live inside our own heads and avoid social interaction unless absolutely necessary or forced by our parents’ insistence.

At gatherings, this distance becomes obvious. After the initial greetings, the children fall silent and focus on food, while the parents talk in a way that quietly reveals how disconnected they are.

Yesterday, on Eid, after more than a year, we had to go somewhere. Even there, their lack of communication showed. Both of them arranged separate gifts for the host, hiding them from each other until the moment they were presented. Later at home, one of them would question whether such expensive gifts were necessary, even though both had spent a significant amount.

Even now, after all these years, it still stresses me, what will happen next, how will one of them react, and how we appear in front of others.

So today, when my father mentioned again that his colleague was coming. My mother, who is usually very hospitable, had cooked nothing, because she was never consulted.

Half an hour before their arrival, my father casually added that his colleague would be bringing his brother, sister, and mother. He even suggested we wear the same nice clothes from yesterday, although he has never shown much interest in how we look.

I noticed that my father had been managing everything himself since morning, cleaning, dusting, scrubbing fans, and clearing cobwebs. It was obvious he was preparing for something. Meanwhile, my mother seemed naive and focused only on making him feel miserable.

When he realised that my mother hadn’t cooked anything and wasn’t interested, he went out to arrange things himself.

Although I had understood, my mother still hadn’t realised that these guests were actually coming for a marriage meeting. As the eldest, I am obviously next in line. Honestly, it felt unfair. If he had invited people for such a purpose, he should have communicated it clearly. He should have informed my mother and asked me if I was even interested. I wasn’t angry, just extremely stressed.

I was on the prayer mat when my father went out, and I started thinking about how to escape. I considered libraries, but they were closed. I thought about hospitals, but the nearest one was 40 minutes away, and transport wasn’t available.

Friends’ houses weren’t an option either; most of them are married and were busy with their families, and some were out of town.

I finally thought of going to a nearby park, although I was uneasy about sitting there alone for hours. My mind started racing with all kinds of worst-case scenarios.

So I came up with a practical solution. I asked my younger sister if she had any plans. When she said no, I casually suggested we go to the market because I needed to buy some medication , which was actually true.

She had also witnessed the chaos since morning, so she agreed immediately. I booked a cab, hoping to leave before my father returned.

Just as I was about to leave, my mother noticed. She scolded me and said my father had asked her to receive the guests in his absence. She was anxious about managing everything alone and refused to let me go. I had to cancel the cab.

With that option gone, I had to think differently.

I went to the balcony and oiled my hair excessively. I was already wearing a plain grey shalwar kameez — not particularly flattering. Then I added a hideous violet sweater and dark blue socks. I looked completely ridiculous.

My plan was simple: I would meet the guests in the worst possible way.

My mother didn’t notice anything unusual. After all, people dress casually at home during holidays, and she still didn’t know the real purpose of the visit.

My father returned, and soon the guests arrived. My mother, despite everything, dressed properly, as she always believes in looking presentable for guests.

Meanwhile, I sat in the balcony with my oiled hair, surrounded by my pets, my two quails, two turkeys, and a hamster; eating melon and feeding them. It’s my usual peaceful spot, overlooking a jungle where birds can be heard all day.

Inside, things had changed quickly. My father had brought bakery items and flowers, and my mother finally realised these were not ordinary guests. A proper tea was arranged.

Eventually, my sister came to call me: “Get ready and come. They want to see you.”

But I had already made up my mind.

I applied a pale lipstick that made me look even duller, covered my oiled hair with a grey shawl, and kept my ridiculous outfit. After all, I could always say, “I wasn’t informed.”

I went and sat confidently on the same sofa beside my father, not assisting my mother as traditionally expected. The environment was very uncomfortable, and there was complete silence in the room. I was anxious, so I started talking to fill the silence.

I asked the lady where she was from. “Peshawar,” she said.

That cue was enough. I started talking about how many times I had visited Peshawar, friends working there, weddings I had attended, and places I knew. She seemed surprised. It was clear she was an old-fashioned lady, and she seemed unprepared to hear a young girl talk about her city with such knowledge and eagerness.

When I feel anxious, I tend to speak faster and talk excessively to cover up my feelings.

The guy seemed decent and calm. He didn’t appear offended or surprised by my words. He spoke softly and looked kind. Now, the next clever strategy of mine was to talk to him very directly and casually about how many times I had tried to find a job in his city but couldn’t because of the language barrier and how different their environment was from mine.

At one point, the boy’s mother interrupted and remarked to my father, “We are from Peshawar.” Now my father realised that he had not even gathered basic information about them, and, looking surprised, simply said he was Punjabi and added, “Matches are made in heaven.”

Internally, I was smiling.

If they had informed me and respected my opinion, things could have been handled differently. I wouldn’t have had to put in effort to ruin the meeting. That family wouldn’t have had to travel all the way or spend money on the expensive fuel. My father could have saved the seven to eight thousand rupees spent on tea.

But this is how things are.

This is how desi parents are.