Sweating. Sitting in the exam hall, on a vandalized piece of wood with the words ‘Metallic For Lyf’ etched most prominently into it. I was one amongst hundreds of other umeedwar, or ‘hopefuls’, as my father had articulately called the colorful crowd of drowsy teenagers this morning.We were on our third paper, Urdu, which followed right after ninety minutes of Mathematics and English each. It was a series of admission tests; my parents were moving back to Pakistan and I needed a school to attend for the three last years until graduation.I already knew I’d aced my mathematics exam. It was so easy; a baby version of me could have done it.
I was six months pregnant when I launched my private equity fundraising startup. My husband; a Canadian-trained neurosurgeon with a doctorate in stem cell regenerative medicine from the Nobel Medical Institute in Stockholm, Sweden; was having immigration issues with Homeland Security. We had lived in Sweden for the bulk of our married life and the rest in Toronto, where he was completing his neurosurgery residency, and we basically filled up our passports with just about every warm country we meandered to during eight Arctic winters.
“Oh yes I have children. But that daughter? Her eyes… If she points those eyes at me.. asks for something? I cannot do anything else but say only yes to her – I’d give her anything. Really anything! That little girl, breaks my heart.”Out of 10 men I ask, 8 to 9 will have a very similar answer. The new generation of progressive men having daughters are melting by the word “daughter”. They are ready to gift her the world, but do not underestimate any of them – men do overprotect their daughters from literally every creature in the universe too. Hearing her name, a cry, or that sweet voice of hers calling for ‘daaaaddy’ will make the entire universe stand still for him.