"Please, please..."

My lips whisper all the prayers I know, which is a few, as my eyes surf through the mails. It has been approximately 30 minutes since I have been exploring my mails for one word- Accepted.

But no. Much to my dismay, I don't get any invitation of acceptance from the universities I have applied to. Birkbeck College of London, Victoria University of Wellington in New Zealand, University of Adelaide in Australia and McMaster University in Canada are all missing out a potential student like me. Well, I can't blame them though. What can they do when your percentage doesn't meet up to their basic?

My college was so boring that I bunked classes every day. Sometimes, I feigned sick to avoid the tedious lectures and Netflix & chill, all day at home. But then the realization hit me with a thwack right up my jaw, the realization that marks would be counted for attendance according to my fucked up education system. I have managed to pass all exams, sliding away from supply papers. But apparently, that wasn't enough and I was too goddamn late to understand that. It has been three months since I graduated. All of my friends have already found something for further studies and internships and I'm here, sulking over something that I can't even imagine to get a hand on.

With a heavy sign, I close my laptop that is way past its expiry date. I have been asking for a brand new laptop only to get questions like, 'you're not going to get a job then why asking for one?' Without any protest, I'm obliged to zip my mouth as I know what my parents are spewing is the truth.

I walk towards the kitchen from where the sounds of running faucet and a whiff of frying fish is coming. I see my mom, her back facing, washing the vegetables she's going to make thoran* with.

Again thoran? I think to myself and take steps towards her.

Sensing someone's presence, she turns around and looks at me, her face void of expression. She stares at me for a few more minutes which makes me writhe in discomfort. I frown as she pokes her chin out and takes a closer look at me. She opens her mouth and says, "You aren't fair as you used to be, Parisa."

There it is! Desi moms and their unhealthy and unnecessary obsession with fairness. Is it fairness that helps you breathe and not oxygen? Is it fairness that helps you quench your thirst and not water? Is it fairness that feeds you everyday and not food?

I roll my eyes at her.

"I don't care!" I say and turn my back at her.

"Yeah, you don't care but we do. Who will marry a girl who isn't fair?" she asks, which throws me on the verge of breaking my chains.

"Again, I don't care! And also, who said only fair girls can get married? What about others? Do they just stand there and pluck mangoes to feed these fair girls and their narrow minded hubbys?" I ask back, a very logical and rational question.

"Don't give me that attitude, girl. Go and put some turmeric and milk paste on your face. Glowing skin calls for a good husband. See me?" she asks, rolling up her long sleeves of kurta* and exposing her milk wheat flawless skin to me. "Your aththa* married me because of my beauty, my glowing skin!"

"Yeah but once he got married, you made his glowing world dim," I counter attack to which she gives me a smack on my arm with a wooden spatula.

"Go and do what I say." She shoos me off as she can't handle my attitude. But she really does forget from where I got this attitude.

I roll my eyes at her again and turn around, only to halt my steps to her words, "What about your admission?"

I lick my lips and gulp down the lump in my throat. I can already see humiliation marching towards me, and that too from my mother's 24/7 nagging mouth.

"Umma*?" I call her as I turn around to face her.

"What?" she asks, putting the vegetables onto a non-stick pan and sautéing them with grated coconut.

"I-I didn't get any. But if I get-"

"We will not allow you to go," she cut me off with a reply that I'm now too fed up with.

"Then why did you ask me?" I ask with a frown.

She turns around and says, "Because that way, I might be able to knock some sense into that dummy brain of yours. Start trying for courses here. You will not go to a foreign country and that too alone. It was finalized long ago."

"Umma, it's fine. I can take care of myself. I'm sure I can." I try to convince her, yet again.

"Really?" she asks me with an eyebrow up.

"What?"

"You're 20 and your mom is doing your laundry. Who's washing your undies? Me!" she says, brandishing the spatula. "And then you talk about self-reliance. Go away!"

I groan at my mom. Yeah, she's right with the laundry thing but that doesn't mean I cannot take care of myself. The first thing an international student should have is mental support of oneself and I already have that. The rest, I can learn as there's time. But my very own mother is pulling me down mentally instead of motivating me and uplifting my spirits. This is exactly why I want to get out of here.

I don't say anything but walk to the living and plop down beside my brother, who's munching on banana chips and watching Big Boss.

Hearing my huff, he turns his head to me and asks, "Got a call from any university that wants you?"

Fuck off, Mohsin!

The smug face and the mockery seeping into his tone makes me want to take his head and paste it on the wall forever. He's a bright student, mumma's boy and the star of my house who always overshines my brightness. He graduated Engineering and got a job at a company in Qatar, which added more fuel to his burning big mouth and ego. He will be leaving for his job next month, as his passport is still under process.

"I'll get it," I say.

"Yeah, you will. You have been saying this for the past two months, FYI."

"Does it hurt you people to give me a minute of peace?" I ask with a cheeky grin.

"Yeah maybe because all you do is pester us with your dream of studying abroad, which is not going to happen." He answers with the same expression.

I grit my teeth and snap my head to the T.V. screen.

"See Pari, you're 20. You're still young and you can decide your future even now. You can do PG or other courses here and try for a job as soon as possible. The time you got is very limited because..." he trails off.

I look at him in confusion and ask, "Because?"

"Because aththa and umma are going to marry you off this year."

"What?" I screamed.

"What is happening there? Both got into a fight again?" Mom's voice comes from the kitchen.

"No umma, it's nothing," Mohsin answers and turns to me. Seeing my face, he nods his head and continues, "Yes. Yesterday, I heard them discussing about your marriage as a good proposal came."

"What? They can't. They told me they won't marry me off till I graduate and join for further studies," I say, my voice low and soft because of the worry that is building up in my throat.

"Well, they are losing hope in you, Parisa. It's been three months since your graduation and no luck. Your friends, the ones who fooled around with you, are now putting up their future. But look at you!" He shakes his head in disappointment.

These words are so true. That's why every single time I'm going mum when they throw these sharp words at me. They know my weakness and push the right button whenever I utter the word 'abroad'. I'm having enough of these people who I call family.

I stand up and as I'm about to walk away, my brother says, "I can't wait to see my little sister being a bride!"

And that is all that takes me to jump on him like a wild cat and tug his black thick curly hair. Hearing his cries and pleadings, my mom runs to the living and witnesses his dear son being decapitated by her rebellious daughter.

"Parisa, leave him. Girl listen to me, leave him!" she says, getting in the middle of us and clutching my hands.

I let go of him and look at my mother with tears brimming my eyes.

"Are you going to marry me off?" I ask my mom.

She looks at Mohsin and gives him a small smack for telling me the top secret. She turns around and sighs.

"Yes. When a good proposal comes, you'll get married off just like other girls."

"But I don't want to! I want to get a job, be independent and settle first."

"Yeah, you can. But not in some foreign country, Pari. Your dreams are so high for a middle class girl," my mom says to which I shake my head with contempt.

As much as I want to ask her why she's degrading her own daughter, I know. I know as a matter of fact that she can't be blamed as she's brought up in a family where it is said that girls cannot dream. Instead, they can only cook, clean, marry, bear children and look after them within four closed walls with a tag line of housewife given to them.

But no, the same will not happen with me as I know I deserve much more than just being someone's wife and a mother of his minis. I will not follow the path of my mother and aunties and cousins. Instead, I will pave my own path that leads to the dynasty I built with my blood, sweat and tears. I will sit on my throne of blood, sweat and tears and be the queen who holds her head up as high as the ether. I know I can and I will. Even if it means to take a risky way.

╰★╮

Thoran: a class of dry vegetable dishes combined with coconut that originated in the Indian state of Kerala.

Kurta: a loose collarless shirt of a type worn by people in South Asia.

Aththa: used to call father by Muslims, especially South Indians.

Umma: used to call mother by Muslims, especially South Indians.