The Goddess of Paistan

I didn't believe in fairy tales, in charming princes rescuing damsels in distress from unfortunate circumstances. I have never been that naïve. I also had trouble believing that there is good in the world, until somebody sent me an angel to save me. My name is Aradhana Christina Sharif, and I came into the world on February 4, 1989. I was born in the City of Turbat, within the Balochistan province of Pakistan. My parents, Joseph Sharif and Pooja Bukkhari-Sharif moved to Ontario, Canada, in the summer of 2002. We're a Pakistani Christian family and life wasn't always kind to us as religious minorities in a mostly Muslim county.

When I first set foot in Ontario, Canada, I was full of hope. Finally, we had a new place to live where we wouldn't be persecuted for our Christian faith! We tried getting into the United States of America but couldn't because the country developed a strong distrust of immigrants, especially the ones from Muslim nations, after the events of 9/11. Given what they endured at the hands of Saudi terrorists, I couldn't blame them one bit but I wish they wouldn't put all foreigners in the same boat. There are peaceful Muslims living in Western countries, and there are non-white and non-Muslim immigrants coming into Western nations with the best of intentions. Don't paint all of us with the same brush. We're not all the same!

Sadly, that's exactly what they did. It didn't matter to American immigrant officials that my family and I were pious Christians. They saw the word Pakistan in our papers and jumped to all sorts of conclusions. Since we looked like the Arabs, the Persians, the North Africans and the South Asians, the reviled "international terrorist type" they coldly turned us away. The fact that we suffered for our Christian faith and our belief in democracy back in Pakistan didn't matter to them. We came to Canada because, well, the only alternative was to return to Pakistan, where Muslim men who rape Christian girls and Hindu women got a pat on the back from the police. Thanks but no thanks.

My mother Pooja Bukkhari-Sharif once told me about how she almost got raped by a Pakistani Muslim security guard at the University of Balochistan in the town of Quetta. This incident is from when she was much younger. The security guy, whom she referred to as Tariq the creep, pursued her endlessly. There aren't a lot of Christians in the province of Balochistan and Tariq found my mother intriguing because she went around with her head uncovered, like many Christian women and Hindu women do in Pakistan. A lot of liberated Pakistani Muslim women go about unveiled too but their families usually bug them about it. Pakistani Muslim men are a chauvinist bunch, and they haven't taken too keenly to the advent of women's rights in the country, and Pakistani Christian women have been at the forefront of that movement. If it weren't for the timely intervention of my father, who was one of mom's classmates at the time, the unthinkable would have happened. My mom would have been another statistic thanks to Tariq. Another Pakistani Christian woman victimized with impunity by a Pakistani Muslim male. My dad beat the living daylights out of Tariq, and the fool got the message. Thanks to this harrowing encounter, my parents met, and became inseparable.

My mom makes light of the event, though I can tell it still haunts her when I look into her eyes as she talks of it. If it weren't for that brute your Baba ( father) the shyest man in the world never would have spoken to me, she laughed. Dad would shrug and smile when she said that. My father Joseph Sharif has always been a man of few words. He's six-foot-one, somewhat chubby, with light bronze skin, curly black hair and dark eyes. He and mama are complete opposites. My mother is tall and slender, with dark bronze skin, curly black hair and light brown eyes. She's darker-skinned than my father or myself, and when we visited the Republic of India back in the summer of 1998, people often asked her if she was from Tamil Nadu.

From what I hear, the darker-skinned men and women of Indian society still get treated like shit, thanks to a mentality that harkens to the days of the Caste System, even though India touts itself the world's largest democratic nation. In some ways, Pakistan is more progressive than India. If you're dark-skinned and Muslim in Pakistan, you're treated better than the most light-skinned Christian member of Pakistani society. They're obsessed with religion down there, not race, unlike the rest of the world. It's only in Western societies that people seem to think religion doesn't matter. I can't think of anything that matters more, actually.

I sometimes wish I could shake some sense about this fact into the naïve minds of my Western friends. There's a growing Muslim minority in places like the provinces of Quebec and Ontario, Canada, and the state of Michigan, USA. What the Americans and Canadians don't realize is that Muslims play nice until they have the necessary population numbers, then they make war upon non-Muslims with a fervor and fury that's terrifying to behold. Instead of promoting Judeo-Christian values and democracy worldwide, Americans and Canadians continue to turn a blind eye to the hidden powers that are attacking their society from within and without. Western Muslims support non-Western Muslims in every way but Western Christians don't support Christian minorities living in places like Pakistan, Afghanistan, Syria, Egypt, Lebanon and so on. I mean, I've met crucifix-wearing white female university students who date Muslim male students from Egypt and have no idea that the persecution of Coptic Christians in Egypt is supported by Islamist clerics in their homeland. Crazy, right?

Anyhow, enough about politics. My parents and I tried our best to adjust to our new lives in Ontario. Canadian culture and society were quite confusing to us at first. Canada is a mostly Christian country where the people prefer to keep religion out of public life. A multicultural country where anti-immigrant sentiment and virulent racism are openly and unapologetically expressed most of the time. I've gotten called a "Paki bitch" while walking around with friends in the City of Toronto, Ontario. A white guy called me "Muslim scum" on the bus. If the fool had paid attention he'd notice that I wore a crucifix around my neck, the same one my mother had given me in Pakistan when I was younger. My faith in Jesus Christ has gotten me through many trials and tribulations, but Canadian racism truly tested me.

Growing up in the City of Toronto was a mostly positive experience. It's the most racially diverse place in Canada, after all. At my high school, Parkwood Academy, we had so many students from places like the Republic of Haiti, Brazil, South Africa, Korea, India, and so on. I swear, racial minority types will be the majority in the Greater Toronto Area soon, if they aren't already! While at Parkwood I became friends with a young Haitian gal named Nadege Chevalier and her brother Armand. As an only child I desperately needed pals and Nadege and Armand happened to live two blocks from me. Their parents, Paul and Nadine Chevalier own a Haitian restaurant in Mississauga. We hung out all the time, and remained tight even after graduation.

I would later run into Armand Chevalier at Carleton University in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. In 2007 I stunned my parents when I chose Carleton over more established schools like York University, the University of Toronto and Ryerson University. Truth be told, I just wanted to get away from my folks and since they hated Ottawa, I figured I'd give it a shot. Besides, Carleton is a known nationally as a terrific school for civil engineering, my major. Thus began my adventure in the capital, a journey that would change my life. As an immigrant woman, I complain a lot about Toronto but it's light-years ahead of Ottawa socially. In the capital you're stared at endlessly if you're not white. At least in Toronto the white people are used to us minorities. We've got black policemen, Asian businessmen and even Arab female politicians in good ole T.O. In Ottawa? Not so much. The faces of business and politics, power and success, are sorely lacking any pigmentation in Ottawa.

I was determined to make the best of my time in Ottawa. Fortunately, I wasn't completely alone. I had a good friend and guide in the person of Armand Chevalier. The nerdy brat I knew as "Nadege's little brother" had grown into a six-foot-two, brawny and muscular young Black man. Gone were the glasses and the braces, he actually looked good! I on the other hand? Not so much. I'd like to think I inherited the best of both worlds from my parents. My dad's got Sikh ancestry somewhere in his family and my mom definitely has Tamil blood in her, and they're both tall. I'm five-foot-eleven, dark-skinned and chubby. I weigh two hundred and forty pounds and I'm stuck with it. I've tried every diet I can think of but my hips remain white, my bum remains big and round, and I remain 'curvaceous'. I tell myself that curves are in. My Baba tells me that I'm beautiful and it makes me smile, but isn't that what fathers are supposed to say to daughters?

Anyhow, I was at the school gym, huffing and puffing on the treadmill when a vision of masculine beauty walked past me. A tall guy with the perfect shoulders, tight body and cute buns breezed by me, and it took me a moment to realize this chocolate-flavored Adonis was none other than my old buddy, my best friend Nadege's younger brother Armand. Damn he looked fine! I gasped, and he must have heard me for he turned around, flashed me a million-dollar smile, said my name and then asked me how I was doing.

Well hello Armand, I said, in a tone that I hoped wasn't too lusty. I hadn't seen Armand in about two years. When Nadege and I were seniors at Parkwood Academy, Armand was a sophomore. He'd won a scholarship to an elite all-male school somewhere near Windsor, Ontario, and I hadn't seen him since. Dude graduated a year early, and was now a freshman at Carleton University, same as me. How do you like them apples? I was thrilled the new and improved Armand Chevalier, and we exchanged numbers on the spot. He even helped me with my workout. I thought I looked horrible in a too-tight tank top and booty shorts but the Haitian stud assured me I looked fine. You're the fine one, I thought lustily as I admired his fine body. I've seen a lot of good-looking guys of all colors in Ottawa and Toronto but Armand was in a category by himself. Hot damn indeed!

Armand and I went to grab some tea after our workout, and got ourselves reacquainted. That night, I called my erstwhile friend Nadege, and we ended up talking on the phone for two hours. Nadege is still in the Toronto area, studying computer science at York University. And my favorite Haitian diva couldn't shut up about her new friend Trevor Labonte, a white guy she described as a younger clone of Justin Timberlake. I like my men manlier than that but Nadege has always been into metrosexual guys.

At six-foot-one with her dark brown skin, muscular body and dreadlocks, Nadege is an African Amazon in her own right, and she only goes for short white guys. I guess opposites really do attract. I quizzed her about her brother's social life, since they're pretty close, and hoped she didn't pick up on the fact that I was pumping her for information. Since Nadege is a bit thick when it comes to such things, and she couldn't shut up about Trevor Labonte anyways, I doubt she had any idea that I had designs on the new and improved Armand.

I began my first semester at Carleton University with three goals in mind, to ace my civil engineering classes, get into shape and also snag Armand. Like the multi-tasking machine that I am, I set out to achieve my goals with total determination. Armand is in criminology, so our classes are pretty far from each other, indeed they're on opposite ends of campus but somehow, I seemed to accidentally bump into him a lot. We began hanging regularly, on and off campus. I was completely new to Ottawa, but he'd spent the summer here so he knew the place. With him as my guide, I set out to explore my new city...among other things.

I am happy to say that in many ways, Armand was the same guy I remembered from high school. Though buff and handsome, he was still shy and sweet underneath his tough exterior. A strong man with a sensitive core, is there anything hotter? I liked that about him, and I set out to get him before any of the local ladies snagged him. A lot of women meet their future husbands on the college or university campus, studies have shown. I wasn't thinking that far ahead but I thought Armand had boyfriend material written all over him. I've gone out with a few guys from other communities before. I dated a Jewish guy named Joel in high school, and a Mexican-Canadian guy named Francisco. I had a crush on a Jamaican guy named Ted during my senior year and we did hang out a few times but a white chick named Dina took him away from me. Life, eh?

I liked Armand, and we were hanging out pretty often. I was quite affectionate with him in public, hugging him and kissing him on the cheek and such. I was pretty much throwing myself at the guy and I wasn't getting anywhere. What's a gal to do? I was growing pretty frustrated, until he put the moves on me when we went to see Across The Universe at the Silver City movie theater in Ottawa's east end one Friday night. There I was, sitting next to him, stuffing my face with popcorn and feeling pretty jealous of a Chinese gal whose white boyfriend was kissing her neck just three seats down our aisle. And Armand didn't appear to notice the frustration/despair creeping into my mood. What was wrong with him? We'd been out quite a few times. Why hadn't he made a move on me? Was there another gal in the picture? Was he gay or something? Or, as I dread, was he friend-zoning me because he wasn't into, ahem, curvy women?

All these thoughts were swirling about my head until, without warning, the magic moment came. Armand told me I had something on my chin, and when I brought my face closer so he could take it off ( my hands were messy thanks to all the popcorn oil ), he took my face in his hands and kissed me. It was a deep, passionate kiss. Completely unexpected. I would have fixed my makeup, swallowed a mint or something before, had I known I was about to be kissed, but it still worked. Unexpected kisses are the best, I think. Our first kiss lasted a full thirty seconds, I think, but to me it seemed a lot longer than that. How was that? Armand asked me. Not bad Mister Chevalier, I said with a wink. Not bad at all.

Thus our relationship began officially. I'm happy to say that I fell in love with him and he with me. We got a lot of stares from people when out in public together. Folks in Ottawa weren't used to seeing South Asian women with Black men, that's for damn sure. I'd seen a few Indian guys and Arab guys with Black girlfriends but even they stared when they saw Armand and I, holding hands while at the movies or at the mall or in restaurants together. One old lady from India, a Bengali woman, I believe, told me that I was disgracing my Indian heritage by dating Armand. I haughtily told her I wasn't Indian, I'm a Pakistani-Canadian Christian woman and I date whoever I please. Or should I say, who pleases me, eh? Big L.O.L. moment right there. With Armand on my arm, I began to experience the world in a whole new way.

It's true that every non-white person in Canada experiences racism in some way, shape or form. I know of a French-Canadian female student from one of my classes at Carleton who became aware of Canadian racism for the first time after she converted to Islam and married a guy from Iran. Since she started wearing the hijab and dressing up in Muslim clothes, she's been called a "terrorist bitch" and told to "go back where she's from" by bigoted white people who seemed to notice her hijab and Islamic clothes before they noticed her white skin, which should have shielded her from racism. Imagine that! The sad thing is that it's people of African descent who bear the brunt of the racism aimed at all non-Caucasians in western society. Sometimes, people from other minority communities treat Black folks badly, and that is just plain sad.

One night, as we sat on the couch watching a rerun of Smallville, I asked Armand how he could endure this hell daily, he shrugged and kissed my hand. God didn't make the black man inferior to anyone and no white person or from any other race will convince me of that, Armand told me proudly. I've got your back no matter, I told him, and he kissed me full and deep. Gently, Armand cupped my face in his hands. I want to make love to you, he told me. I nodded, and hand in hand, we went to my bed. We'd been going out for exactly one hundred and seventeen days before we went to bed together, if you can believe that. Armand is a true gentleman and he believed in waiting till the time was right. Well, that time was upon us indeed!

My bedroom was messy ( I'm a civil engineer in training, not a homemaker ) but Armand didn't seem to mind. He just undressed me and went to work. I was a bit self-conscious about getting naked in front of him, but he reassured me that he found every inch of me beautiful, curves and all. I've wanted you for a while, he said as he licked my toes while sliding his fingers into my pussy. Hmmm. I urged him to do his thing, and before long, he was licking my pussy with that sweet tongue of his, with his fingers sending tremors of pleasure deep inside of me. The man had me right where he wanted me, on my back, legs in the air, and his tongue and fingers making me moan and squirm. I hadn't had sex in almost a year and I definitely wanted to make up for lost time.

Armand had me moaning and squealing after half an hour of licking and fingering my cunt, and I was hornier than ever. Just fuck me, I growled into his ear. The sexy Haitian stud muffin didn't need to be told twice. He rolled a condom on his hard dick, then thrust it into me. I wrapped my arms around him, and he began pounding his dick into me. My pussy gripped his dick tightly. I'd only been with three guys before and each time, I was in a long-term relationship with them. I made Armand because I don't give up the pussy to a guy before ninety days at the earliest. And I'm happy to say that the Haitian proved to be worth the wait.

Burying that handsome mug of his between my tits, Armand hugged me tight as he pounded away at me, thrusting his dick deep into my pussy. I shuddered all over as his heat invaded me, filling me up. The shy, reserved bookworm was gone, replaced by something else altogether, a primal force of masculine power, which totally owned me in my bed, fucking me like sex was going out of style. And I couldn't help but sing his hymns of praise at the top of my lungs, shouting in pleasure mixed with just the right amount of pain as he fucked me silly. My man was rough, and I liked it that way.

When Armand put me on all fours, spanked my big ass and pulled my hair while slamming his dick into me, I felt like jumping for joy. I didn't know he had this much aggression in him, and I totally loved it! I'm almost six feet tall and I'm a voluptuous woman with a strong body ( and kinky mind ) so there aren't a lot of men who can take on someone like when I go buck-wild. I grinded my big ass against Armand's groin, causing his dick to go deeper inside of me. Armand fucked me like this for an hour and when he went soft after shooting his load, I took the condom off his dick and sucked his cock clean. While going down on his thick, uncircumcised chocolate dick, I slid first one then two fingers up his ass. A lot of guys would mind and protest but not Armand. You like that? I asked, as I licked the underside of his dick. I love it because I'm freaky like that, Armand told me with a wicked smile. A black man who's secure enough in his manhood to let his woman finger his ass while sucking his dick. That's hot!