Love in a Headscarf (11 page)

Human beings for thousands of years had been mesmerized by the stars and heavenly bodies, even believing them to be gods. That’s how the Prophet Abraham talked to the stars. Were they gods? he had asked. As they faded away with the night, he knew that there was something greater. Today his question would have been whether our understanding of science actually revealed the wonders of Divine creation. That was to be my search, my journey—to know and love the Creator—and perhaps on the way I would get lost in the stars and their milky twilight.

“How did you know it was me?” he asked shyly.

“I just knew, maybe I have good intuition.”

“That’s cool. You’re cool.”

I blushed, and tried to change the subject. I wasn’t very good at this.

“Aren’t the stars beautiful?” I asked. “Thousands of them, twinkling so far from us, yet so near. Who knows what it’s like out in the universe where they are! What an incredible creation! I can’t breathe when I look at them. I bet somewhere out there we could understand what life is really about and find a bit more meaning to bring into this world.”

I was lost in awe. There was a long silence and I forgot he was there.

A few minutes later I spoke again. “They make me feel like there is something bigger than me. I feel like they hold so many secrets, so much to be explored and found. I feel a sense of divine, whether that is with a small
d
or a capital
D
.”

I looked at him, wondering if he understood what I was asking, what I was revealing about my quest for the sublime. Would he have provisions for the journey?

I was looking at him framed by the mystical crystal sky. The night was clear. The moon was bright. He paused and I smiled in anticipation. I waited for his charismatic description of the layers and veils of the universe and the unknowable yet tangible beauty of the stars and planets that shone mysteriously above us. I wanted to hear about his quest into his own soul, his fascination with the complexity, the enormity, the simplicity of it all. I wanted to know.

I asked finally, “What do you think when you see the stars?”

He looked at the mysterious sky and said: “I imagine joining the dots.”

Groundhog Day

C
hez
Shelina the ritual of the suitor’s visit gradually reached a crescendo of perfection. Over weeks and months we worked our way slowly and methodically through a line of potential princes. I was able to be patient and give each man his due time and consideration. We had perfected the process: our family, his family, me, and him; some tea, sweets, and conversation. The morning-after call always came—from the matchmaker of course. Sometimes there would be a second meeting. More often than not it was a case of being philosophical and moving onto the next one. He must be out there. He must be. I told myself to make sure he was the right one. Finding the right man was important.

The suitor hot seat was filled week by week with an unexpected range of princely bottoms.

He was nicely built and good-looking. The son of a friend of a friend, called Samir. I was immediately worried when I heard that he hadn’t completed his university education, but I kept an open mind. Chemistry could sparkle in the most surprising places and between the most unlikely people. A variation in education was a minor point, perhaps even of no significance. Tick-box matchmaking on the basis of paper compatibility had its merits, and often worked, but it was the magic of the unexpected that produced the most interesting relationships in my view.

Samir had dropped out of school to set up his own business and was now an entrepreneurial meteor. Full of confidence, he strode in and installed himself in my father’s comfy chair.

He didn’t bother to make conversation, responding curtly to questions posed directly toward him. Otherwise he stared uninterestedly out of the window at my father’s beautifully tended garden. My father exchanged pleasantries with Samir’s uncle, spending a mandatory ten minutes establishing their family connections. Eventually they found a second cousin on one side married to a great aunt on the other.

Slightly nervous as always, I made my entrance, smiling and nodding my head and saying
salam
to everyone present. I sat in an empty armchair opposite the boy, my hands clasped, my breathing a little uneven. This time the vase was filled with scented crimson roses. He turned to stare disdainfully at me, and then turned back to stare disdainfully at the wall.

After a few minutes of polite conversation, I got up to make the tea. It was a welcome relief to have something to do. I returned with the correct distribution of teas and coffees, as well as the essential must-have homemade sweets. Again, I sat opposite the boy. My father and the chaperone flung open the patio doors and swept dramatically into the garden, leaving Samir and me facing the lawn, and awkwardly facing each other, like
budho budhi
, old man, old woman, staring at their garden in the autumn of their shared lives.

He looked indifferently at me and then at the ceiling-to-floor bookshelves that occupied the corner of the room. They were laden with books of all shapes and colors, so full that each shelf had books stacked up on top of each other and some were two rows deep. His eyes misted over at the overflowing reams of literature. He was mesmerized.

“Whose books are all of those?” he asked, in what I thought was wonderment and awe.

I smiled conceitedly. “They are all mine,” I boasted.

He turned and looked at me witheringly and said, “I hate books, I hate all books. I never ever read and I don’t like people who like books.”

My friends Sara and Noreen were also looking for their own Mr. Rights. They had grown up with me and were at the same stage of the marriage process. They too were university graduates, and were about to begin professional careers. Like me, they were involved in community affairs. They had similar disasters to recount. Sara, who wore hijab too, described the story of Fayyaz who came with the Imam who had recommended him. His biodata was promising: well-educated, religious, good family, wanting a woman who wore hijab, good job, liked to travel. He had his own flat already and so he was “domesticated” and independent. His references were also impeccable.

She told us that the Imam—as is required of anyone in the pastoral professions—was chatty. We giggled at her description of the meeting: “Fayyaz shifted his weight from buttock to buttock. At first he was patient, but then he kept throwing me desperate looks. Two hours later the forceful Imam turned to him and asked why he hadn’t spoken to me yet.

“Fayyaz and I went into the other room. I understood immediately why the Imam talked so much.” She explained that Fayyaz was as quiet as his chaperone was talkative. “Fifteen awful minutes of silence later we were summoned to return. Then the Imam chimes in: ‘You must have had a good chat’ and gives me a wink. Then he says, ‘These meetings, ho-ho-ho! I had a friend who was an Imam too. He went on a visit on behalf of a friend of his to meet a girl. Liked her so much he married her himself! Ho-ho-ho!’” Sara, Noreen, and I all squealed with horrified laughter.

Noreen had her own story to tell: “Jameel was tall and good-looking. He was a doctor and had been looking to marry for quite some time. He was intelligent and funny, and very charming. Everyone seemed to really like him in the family, including my Nana and my tiny little nephew. His stories were hilarious. And he said that he wanted a wife to embody both
deen
, spiritual life, and
dunya
, the world we live in. I thought he was perfect till his mum spoke to me.”

Noreen put on her lilting mother-in-law voice:

“‘Such a nice boy, always thinking of everyone else, especially his poor little old Mother.’”

“I couldn’t believe it when my own mum started gushing too: ‘He seems lovely, I’m surprised he’s not been snapped up!’”

Noreen switched back into mother-in-law mode: “‘Well, he has liked a few girls, but you know, I never really liked any of them myself. He always says to me, ‘Mummy, you know much better, you decide. I don’t mind waiting for years until we find a girl you are happy with.’”

Jameel remains unmarried.

Sometimes only the mother-in-law came to visit. I still served samosas and tea and tried to win their hearts. She might be visiting from abroad without her son, to set up a marriage tour. Once the prospective girls had been vetted and a critical mass had been established, the prince would come to visit London and interview us one by one. His mother was the gatekeeper who had to be wooed. We had to pitch ourselves to get shortlisted for the next stage. I would make the snacks and cakes myself, and watch their eyes gleam with delight at the potential daughter-in-law who could cook heavenly strawberry gâteau.

My greatest dread though was the mother-in-law meeting at the mosque. After the lecture or gathering was over, my mother and I would have to find the mother-in-law and stand with her in a quiet corner for my interview. Since there were only women in our section of the mosque, I did not wear my headscarf. My mother would ensure that my hair and lipstick were pristine, so I would look my prettiest. We were both apprehensive. Not only was the process itself difficult and unpleasant, but the environment was challenging too. In a few sentences I would have to win over the woman I would not be marrying.

Other women rushed behind us, stood in groups next to us, tittered in humorous gaggles close to us. We had to be discreet, otherwise gossip would start to fly the following morning about potential wedding matches before even a single glass of tea had been served to the boy’s family. Questions would be asked: “Who was that you were speaking to?” “I hear she has three very good-looking sons. They were talking to the daughter of that woman over there before.” “She’s been looking for the oldest one for years. I’m sure they will settle for anyone who will have him soon.”

Habib cried when Sara spoke to him. Although his parents had divorced more than five years ago he was still very upset by it. He wanted to get married, but he would have a nervous breakdown if he had to go through a divorce. He was angry when she said this worried her as the basis of their first conversation. Sara described that he spat the words, “Reality, not romance! Reality!”

Then Noreen met Akil who said: “I need to leave because I’m meeting my friends to watch soccer.”

I was introduced to Bilal: “My mum is getting old and she keeps telling me to get married. To be honest I think it’s her that really wants the company. Personally I’m not so bothered.”

Sara got a visit from Javed: “You’re too clever. That’s not for me.”

Mizan said to Noreen: “I’m not really into this whole marriage thing but my parents don’t get it. I wanna be single.”

And then Wadud confessed to me: “I didn’t really want to come, but it was this or get kicked out of home.”

Ahmed was not an attractive man. He was also not an intelligent man. I tried to ignore his looks and get to know him for who he was. When he came home to meet our family, he sat in the single armchair, surveying the room. He was aloof. His silence made me feel uncomfortable. On this occasion we hadn’t been shunted off to the dining room. My parents had by now refined the art of moving seamlessly with the guests through the patio doors and into the garden, leaving us in situ, audible and visible from their new location outside.

Ahmed spoke little and responded less but when he did his tongue was very sharp. I tried all the techniques I had learned to open up the conversation. His onion-seed eyes stared into me. I tried to break the frostiness with some humor as we talked about our friends working in the financial services sector. “They are all accountants, overpaid ones,” I smirked in a slapstick over-the-top fashion to bring some humor to the conversation. I knew that I was making a simplistic and stereotypical statement, but in the Asian community being an accountant really can be a bit of a joke, so I played on it, trying to get both of us to bond over a shared caricature. He shot me a withering look and I felt my hair sizzle from end to root under my headscarf.

In a patronizing voice he enlightened me: “Accountants come in many different specialties and are quite different from other financial professions like bankers or actuaries, even though they are all considered financial services. It is a simple and obvious fact that even a mildly clever person would know.”

He thought I was thick, like a plate of gloopy blancmange. It was not something I’d experienced before. Other boys who had met me had said that I was too clever for them and so either they were not interested in me or were scared of me.

I did not care that Ahmed was the dullest and most difficult human being I had come across. I was more perturbed by the fact that he thought I was a bimbo.

A
bimbo?

The matchmaker called the next day. “What did Shelina think?” she asked my mother. I had briefed my mother on this boy’s lack of social grace, his inability to have a conversation, and the fact he was deeply unattractive, although to be fair, she had spotted this herself. She was aware that Ahmed had been extremely difficult and had shown no effort or interest in easing what is always an uncomfortable and difficult situation by engaging in conversation, no matter how meaningless. Even when two people know early on that the match is unlikely, both have a responsibility to make the situation as pleasant as possible and maintain a reasonable level of sociability and civility. Ahmed had missed this training session in his How to Find a Wife course.

My mother was brief and not complimentary. The matchmaker was surprised. I heard her popped “Oh!” from the other side of the room while my mum was on the phone. “But Ahmed really liked Shelina.”

This revelation elicited a corresponding “Oh!” from my mother. I’d launched a tirade at her about Ahmed, so the fact he had enjoyed our meeting was unexpected.

“Erm,” began my mother. She gathered herself together and said, “But Shelina said he did not speak, and that he looked very unhappy and she had to do all the talking.”