Thicker Than Soup (21 page)

Peeping through her veil into the wedding marquee as she passed, Sally looked in wonderment at marigolds and jasmine entwined with sparkling fairy lights and shimmering, flickering oil lamps. It was like a scene from the story she had, as a child, begged her father to read, over and again;
Scheherazade and the Arabian Nights
. Each time Scheherazade's life was saved, she'd sigh with relief, yet listen fearfully again the next time. A moment of sadness tinged the day as she wished her father could be there to see her, resplendent in a sari the colour of fresh pomegranate seeds and draped with gold wedding jewellery, marrying in the country of his birth. She blinked, grateful that, at least, her mother had made the journey.

Rachel and Aamina escorted Sally into a small anteroom where a kaleidoscope of silks, chiffons and jewels dazzled beyond the mesh of her veil and she saw her mother and grandmother sitting together, repairing more than thirty years of separation whilst between them, Sammy tugged at his great-grandmother's hand and pointed. She raised her veil a little and waved to her son then let herself be guided into the garlanded chair, ready for the marriage ceremony to begin.

They'd kept her from Arif all week, and now the pre-nuptial activities and traditions were about to culminate in the signing of the Nikah. In two more days, they'd host a Walima reception together, but today, with just their families present, she'd become Arif's wife. On her arm the glass wedding bangles shone against the intricate henna patterns her aunts and cousins had covered her skin with. She preferred the simplicity of pale skin and hadn't wanted henna, but Yalda and Rachel had insisted a bride couldn't marry without such beautification. Likewise the hours of painful hair removal, the rubbing of golden turmeric paste into her skin, and the painting of shimmering red lacquer on her finger and toe nails. With her hair threaded with fake gems and face glistening with pearly powders she hardly recognised herself. Arif might well wonder who his bride was! However the dress had been her choice alone. The gold threaded bodice accentuated her still slim waist and cascaded down to gold-slippered feet, and she loved the lavish, dazzling brilliant excess of it, so excitingly unlike anything she could have worn at even the grandest occasion and so different from something she might have worn had she married in England.

Someone announced the arrival of the Imam and she felt a thrill of anticipation. In the year since Arif's proposal she'd learned to trust her feelings and, to her joy, find them reflected in him. Not only was he the handsome, gentle man she'd first met, he was intelligent, interesting, kind, and highly moralistic – something that had worried her for a while. She'd once contrived an evening alone when, in new salwar kameez and with hair freshly washed, her intentions had been clear. When he'd ordered a taxi to send her home she'd demanded to know what was wrong; did he not love her as he said he did? He'd held her hands and told her that he longed for their wedding night when then, and only then, their union would be complete. But, he'd said, he would neither tarnish their relationship nor offend her by taking her to his bed before their marriage. The waiting, he'd assured her, tested him as much as it did her but it would enrich their marriage. Though slighted at the time, she'd come to see his reasoning as part of her growing trust and love for him, as alongside her adoption of the Muslim faith, it evidenced a stability that she welcomed.

As a Christian by default if not practice, her conversion to Islam surprised no one more than it did herself. Having picked up a book with the captivating title of ‘King of the Castle' at Arif's house she'd discovered, as far she could see, a balanced look at issues in the secular world. The gulf of misunderstanding between the reality of Islam and what she came to see as Western beliefs invoked vigorous debate with her Christian uncles, but the more Sally read the more her interest grew. Wanting to improve her Urdu as much as to broaden her understanding, she joined a group of young women to study and discuss Islamic issues, and enjoyed the debates that were enhanced by tales of hard fought battles that were not unlike those she'd encountered at Black and Emery. Through her learning she'd come to accept that gender roles could be complementary rather than competitive and that diversity within the faith was something to celebrate rather than regularise. Not only did it make perfect sense according to the laws of nature, it taught her about a lifestyle that she wanted to be a part of. When finally, surrounded by Arif, her family, and her new friends, she'd pronounced her formal declaration of faith it was a moment she would remember forever. With the words of the Shadaadah enunciated, she'd known, in her heart, that life was going where she wanted it.

*

As the sound of drums, voices and laughter drew closer women thronged to the door hoping to see the Barat; Arif with his family and friends, arriving and entering a second anteroom. Then they returned, and the Imam was in front of her. It was time. She followed the Imam's words, though she knew the contents of The Nikah well. A slight shake of her head was almost indiscernible as the Meher was read, and which they'd disagreed on. Arif had assured her this ‘dowry' established her independence. ‘I,' he'd told her, ‘am responsible for providing. It is my duty.' Protestations that it was inappropriate because she intended to earn her own money fell by the wayside and the clause had stayed.

As the reading drew to its close she responded “Gabool kiya,” and registered her agreement with a decisive hand. Daniel and the Imam registered their witness and as they left to conduct the ceremony with Arif she felt sun shine in her soul. She was about to become Sally – Sarah – Lancing Arif.

She turned as Rachel tugged her hand. “Come on!” Passing the curtained doorway where Arif's deep voice could be heard agreeing that he, too, accepted the terms of the Nikah they continued to a mirrored alcove where he would come to claim her. Within minutes Quranic verses heralded his presence and then by her side, his fingers gently but deliberately brushed hers. She'd been instructed to keep her eyes cast downward and from beneath her veil she saw Arif's legs clad in cream silk trousers and on his feet, embroidered leather slippers. Then it was time for her face to be revealed and she wished again that she'd refused some of the make-up. What if he didn't recognise her? The thought started a giggle and as Rachel lifted the veil clear it almost burst from her lips as she saw, in the mirror, Arif wearing a majestic cream and red turban. A plate of fresh dates was offered and taking one, she bit half and placed the other half in Arif's mouth, her finger brushing his lip. Amusement dissolved. Their eyes met and she knew that the abstinence they'd endured would soon end.

A gentle tug at her skirts broke the moment and she saw Karim had brought Sammy to her, clutching a small red silk cushion on which nestled two rings. It had been her idea to exchange rings, and taking the smaller, white gold ring Arif recited some Urdu poetry as he slid it slowly on to her finger. In response she took the second ring, this time silver, but otherwise a larger replica of the first, and placing it on Arif's finger, spoke the simple words her father had said to her mother on their wedding day more than thirty years previously, “Humans have never understood the power of Love, for if they had they would surely have built noble temples and altars and offered solemn sacrifices. But this is not done.” Her voice wavered, but only for a moment. “And most certainly it ought to be done, since Love is our best friend, our helper, and the healer of ills. With this ring I pledge you my love.” Arif placed his hand against her cheek and she felt his ring, strong and cool against the warmth of her face.

Applause surrounded them and she ran a finger carefully under her eyes to draw the tears away from the kohl and mascara. Daoud was signalling they should lead the way to the wedding marquee and for the first time they publicly held hands as they crossed the room. Aamina passed a garland of flowers over Arif's head at the doorway, but once outside he stopped abruptly and roared in mock fury. “I knew it!”

She bumped into him and discovered yet another tradition that was new to her.

He roared again. “Bring me my shoes. I demand they are returned.”

The shoe racks had been emptied and she watched as he pulled several rupee notes from his pockets to exchange for the red and gold embroidered shoe bags that giggling Rachel and Pazir held behind their backs.

*

It was evening when Arif attempted to extract his new wife from the restraining arms and mock keening of her family and escort her to her new home. Sammy's cries of protest at her departure added authenticity to the Rukhsati ceremony until his grandmother and Rachel bribed him with ice-cream and promises of stories, and they climbed into one of a row of taxis that waited.

Arif's mother, who had left early, was waiting to welcome the returning barata revellers home with glasses of cool, sweet almond sherbet, so aromatic and deliciously refreshing that as she inhaled the spicy floral aroma Sally asked that her new mother-in-law teach her how to make it. Sotto voce, Arif's mother whispered it was a special wedding night drink to give energy, then laughed delightedly as she saw Sally's involuntary glance at Arif, who she saw was looking carefully at something on the table. She joined him and saw a flat tray, half-full of what appeared to be watery milk.

“What is this?”

Arif explained it was yet another wedding tradition, though more amusing, he added, than serious. “Whoever finds the hidden ring will command our marriage,” he said. Seeing a glint of gold in the corner, Sally's hand dived forward to find nothing more than the tray's motif, whilst Arif's swishing fingers fished out a small gold ring. “Ah ha, I am master!” he proclaimed, “I have the ring.” Sally laughed and, as he handed it to Pazir, telling her it was a gift from her new stepmother, she squeezed his hand in thanks.

“Thank you.“ Pazir slipped it on to her finger and admired it then pulled at Sally's arm. “Come, you must come with me.”

She looked at Arif, wondering what new trick or game was to be played, but he nodded, and she let Pazir lead her along the corridor towards the guest-room suite she'd stayed in when looking after the children when Arif and his mother had both been away. It was a cavernous space, though airy, and although soulless she'd enjoyed the luxury of the private bathroom and tiny dressing room. Opening the door Pazir pulled her inside and threw open her arms. “Da-daa.”

Sally looked around her; the room had been transformed. A large bed, scattered with red rose petals dominated the room, and Pazir patted the crisp white linen. “It's a new bed!” She moved to the wall. “And there's air conditioning
and
a fan. Look!” She pressed a switch and soft white curtains fluttered in the stirred air.

“It's so beautiful! I can hardly believe it's the same room! It looks smaller.”

Pazir ran to the wall. “It
is
smaller.” She pressed her hand and slid a panel aside, revealing wardrobes that extended the length and height of the wall. “You have the other end,” she said, sliding a panel at the opposite end and displaying the clothes she'd packed into a suitcase a few days previously.

Pazir kissed her and left her staring at a dressing table reflection that stared back like a stranger in a dream. Here she was, married to Arif, and surrounded by this fine room. She'd suggested they might change rooms when they married but had assumed a simple swap, perhaps with his mother.

Arif appeared at the door. “Welcome to our room.” He carried a small bowl carefully towards her, his advancing image blanking the room. “Do you like it?”

“It's a palace.” She was overcome that he'd done this for her.

“Fit for my queen.” He took two glass bangles from his pocket, each decorated with white flowers, and added them to those already on Sally's wrist. “It's a tradition. White for new beginnings. You have to smash these if I die before you.” He knelt. “This is a tradition too.” He removed Sally's slippers and shyness washed over her as his gentle hands washed her feet in the perfumed water he'd brought with him. “I must now sprinkle this water in each corner of the house to ensure luck and prosperity.” In the wardrobe behind him she could see the shell-pink, lace nightdress she'd bought in London; an extravagance that now seemed immodest. “I'll be back soon; in about half an hour. When I've said goodbye to our remaining guests.”

She set about removing the multitude of hair pins and brushing the stiffness from her hair. She cleaned off layers of make-up then showered away the powders and potions that had embellished her skin. She rubbed a piece of fresh sandalwood on to her damp skin then, ignoring the London nightdress, dressed in a new shalwar kameeze and sat anxiously on the chaise-longue, wondering why, at the age of thirty-four and hardly a virgin, she felt so absurdly nervous.

The remains of her glass of sherbet sat on the dressing table and she rose – as the door opened. Arif took her hands and kissed her forehead, her nose, and finally her lips. She closed her eyes and absorbed the gentleness of his lips, of his hands and heard him speak, “Bismillaah, ir-Rahman-ir-Rahim.” Laying down two new silk mats they prayed together.

Then Arif guided her towards the bed where, in a whirlwind of cravings and desires they matched each other in the love they took and gave as, like dancers, they moved with elegance then fervour until passion was spent.

Lying quietly against her husband, beloved Arif, she knew they'd been right to wait.

*

Slipping a few photographs into a letter, she wrote Diane's once familiar address on the envelope and took it to where her mother was packing the last of her belongings. “Room for a tiny letter?” she asked.

Sammy knelt on top of the suitcase hindering his grandmother's attempts to edge the zips toward joining and seeing his mother, jumped up and held out his hand. “I take it. I going to London with Grandma!”