Threading My Prayer Rug

by Sabeeha Rehman

  It is the desire of every Muslim parent that his or her child marries within the faith. As our children entered their teens, our Pakistani one-dish party conversations graduated from Tell me that recipe again to I hope our children don’t marry an American. Did I just offend you? Let me explain: the term “American” in this context meant “out of faith” primarily and “non-Pakistani/non-Indian” secondarily. For first-generation immigrants in the late 1980s, the mere idea of their children marrying outside those boundaries was enough to land them in the trauma ward of a psych hospital (Khalid tells me that there is no such ward). OK, I just exaggerated, but you get the picture.

  If you were a butterfly on the wall at the parties, this is the chatter you heard:

  “My son has to marry a Pakistani girl, not even Indian—she has to be Pakistani.”

  “I’d die if he married a gori,” referring to white, American female.

  “Look at the bright side. Your grandchildren will be white.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “I think we should just bring a boy or girl from Pakistan.”

  “I have already picked a girl from Pakistan for my son.”

  “Bringing a girl from Pakistan may work; but I doubt if importing a boy is a good idea. Men from a patriarchal society will not adjust to a wife from a liberal culture.”

  “They should marry a Pakistani who grew up in America. They will have more in common—same music, same lingo.”

  “No, no. It’s better if they marry someone from Pakistan. This way, they will maintain the culture. And they will keep going back to visit their in-laws and stay connected with Pakistan.”

  “I don’t care if my son-in-law is Pakistani or Indian or Egyptian or African, as long as he is a Muslim.”

  “No, no, no. What are you talking! He has to be of our culture. How else will the two families get along? I want to be able to call up my son-in-law’s mother and talk in Urdu. Stop saying things like that. I don’t want our children to hear it.”

  “Did you hear Asma’s son is marrying a Latino?”

  “And Dr. Khan is marrying an American.”

  “Oh, dear! This is not a good example for our children.”

  Why were we even having this conversation? Because Islam prohibits dating, and in Pakistani culture it was a huge no-no. A girl and a boy cannot be alone unless they are married, the idea being that one thing leads to the other, and things can get out of hand. So how does one find a spouse? In Pakistan, parents arrange it. But this is America. Children raised here, no matter how much you shelter them, will not agree to the prospect of seeing the first glimpse of their spouse by looking into the mirror on their wedding day. What then lies between arranged marriages and dating?

  Chaperone

  Mummy and Daddy, who had been visiting from Pakistan and were listening to this conversation, gave me a piece of advice.

  “Don’t consider the idea of a daughter-in-law from Pakistan. Your children should marry a girl who was raised here, in America. Cultural compatibility is important,” said Daddy.

  Makes sense to me. Thank you, Mummy and Daddy. I never would have come up with that thought on my own. I better start working on it now. I am noticing that at home parties, the teen girls and boys have started self-segregating and barely talk to one another. I have to find a way to redraw the boundaries. If these boys and girls put up walls between themselves when among Pakistanis, how will they ever find a spouse?

  I talked to Khalid. He advised that as long as they are together in groups, it is OK for them to mingle.

  That’s it! I will arrange teen activities for them, chaperoned of course—beyond the Sunday school, beyond the home parties, and beyond the watchful eyes of the aunties.

  My first attempt? I got an F. I formed a teen group. They were to pick an activity and place and find a mother to escort them. For the first trip, they picked me as the escort; we went to the Statue of Liberty and had a great time. For the next trip—well, there was no next trip. No more escorts. No mother was available to go hang out with a bunch of teenagers.

  I think I took the wrong approach. I should have first worked on the parents, coaxed them, implored them, wooed them, brought them on board, and then organized the teen group. If I try, try again …

  My second attempt? An F minus—in bold red. I had sat down with one of my friends and presented the idea. First, the preamble: we want our children to marry among Muslims…. They can’t date…. We want to make sure that they are comfortable with one another, make friends, and when the time comes, who knows … ? Then my brilliant solution: so what if we try to bring them together in a chaperoned environment … and as long as there is a mother hovering in the background, it will keep things in check.

  “Sabeeha, that is not a good idea. I will not allow my daughter to be part of this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it will hurt her reputation.”

  Excuse me!

  “It’s chaperoned.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Other women will point fingers at my daughter and say, ‘She was out with the boys.’ If they are then seen talking to each other at parties, women will gossip about my daughter. I won’t have it.”

  “They talk to boys in school, don’t they? They will talk to boys in college. If you keep them apart from Muslim boys, guess what!”

  “Sabeeha, you don’t have a daughter, so you don’t understand.”

  I don’t understand! I don’t understand why she doesn’t understand that she is locking her daughter out of future prospects, and locking our sons out of their prospects. How does she envision finding a suitable boy? Does she really believe that her daughter will agree to an arranged marriage? And what if she does? How many young men out there would be agreeable to an arranged marriage? Perhaps a few, but it’s a small pool to fish from. But I do understand. I understand that she is afraid, but isn’t she being shortsighted? I now understand why there were no escorts. I bet no mother wants to be perceived as facilitating interaction between girls and boys. Does she think that I am being too Americanized and paving the way for my boys at the expense of the girls? Goodness!

  Well, I just have to take my “boy-gets to-know-girl” project outside of our tight-knit community to a more distant, loosely knit group, with minimal auntie effect.

  I was beginning to see Khalid’s wisdom in having a community center for our children. That forum would have given them the space to be with friends and make friends.

  My third attempt? An A+. Boy met girl, boy married girl, boy and girl have three beautiful children, and boy and girl are going through the usual joys and challenges of life. Now that I have given away the ending, let me tell you the story.

  A Marriage Engineered

  The loosely knit group I found was APPNA, the Pakistani physicians’ group. Whereas its primary purpose was to promote continuing medical education, its annual conferences quickly morphed into a venue for family socializing and eventually branched into matchmaking. The conference was the venue where we reconnected with our friends—friends from medical school in Pakistan and friends we made during our residency years who had moved across the continent to establish their practices. If you had walked into the lobby of the Hyatt Hotel in Washington, DC, on a July 4 weekend, you would have been met by an air of elegance—no, not in the hotel décor but in the graceful array of Pakistani ladies in their colorful shalwar kameez, chatting in clusters in a buzz of Urdu, rushing with open arms to welcome an old friend, while men in well-tailored suits greeted colleagues with a warm embrace and little Pakistani boys and girls rushed out of elevators, looking for their lost mothers. Forget about the scientific session—come join the party for a sold-out banquet and savor the sounds of music as Abida Parveen, a mystic singer, performs with her head swaying to the beat of the Sufi music.

  The association formed a children’s group first and then, as children grew up, added a teen group, a young adults’ group, and a young professionals’ group. Youngsters would hang
out together, under the watchful eyes of supervising parents. As children entered graduate school, the conference became a fertile ground for matchmaking. Another group was added to the association: singles’ group.

  I was in heaven.

  So many girls!

  I’d drag my boys, now undergrad students at Haverford College, to events and introduce them to friends who had daughters.

  I hope their daughter will walk up and then the two shall meet.

  I’d let them loose, hoping they would team up, make friends.

  They are still young, but for now I just want them to get comfortable having Pakistani girls as just friends.

  Then I hit the jackpot! It was 1996, and the four of us had just returned from the Olympics in Atlanta. By now, Saqib was in medical school at SUNY Syracuse and Asim was a senior in college.

  “Saqib and Asim, I want you to go to Detroit to the APPNA conference next week,” I announced.

  “Why?” Saqib asked. “We just got back from Atlanta.”

  “Because I want you to go find a wife.”

  “Mom!”

  “And why do I have to go?” asked Asim.

  “Because I want you to make sure Saqib doesn’t just hang out with the boys.” I have to explain: Saqib is the quiet one and is likely to stick to his old chums and not venture to get to know anyone, which makes cutting through the boy-girl divide a little harder. Asim makes friends when crossing the street. If anyone can help Saqib find a girl, it will be Asim.

  “Asim, you make sure that Saqib gets to meet some nice girls. And at the banquet, see to it that you both sit at a table where girls are also seated. Don’t just cluster up on the boys-only table.” I was making my goal and strategy very clear.

  Asim smiled; Saqib tried not to smile.

  “Why aren’t you coming?” Asim asked.

  “We can’t afford another trip. Besides, I have used up my vacation.”

  So I put them on a plane, and off they flew. Sure enough, at the banquet they sat at a table with boys and girls. From across the table, Saqib met Saadia. They exchanged emails. A year later they were engaged, and in 1998, while he was still in medical school, they were married.

  YES!

  Backtrack: I had picked the boys up from the airport after their trip to Detroit. Driving home, I asked, “So, meet any friends?”

  “Yes.” Saqib knew exactly what I was getting at.

  “Made any new friends?” I tried to be subtle.

  “Ummm! Maybe.”

  Back off. Either he did or he didn’t.

  A few weeks later, they went back to college, and neither of them had said anything.

  I’ll try again next year.

  Thanksgiving came, and the boys were coming home. I had planned a trip to Pakistan on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving to beat the high-season airfare in early December and was flying alone. I was at work when the phone rang.

  “Mom.” It was Saqib. He never calls me at work.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. You see, I am coming home Tuesday morning, and I was planning to drive you to the airport that evening, but, you see, (pause), there is this girl….”

  Breathe, keep breathing … girl … Muslim girl?

  “You see, she has invited me to a Pakistani cultural event in New Jersey Tuesday evening, but I had planned to take you to the airport….”

  “GO,” I must have shouted.

  “But I wanted to see you off at the airport.”

  “Go. It’s OK. Don’t worry about it. Asim and Daddy will take me. Go, go.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Yes, yes. Positive.”

  Dear, dear Saqib. He called me at work. There will be so many Pakistani girls there…. Maybe he will meet someone nice … maybe this Pakistani girl who invited him?

  Saqib came and put on a suit. (Good sign; he is trying to look his best.) He did look so handsome, and hopeful Mommy waved as he walked down the kitchen steps to the garage.

  I flew off to Pakistan. And that was that.

  Saqib and Asim were back again for the winter holidays. Returning from work, I pulled into the garage and was walking up the stairs to the kitchen, when I saw Khalid waiting for me at the landing. He had heard the whirring of the automatic garage door. He followed me into the bedroom and closed the door.

  “Bia,” he almost whispered with a smile.

  “What is it?”

  “The phone rang a few minutes ago, and a girl asked to speak to Saqib. Her name is Saadia.” Khalid’s smile had widened.

  A Muslim name! YES!

  “Saqib is on the phone right now, upstairs. Now don’t say anything when he comes down.”

  “I won’t.”

  I quickly changed, came into the kitchen—Saqib was still upstairs—I got an onion out of the fridge and sliced it for the daal tarka—Saqib was still upstairs. Rather than my usual “Dinner is ready,” I decided not to interrupt his call, put the daal on low heat, and joined Khalid in the family room. I picked up the Staten Island Advance, the local paper. Oh, I can’t concentrate. Maybe I can pretend to be reading when Saqib comes down. After five long minutes, Saqib came hopping down the stairs. Was that a leap of joy in this stride? Is that a flush on his face?

  “Assalam Alaikum,” he said. “I didn’t know you were home.”

  “Wa Alaikum Assalam. I got home just a few minutes ago.”

  Just sound matter of fact and stop staring at him.

  “How was your day?” I asked, looking back at the paper.

  “Fine.” The usual Saqib response.

  “Anything new?”

  “No.” The usual Saqib response.

  “Ready for dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  And that was that.

  The next evening, coming home from work, there was Khalid again, waiting for me at the landing. He was smiling. He followed me to the bedroom and closed the door.

  “Saqib just spoke to me. About the girl.”

  I sat down on the bed.

  From the look on Khalid’s face, it looks good.

  “Her name is Saadia. He met her at the APPNA event in Detroit.”

  I giggled.

  “She is a medical student. Her parents are both doctors from Pakistan, and they live in New Jersey. He says that she is a devout Muslim, and he likes her.”

  I wanted to get down on my knees and thank God. A Muslim girl. And he likes her. My dear Saqib likes a girl.

  That evening Saqib talked to me. They had met at the APPNA banquet; they had sat at the same table. Saqib mentioned a book on Islam that he had written, she expressed an interest, he offered to mail it to her, and they exchanged emails. Then began the email courtship, without the phone calls. She lived in Trenton, New Jersey, and was going to the UMDNJ–Coopers College of Osteopathy. He was in Syracuse, New York. Over email, they chatted about his book. Then she invited him to the pre-Thanksgiving cultural event, their second meeting, and that is when they hit it off. I learned later that the same evening, Saadia had pointed Saqib out to her mother, “See that boy—he is the one I was telling you about.”

  “I like him.” Her mother had quickly formed an impression, from a distance.

  They graduated from emails to phone calls.

  “How tall is she?” I asked.

  “Five seven”

  Nice height. How did he know that?

  “I am meeting her tonight for dinner,” Saqib told me. “I guess I will go up and change.”

  I looked at Khalid.

  He looked at me.

  A silent exchange.

  They can’t date. It’s not allowed.

  “Khalid, I have to talk to Saqib right now. He knows the boundaries, but if he is going out to see a girl, I have to remind him of the rules. But this is awkward—he is an adult, and I don’t want to insult him by telling him what he already knows.”

  “I know,” said Khalid.

  After going back and forth in my mind, I decided to put my parental dutie
s first.

  “I am going to go up and talk to him. I will just say this, ‘Saqib, just make sure that you meet her in a public place.” Implied: don’t be alone with her.

  I started to walk up the stairs. I was barely halfway up, when I saw Asim walking briskly over to Saqib’s room, carrying a change of clothes.

  “Saqib, what time are we leaving?” Asim was asking Saqib.

  I made a U-turn and walked down the stairs.

  “Khalid, he is taking his brother with him. Isn’t that sweet!” I cooed.

  Dear God. Thank you, thank you, and thank you. Thank you for making my boys turn out right.

  Khalid and I were having dinner when the boys walked down, dressed semi-casual, looking handsome both of them, and we waved them a happy good-bye.

  “Khalid, when we got married, did we ever think that this is how it would work out for our children? Saqib on a semi-date with his brother for a chaperone.”

  “We are bringing them up in a different world. They are good boys,” he said.

  Next morning, over breakfast, I couldn’t help myself.

  “So, how was dinner?”

  “Fine.” The usual Saqib response.

  “There were so many of us,” Asim said.

  “What do you mean ‘so many’? It wasn’t just the three of you?”

  “All Saadia’s siblings were there. There were six of us.” Now Saqib was talking.

  “That was a very good idea,” I said.

  “It was her mother’s idea,” said Saqib.

  That’s my kind of mother. Hmmm! She made sure her daughter wasn’t alone with a boy and sent all three siblings with her, and they all came.

  “Saqib, I would like to meet her family.”

  “Sure. I’ll ask Saadia.”

  “If you’re going to be seeing her often, we would like her parent’s permission—implied permission.” I said.

  Then, turning to Khalid, I said, “I want her parents to know that we were all in this together and were taking responsibility for our son seeing their daughter.”

  “Saadia is OK with the parents meeting,” Saqib informed me a few hours later.

  I called Saadia’s mother. But before I did that, Khalid and I did our due diligence—Google hadn’t hit the web, so Khalid and I looked up the APPNA Member Directory and found her parents’ names, noting that the mother was a graduate of Dow Medical College in Karachi and her father had graduated from Nishtar Medical College in Multan, the same as Khalid. The two dads were from the same town. How about that! He was a nephrologist, and she was a pediatrician. From the dates of graduation, it was apparent that they were just a little older than us. Then I picked up the phone. A woman answered. This is how I recall the conversation: