Threading My Prayer Rug

by Sabeeha Rehman

  “Assalam Alaikum.”

  “Wa Alaikum Assalam.”

  “Is this Mrs. Raza?” I asked in Urdu.

  “Jee.”

  “This is Sabeeha Rehman, Saqib’s mother.”

  “Jee. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you. Our children have met, and my husband and I would like very much to meet you. May I invite you to our house for dinner?”

  “We would like you to come over,” she countered, which was the response I expected. It is the boy’s parents who walk the extra mile and go to the girl’s family’s house in the pre-engagement phase—a Pakistani custom to honor the girl.

  “Of course.”

  “I will discuss it with my husband and call you back.” Another appropriate response. I was getting to like this lady.

  Sure enough, she called back the same day, and we set a date and time.

  I picked up a cake from Alfonso Bakery on Victory Boulevard, and the four of us drove down to Trenton, New Jersey. Saqib had noted the directions—this was pre-GPS days—and was navigating. We drove by the river and turned the car into a residential community, going uphill into a quiet tree-lined street, with houses set far back and long driveways. Khalid, in a blue blazer and khaki pants, looking handsome, rang the doorbell. A gentleman opened the door—wearing a blazer and dress pants.

  “Assalam Alaikum, please come in,” a pleasant welcome by who I gathered was Saadia’s father.

  We entered the foyer and were immediately surrounded by three pretty girls in shalwar kameez, a good-looking teenage boy, and a tall, elegant woman with light brown hair shaped in light waves ending just above her shoulders and wearing a rust-colored outfit. The elegant woman, the mother, greeted me with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks, and the girls chirped. I looked around.

  Which one of these girls is mine?

  Elegant woman brought us into the living room and the pretty girls clustered around me. I looked from one to the other to the third. How do I ask, “Which one of you is Saadia?” without seeming too inquisitive. The pretty girls started chatting with me, while elegant woman went into the kitchen.

  “Are you Saadia?” I asked pretty girl who was talking to me.

  “No. This is Saadia.” She pointed to pretty girl next to her. She is the prettiest. I shouldn’t stare. I don’t want her to feel that I am sizing her up.

  We fell into an easy conversation, and the room filled with chatter. Saadia, tall, light-skinned, oval eyes, light brown hair falling just below her shoulders, had two deep dimples in both cheeks and a smile that would make you smile. I’ll take her. Elegant lady had laid out an elegant dinner, with fine linen and silver-plated serving dishes. I had carefully picked a 3:00 p.m. time to avoid imposing lunch or dinner on them, but she served dinner anyhow, home-cooked—biryani, kebabs…. She had laid out a feast. Elegant lady, whom I will now call by her name, Mahmooda, sat down next to me on a dining chair against the wall, and we chatted while the young ones sat around the kitchen table, their laughter making me feel charmed. I listened to her intently. I wanted to get to know the mother who raised the girl. I didn’t have to check out Saadia; that was up to Saqib. As we chatted, I expected Mahmooda to ask me stuff, as in the usual get-to-know questions: “Where in Pakistan are you from? How long have you lived in Staten Island?” My job, Khalid’s work, our boys—the normal questions that Pakistani women ask, delicately probing whether the family is a good fit for their daughter. She asked me nothing—as in nothing. I have to tell you that this was highly unusual for a Pakistani lady, and that was enough to impress me. Of course, I didn’t make any inquiries of her either—it’s just not my style. Mahmooda was beginning to look more and more like my kind of mother. “My children stay at the dorm during the week, and on Fridays they all come home.” Wow! She has managed to keep a tight control over the girls. And look at them, all relishing one another’s company, laughter in the kitchen, so cohesive. I looked at my watch. Is it evening prayer time?

  “Do you have to say your prayers?” Mahmooda asked.

  “Please.” How did she guess?

  “Let’s go.”

  In minutes, the entire party of ten was in the basement, prayer rugs were laid out, and we all stood up for prayer.

  When we left, I spoke to Saqib in the car.

  “I like the mother. A woman like her must have raised her child right. And I like the family. You have to decide about the girl.”

  Next week Mahmooda called and invited us for their daughter’s engagement party. Not Saadia, but the younger daughter. After I left the party, as we were getting in the car, I said to Saqib, “You can tell about people from the company they keep. I liked their friends. I am OK with this match, if you are OK with it.” Quiet Saqib said nothing, but inside the moonlit car, I could feel him smile.

  Khalid and I decided that we would not say anything to our family and friends about Saqib’s interest in this girl—not yet. She is someone’s daughter, and we have to safeguard her reputation as we would if she were our own. Notwithstanding that they are not dating and they are always chaperoned, a mere whiff of her name being associated with Saqib when they are not yet engaged might lead to gossip, and that would not be fair to her or to her family. “The first time anyone hears Saadia’s name will be when she is introduced as Saqib’s fiancée.” I was firm on that. I was reminded of the mother who objected to teen activities. See how protective I am of my maybe-daughter-in-law-to-be, while that was her daughter she was protecting.

  Spring break, Saqib was back and drove down to New Jersey with Asim, to meet up with Saadia and her siblings. While he was out, I had a talk with Khalid. Clearly, he likes the girl. It has to be mutual, and with all three of her siblings chaperoning her, clearly the family is OK with it as well. So what are we waiting for? Let’s have a talk with Saqib, and if he is serious, we should get them engaged.

  That night, sitting around dinner in the kitchen, Khalid and I had a talk with Saqib. This is how I recall the conversation:

  “If you like Saadia, then it’s time you get engaged. It’s not fair to her to drag things out. Do you want to marry her?” I asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then speak to her. If she is agreeable, we will ask her parents for her hand in marriage.”

  Asim was listening but did not inject his opinion. He was deferring to Saqib.

  Next morning at breakfast, Saqib made the announcement. He had called Saadia the night before and asked her to marry him.

  Awww! My spoon stopped halfway, hanging in the air. Don’t ask. Let him have his private moment to himself. He was smiling.

  “She is going to tell her parents.” Saqib was smiling.

  “She said ‘yes’?” I asked.

  “She did.”

  Awww! Don’t cry. Just say a prayer.

  I put down my spoon, pushed back the chair, walked around the table, and put my arms around him.

  “Khalid, you, as the elder of the family, should make the call to Saadia’s father and ask if we can come see them tomorrow. Saqib, let’s go buy the engagement ring. Today we get the ring, tomorrow we propose to her parents, and if they say yes …”

  “What do you mean ‘if’?” said Saqib.

  “I mean parents like to think things over.”

  “What is there to think about?”

  “OK. When they say yes, we will ask them if we can come the next day with our families for a formal engagement—the ring and all the trimmings.”

  “I want to give her the ring now.”

  “Look. I understand that this is the American way, but in Pakistani culture, engagement is a family affair. Your uncles, aunts, and cousins have to be present when you give her the ring. They love you; your big day is their big day. Remember, this is the first engagement in this generation in our family. No one is going to want to miss it. You want their prayers and blessings. Besides, not including them will be disrespectful.”

  A
lways the one to do the right thing, Saqib acquiesced. Khalid picked up the wall phone, and the three of us sitting at the kitchen table watched and listened as he made the call to Dr. Raza.

  “If you are available tomorrow evening, we would like to come and propose for Saadia’s hand in marriage for Saqib.”

  We sat and watched Khalid nod into the phone.

  “Seven p.m.?” He looked at me. I nodded. “Yes, we will be there. And please, it’s a workday, so don’t worry about dinner. Please.”

  “Now, before we go ring shopping, we have to inform our parents and the family,” I told Saqib.

  It was 9:00 p.m. in Pakistan when I called Mummy and Daddy.

  “I have good news for you. Saqib has found a girl.”

  Mummy squealed. “Tell us,” Daddy said, ecstatic.

  Khalid called his father. Auntie Hameeda had passed away two years earlier. She would have liked Saadia.

  With their blessings, we called our brothers in New York. More squealing, more “Tell me more.” Phones were put on speaker, cousins were shrieking, and voices crying out, “Mubarak!” were coming off the airwaves. Saqib was beaming.

  “We are going this evening to propose. Put a hold on your calendars for an engagement on Saturday. I will confirm.”

  “Let’s go ring shopping.”

  When the four of us finally picked out the ring and the jeweler priced it, Saqib was taken aback. “That much!” Being a medical student with no income, he had never gone diamond shopping. Neither had his mother, for that matter. And this was a small diamond—nothing fancy—a medical student–size diamond. I could tell that he was feeling bad that his parents were spending all that money. “Saqib, we have put aside money for your wedding. Don’t worry about it.” On the way home, he kept opening the box and looking at the ring.

  We rehearsed our script on our way to Saadia’s.

  “Daddy, as the elder, will propose to Saadia’s parents.” I looked back at the children in the back seat—I shouldn’t say “children,” but they are my children. “After Daddy, Mummy will propose, sort of like seconding the motion.”

  “And then I will propose,” said Saqib.

  “No. You are not supposed to propose to the parents. This is a parent-to-parent thing.”

  “But I want to propose.”

  “You have already proposed to her.”

  “I still want to propose to her parents. I know what I want to say to them.”

  “That’s fine, you can do that,” said Khalid.

  “And then I will propose,” said Asim.

  “You?!” I asked. This is not the script I had envisioned.

  “Yes. Me.”

  Just go along with it.

  All six of them greeted us at the entrance. It was Friday, and the children were home for the weekend.

  “I want everyone to come in the living room,” Khalid announced.

  We all took our seats on the sofas. Khalid began.

  “We are here to ask for Saadia’s hand in marriage for Saqib,” he said, addressing Mahmooda and Dr. Raza.

  My turn: “We love your daughter.” Don’t get weepy.

  Mahmooda smiled.

  Saqib’s turn: “I would like to say something,” he said, addressing her parents.

  “You are an American boy, so sure.” Mahmooda helped him along.

  “Saadia is a wonderful person”—his voice trembled—“and I would be honored if you accepted me as your son-in-law.”

  He did OK. Nervous, but OK.

  “And now I would like to say something,” said Asim, smiling and looking around.

  Laughter.

  Asim turned to Saadia, “Saadia, will you be my sister-in-law?”

  Laughter. Actually, he said bhabi, sister-in-law in Urdu.

  “Yes.” Saadia nodded, smiling.

  She is not supposed to do that. She just preempted her parents. I guess I keep forgetting that our children are American.

  We all turned toward Saadia’s parents. Mahmooda spoke, looking at Khalid and me.

  “We hope Saadia will be the daughter you always wanted,” she said with a smile.

  That means YES.

  I jumped out of my seat, walked over to her, and gave her a hug. “Mubarak.”

  Then over to Saadia, another hug. Mubarak.

  The dads embraced, hugs all around, and mubarak in the air.

  “I have a request of you,” I asked Mahmooda and Dr. Raza. “We would like to come tomorrow with our families for an engagement ceremony.”

  “But it is too soon. I have a commitment tomorrow, and there is not enough time to prepare.” Mahmooda was not ready for this.

  “It’s just family. Please don’t prepare anything. We will come just for an hour, at any time outside of your commitment.”

  “How many people?” A reasonable question.

  “Just my brother, Salman; Khalid’s brother Arshed, his wife, and two children; Khalid’s brother Najeeb, his wife, and two children; and us. That’s all.” Right, that’s all.

  Poor Mahmooda. She is the perfect hostess, goes all out to welcome her guests, and now I was pushing for a next-day engagement.

  “OK.” She was so agreeable.

  I quickly got on the phone, called all three brothers. “Mubarak, Saadia’s parents said yes, and the engagement is tomorrow. I will confirm the time.”

  Mahmooda canceled her other plans, and when we all walked into the house the next day, we were greeted with rose petals, the sounds of Urdu music, golden balloons, and the chirping of Saadia’s friends, who had all gathered on short notice to watch Saqib slip on the ring. Khalid’s sister-in-law Aneela had prepared all the trimmings: a Qur’an wrapped in green silk and gold ribbon and a hand-decorated basket laden with ladoo. We all took our seats, and then Saadia was brought in, dressed in a deep blue tie-dyed shalwar kameez, looking lovely. That morning I had taken out my wedding outfit and had brought the dupatta with me. I draped the red dupatta over her head and placed the Qur’an in her lap. Khalid said a prayer, and as Asim stood behind Saqib and everyone looked on, Saqib slipped the ring on her finger. Mubarak. I took the basket of ladoo, took a pinch of it, and fed it to Saadia, then Saqib; Khalid repeated the ceremony, and then everyone in our party took turns.

  Throughout the evening, I noticed Saadia lift her hand and look at her ring. Saqib was smiling. Everyone was smiling.

  I printed engagement announcement cards, had ladoo gift wrapped, and delivered them to all our friends on Staten Island.

  Still being chaperoned, they decided to get married the following year. We supported the idea and had a traditional Pakistani wedding. Mummy brought all the wedding outfits from Pakistan, and our families joined us from all over the US and from Pakistan. I decided to give Saadia two sets from my wedding jewelry, and two I put away for Asim’s wife.

  In many ways, the wedding was part Pakistani, part American, part Egyptian, part improvisation, and part Islamic. Saqib’s aunties hosted pre-wedding dholak parties—musical evenings—and Saadia’s parents hosted the mehndi party—that’s Pakistani. Saqib’s cousins from New York and Pakistan gathered at our home and practiced every day until they had the group dances choreographed to perfection. At the mehndi, when the cousins entered, clicking shimmering sticks to the beat and dancing in unison, their flowing shalwar kameez glittering, people’s faces lit up. The boys all wore white shalwar kameez with colorful scarfs, and Asim, as he danced away, was the happiest, after Saqib, of course. Musical evenings have evolved from being strictly “girls only” and just singing to unisex and dancing—that is the new Pakistani. On the wedding day, the groom’s party gathered in our house, and we held the sehra bandi, a ceremony in which an elder of the family ties a sehra, a headdress with strings of roses, on the groom’s turban, draping it over his face—a veil of flowers—that’s Pakistani. Daddy did the honors, assisted by my brother Salman and Khalid’s brother Arshed. Assembled guests walked up one by one and placed a cash gift in Saqib’s lap—that’s Pakistani. Saqib wor
e a white sherwani, a long coat-like garment, with a turban—that’s Pakistani. As the party departed for the wedding, his sisters, in this case, his female cousins, blocked his way to the car, asking for a ransom of sorts—that’s Pakistani. All his sehra bandi earnings—gone. At the Marriot in Princeton, as our cars pulled up, the bride’s family greeted us with garlands—that’s Pakistani. The DJ announced our party, with Mummy and Daddy leading the party and Khalid and I escorting the veiled Saqib to the stage—that’s American. Once seated, Khalid removed the sehra, allowing him to see without having to squint through the strings of roses. Saadia wore a red shimmering gharara with a glittering dupatta draping over her head—that’s Pakistani. She carried a bouquet of flowers—that’s American. As Saqib stood up to receive her, he looked like a Mughal prince. She took her seat next to Saqib, on the sofa—that’s American. The imam, an Egyptian, who performed the nikah, asked them to sit on seats across from one another, explaining that an unmarried couple cannot be seated together—that’s Islamic. He asked both parents to come up to the stage and take a seat next to their children and asked the dads, in their capacity as guardians of the children, to sit together and hold hands—that’s Egyptian. The marriage ceremony was performed in the presence of all the guests, with the bride and groom in the same room—that’s wholly Islamic and American. When asked if she accepted Saqib as her husband, Saadia flashed the loveliest smile and said yes—that’s Islamic and American. Saadia did not sit with her head lowered or eyes downcast; she socialized, looked oh-so-happy—that’s Islamic and American. Saqib received salami—cash gifts from the bride’s family—that’s Pakistani. Saadia’s sisters and friends took away Saqib’s shoe—the joota chupai—and demanded ransom—that’s Pakistani. At rukhsati, when the parents bid farewell to the bride, we held the Qur’an over her head and escorted her to the waiting car—that’s Pakistani. She turned back and threw the bouquet into the outstretched hands of squealing girls—that’s American. She did not cry when leaving but sat in the car and, with a big smile, waved—that’s American. The following week, we hosted the walima—the post-wedding reception given by the groom’s family—that’s Islamic and Pakistani. The highlight of the evening was Asim’s “Ode to Saqib.” It was sheer entertainment, packed with humor and a young man’s love for his brother. Hugs, kisses, embraces, tears, laughter, prayers—that’s anyone and everywhere.