Threading My Prayer Rug

by Sabeeha Rehman

  “Now don’t go around showing wedding pictures to everybody,” Mummy cautioned me.

  “Why not?” I was already looking forward to doing just that.

  “You have to protect them from nazar.” She meant the evil eye.

  Now, I am not superstitious, but something about the tone of her voice resonated with me, and I listened. No harm being careful. I removed the photos from my pocketbook.

  Saudi Arabia

  Soon after Saqib’s marriage, the ground starting shifting beneath my feet. It was Khalid. He was getting restless and wanted to get out of private practice and explore something new. He was in his mid-fifties and, yes, going through a midlife crisis. Opportunities came up in Connecticut, in Cleveland, and I accompanied him on job interviews. Then came a big one: Saudi Arabia.

  No!

  It’s enough that I have to consider relocating from the house I thought I would spend the rest of my life in; now we are talking about moving overseas? To Saudi Arabia, of all places? I can’t leave my children. I don’t want to give up my place in the driver’s seat. And I definitely don’t want to go through another identity crisis. And Asim is still not married. I can’t just leave him and go off. No!

  More than me, it was Mummy who opposed it. “This is our second home. This is where we come every year. This is everyone’s second home—a place for the family to get together. You are the elders—you cannot just leave!”

  “It’s their life,” Daddy said.

  Let Khalid look into it. I am sure he will turn it down.

  “I will take you to Paris every weekend.” Khalid was not backing down.

  Paris!

  “They want me to come for a month to do a locum, for both sides to try it out.”

  Let him go. When he is there, he will see for himself and turn it down.

  Khalid called from Saudi Arabia. “They want you to come here for a week. They will pay for your airfare.”

  I shouldn’t fight him. I will go and together we will decide that this place is not good for us.

  One look at Khalid’s face—standing at the receiving line at Riyadh airport, and I knew. By the end of the week, I was sold. This was an American-style hospital, with an American staff, with American accreditation, with American standards and policies, and with a Saudi staff that loved Americans. Blink and you could be in a hospital in America, only this was newer, shinier, state-of-the art, and a city in itself with parks, waterfalls, shopping center, bank, swimming pool, and restaurants—like an oasis. I was wooed, dined, toured, and offered a job as an administrator. The chairman’s wife, an American, took me out to lunch, dazzled me, and with every question I asked—“But what about driving? But what about missing my family? But what about having to wear the abaya?2—she presented herself as the answer: “This is what I do….”

  I suppose if it’s just for two years, it won’t be so bad. Like an adventure of sorts.

  I may even like the change. Khalid wants this. He has always supported me in my endeavors, always stood by me, always promoted me. I cannot stand in his way and make him unhappy. What kind of a life would that be?

  I had one big misgiving, though.

  “Khalid, Asim is not married. I would like to have settled him before taking off.”

  “Asim is an adult. He is going to find his own way. You can’t run his life for him,” he answered.

  We left, went for two years, and stayed for six.

  He Did It His Way

  “I am telling you now. I am going to do my wedding my way,” Asim kept announcing throughout Saqib’s wedding ceremonies.

  He wasn’t kidding.

  If you have seen Fiddler on the Roof, you will know where I am going with this. I was able to cajole my firstborn, from start to the wedding, but my baby wanted to do it his way. No sooner was Saqib married off than I shifted my attention to Asim, my handsome, charming, sensitive, compassionate, affectionate, warm, and loveable son and now law student at the University of Michigan. I was dragging him to APPNA events. I was calling close friends: “Can you suggest a nice girl for Asim?” Then I’d get them to meet by sending him to young adult forums, which were becoming more and more focused on meeting a match. Nothing materialized. Asim knew what he wanted and hadn’t found her yet.

  And then he found her. Brinda and he practically came up together—they had known each other in college, she at Bryn Mawr and he at Haverford, neighbor colleges. “She is perfect,” he emailed us when we were in Saudi. Of Bengali origin, her parents, doctoral scientists at the National Institutes of Health, had migrated from India. An only child, she was of the Hindu faith, the seventh generation of Brahmins. Brahmins, as you may know, are of the highest Hindu caste, principally priests or teachers.

  Now I will pause. I was relieved that Asim had found the girl of his dreams. But the out-of-faith circumstance gave me pause. I wondered how we would manage the issue of religion and worried. Would she be able to adjust to the lifestyle of a devout Muslim family? How would her parents feel about their daughter marrying a Muslim? What about the children? I was sure that Asim had thought this through and knew that they had talked about the issues, but I worried. I sought the counsel of my parents, my family, and friends who were in an interfaith marriage.

  I remember the first time we met Brinda. Khalid and Asim picked her up from the Staten Island Ferry and drove her to our home. Petite, her dark hair framing her face, Brinda sat on the sofa beside Asim, and I took a place on the floor cushion, facing them. Leaning against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the valley, with the sun warming my back, this was my most comfortable seat. Brinda chatted easily in a soft, gentle voice, unhurried, and, unlike many of her generation, at a refreshing pace that was not a mile-a-second. Her face radiated a serene glow—a Pakistani would call it noor, or light. She did not try to impress and displayed no affectation. Any auntie would take one look at her and tell that she was cultured and well bred.

  Asim and Brinda approached the issue of religion as two mature adults. Brinda decided to explore Islam and study it and, in the process, started making Muslim friends to see if this was a community she could relate to. Asim held her hand through this journey, and we all did what we could to be there for her. In those months, which turned into years, I grew to respect Brinda. She was not rushing herself; she wanted to know what she was getting into; she wanted to understand, and make up her own mind, in her own time, on her own terms.

  She is going to need a lot of support. God please guide me to guide her.

  At first I gave her books to read, but then Mummy cautioned me. “Don’t overwhelm her with books. You need to spend time with Brinda and help her get to experience what life in a Muslim household is like. Have her come and stay with you, let her see how you interact with Saadia. Be loving toward her. Your conduct is the best example of your faith.” I was grateful that my parents were still around to impart their wisdom. I needed that guiding hand.

  Brinda would chat comfortably about her quest, what she had learned, and her questions about the status of women in Islam. She was open and honest about her issues, and I was grateful that she was seeking answers from me. Then she told me that she had been going to Masjid Al-Farah and listening to Imam Feisal’s sermons.

  Now if there were one imam I would have picked for Brinda’s mentoring, it would have been Imam Feisal. How fortunate was that?!

  I had first heard Imam Feisal speak at a wedding several years earlier. He was officiating the wedding of our dear friend’s son. A gentleman of Egyptian origin and with a gentle demeanor, he was soft-spoken and charming. Saadia, my daughter-in-law, was awestruck. “He must be a Sufi,” she said to me. “I want him to perform my sister’s wedding.” Next month, when he officiated at her sister’s wedding, he took the audience by surprise when he asked the bride to propose to the groom. He was invoking the example of Khadija, Prophet Muhammad’s wife, who was his boss and had proposed to him. How empowering is that?! His inclusive and all-embracing approach, and his power
to connect with the listeners, gave him celebrity status, and after 9/11 he was in high demand on the interfaith circuit. He was the imam of a small mosque in downtown Manhattan, and the devout young, thirsty for spiritual fulfillment, filled the space. And among them was Brinda.

  Thank you, God, for guiding her there.

  I was growing fond of Brinda.

  I don’t want to fall in love with her, not just yet.

  Daddy, who visited often, spent much time with Brinda and developed an immense affection for her and often noted her “special qualities” to me. He and Brinda became close during those years. She was loving toward him, and he got to see what she brought out in Asim.

  Brinda asked if we could meet her parents. Khalid, Asim, and I drove down to Maryland to meet them. On the drive, Asim lectured us on how to conduct ourselves.

  Has he forgotten that we raised him?

  Her parents welcomed us into their home with a warm greeting, a hearty handshake, and a big smile. In the airy, bright room, with walls decked with paintings in vivid colors, I settled into a comfortable posture and felt myself relax. We talked about anything from travel, art, music, books, food, to Erica Cain in All My Children. Asim and Brinda exchanged smiles as the parents got into soap operas, our voices getting high-pitched over Erica’s meanderings. Our mutual interests kept us engaged and happy in one another’s company. We had more in common than most couples I have met—even the military background of our families. We definitely “clicked.” There was laughter, and Asim and Brinda could have been posing for an ad for Crest toothpaste. They took us out for lunch, and Asim chuckled when we all ended up ordering the same item off the menu—crab cakes. When we came home for dessert, I almost squealed with delight when Brinda’s mother brought out a bowl of homemade rasgullahs. I hadn’t had these cheese balls dipped in crystal-white syrup in years. I gleefully accepted her offer to pack a doggie bag for me. From the sheepish smile on Asim’s face, I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or embarrassed. I was moved by their demeanor, grace, and hospitality and impressed with their intellect and refined simplicity. They made us feel welcome and at home. On the drive back, I kept thinking about them. Over the years, we have continued to meet, and bond, sharing music and stories. The love for our children brought us together, and now our respect for one another keeps us together.

  Three years later, as Asim and Brinda strolled through the courtyard of the Frick Museum in Manhattan, Brinda noticed a bouquet of flowers on the bench. Lying next to the flowers was an envelope, and written on the envelope was “Brinda.” In that instant she knew, as Asim went on his knees and asked her to marry him. It had taken him weeks to get permission from the museum management to allow his package to be placed, getting security clearance and whatever. Khalid and I were still in Saudi Arabia, and Asim called to give us the news. I cried.

  May Allah bless her with all the joys that marriage can bring. I will love her and cherish her, and hold her dear, dear, dear to my heart.

  I called my parents. “This girl will be good for you,” Daddy said. How did he know? What was that special quality his wise eyes had detected?

  The next day, I told my boss, Dr. Adnan Ezzat, a Saudi doctor. Wearing our white lab coats, we had just sat down at the round table in his office for our standing 8:00 a.m. meeting. He was the executive director, and I was his executive consultant. He stood, his face lighting up. “Ya Sabeeha,” he said, “you have earned a place in Jannah.3 Allah has showered you with his blessings. This girl is Allah’s gift to you, I can tell…. My advice to you is: don’t watch over her; don’t tell her what to do; don’t judge her; don’t push her to say her prayers, or fast, or read the Qur’an. Just leave her alone. Let her be. She will find her own way in her own time, at her own pace. The hardest part is over. Make the rest easier for her.”

  Allah’s gift to me!

  Tears flowed, and I let them. He took his seat, and we pulled out our files and went back to business, as I fumbled for a tissue in my pocket.

  I took his advice. What a relief! I would have driven myself mangoes and bananas if I had allowed myself to be driven by my drive. I would have done exactly what he told me not to do, stressing my daughter-in-law, my son, my husband, and me. Thank you, Dr. Ezzat. When I had prayed to God for guidance, He did guide me. There were no letters from heaven, no dreams, no epiphany, no visions, no voices. He spoke to me through His vessels: my parents, my husband, my friends, and my boss—people whom I would listen to. Thank you, God.

  A wedding date was set for May 2007. We decided to return home for good. Our grandchild Omar had been diagnosed with autism, and he wasn’t making much improvement. We were needed back home. I also wanted to be around for Brinda.

  I flew to Pakistan to order outfits for the wedding. For Brinda, I picked a turquoise lehnga studded with silver embroidery for the walima, and, of course, a yellow shalwar kameez for the mehndi. For Asim, I picked the traditional sherwani and turban. When the dresses arrived and I showed Brinda the lehnga, she went oooh, got up, and gave me a delightful tight hug. “I love it!” Some moments of joy one never forgets. I still feel that tight hug.

  Brinda made a beautiful and oh-so-happy bride. The nikah was performed in a mosque; her parents held a wedding ceremony in Washington, DC, and we hosted the mehndi and walima reception in New Jersey. Brinda wore her grandmother’s red wedding sari at a nondenominational ceremony. As they held hands and looked up at each other, Daddy remarked, “Look at them—love, admiration, and respect.” That afternoon, we clustered in her parent’s hotel room, and along with her aunts, uncles, and cousins, sang Urdu songs, Daddy surprising them all when he sang a Bengali national song. At the walima, with her dupatta draped over her hair, she danced the evening away. I took her mother by the hand, led her to the dance floor, and holding hands, we swung our arms to the beat—she in a sari, I in a red shalwar kameez. Earlier, after the guests were seated and the family had lined up to make our welcome remarks, I remembered Dr. Ezzat’s words: “Allah’s gift.” Mic in hand, I turned toward Brinda’s parents. “Today is the happiest day in my life…. Thank you for your gift.” Brinda’s parents stood up, bent their heads over clasped palms, and nodded in acknowledgment. The room went up in cheers, as I fought back tears. Family from all over the US and Pakistan flew in. It would be Mummy and Daddy’s last visit to the United States.

  Daddy was right about Brinda. She has been good for me. My respect for her grew into love. I beamed when, three years into their marriage, my sister-in-law said to me, “I pray that everyone in our family gets a daughter-in-law like Brinda.”

  Brinda knows that. I told her.

  I pondered over what my sister-in-law had said. In the initial years of their courtship, I had let the boundaries of tradition cause me much worry. Had I at the time opened my heart to look beyond, below, and above the surface coating of creed, I would have seen what Daddy saw, what Mummy knew, what Dr. Ezzat sensed, and what Asim fell for. They saw what matters. What I first saw as a hurdle was a figment of my perception. Brinda revealed herself to be a blessing, and now even my extended family, my in-laws, were taking note. More musing: when Allah says in the Qur’an that He is All-Knowing, and He knows best what is best for you, believe it. Have faith.

  Singles, Matchmaking, Speed Dating

  Muslim girls of immigrant families are finding it harder and harder to find a Muslim husband. In the US, that is. They are remaining single longer and longer, and their parents are getting desperate. I hear this tale of woe in almost every family I know. When they are in their twenties, they won’t hear of marriage—they are busy getting their careers going and are confident that when the time is right, they will have no trouble finding a match. They brush aside their mother’s entreaties to get serious, with a wave of the hand and a “Mom, I’m not ready.” By the time they enter their thirties and get serious, reality hits. There aren’t many choices. The few who will agree to an arranged marriage learn that most young men won’t hear of an arranged match. At this s
tage they start going to Muslim singles events. Some want to be wooed but are not allowed to date; some want to fall in love, only to learn that the young man wants to have an affair, and she won’t cross the line. Mothers are wringing their hands, cajoling and pushing, calling their friends with a plea: “Please keep an eye out for a young man for my daughter,” and spending sleepless nights. As the women start getting close to forty, single men who want children walk past them, reducing their choices to divorced men, possibly with children—not a fresh start a young girl had dreamed for.

  Community leaders and female activists are coming up with creative ways to address the issue, ranging from organizing singles events, including speed dating, to professional matchmaking. In my spirit of volunteerism, I too had my brush with one of those.

  At one point I got involved in organizing a singles event. Our team went through the contact list and culled out the singles, created a profile, and selected a group based on our criteria of age, profession, interests, etc. The idea was to ensure that we had a compatible group. Invitations were sent out. When the RSVPs came in, we had thirty-five women and fewer than fifteen men or some embarrassing number like that. We salvaged the event the best we could and then did a focus group of sorts. Why were the guys not interested? The guys said: Our parents kept us segregated. We were made to feel that Muslim girls were out of reach, and so we never got to know them. We were also told to call them “sister”—Sister Fatima, Sister Noreen. They called us Brother Imran, Brother Tariq. Don’t you see what that does to our psyche? We start looking at one another as brother and sister. We cannot just make a U-turn, show up at a singles event, and socialize with them as potential partners when we have been conditioned to stay away. Islam allows us to marry women of the Book, i.e. Christians and Jews. So if Muslim women stay segregated and there are women of other faiths who are willing to engage in a relationship, why bother when we have other choices?