Funny Valentine
Faith and religious practice were an integral part of my life. I had been brought up as a Muslim from birth and nurtured within a Muslim household. I prayed, fasted, and gave charity. I read the Qur’an, wore the headscarf, and did my best to look after my family and community. In short, you might describe me as a practicing Muslim and one that was happy to be so. My life was centered around my beliefs and on the efforts to be a good human being as seen through Islam.
The choices that were made for me as a child were based on an Islamic ethos as understood by my parents. Their Islamic principles guided them toward trying to live a good life and helping themselves, their children, and their community to succeed in the here and now, materially as well as spiritually. Belief in a Creator, and a life after death, underpinned these ideas.
Even as a young child, I learned to exercise choice based on these principles. Some were specific to being Muslim. Instinctively I knew I shouldn’t eat pork or bacon, as this was forbidden by Islam, and I understood by the time I was four that I shouldn’t eat sausages at school. They were made of pork. I also refused the shepherd’s pie on the grounds the meat was not halal. The rice pudding I rejected on the grounds that it was disgusting.
Other principles were common between Islam and other codes of personal morality, such as caring about others, giving charity, and respecting elders. The more I read, the more I listened and the more I learned, the more Islam seemed to offer a holistic view of the world that made sense to me. It was concerned about my life and about showing me how to be happy. So despite the fact that I was born a Muslim, I made an active decision to be a Muslim because it was a faith in which I truly believed. It offered me peace and direction in a world that felt overwhelming and confused. It inspired me to excel, explore, and discover. It pushed me to investigate myself and everything around me. It encouraged me toward success, which could be measured in affluence as well as contentment.
Islam has rules. Once they are part of your life, you don’t notice them anymore. But is our understanding of the world around us and its rules governed by the time we live in? The inhabitants of the Middle Ages were convinced the earth was flat. Einstein changed our view of Newtonian physics. Didn’t that mean that our current understanding of the world was likely to change too?
I didn’t start from the premise that the rules were archaic. The basic principles of being good, standing up for equality and justice, and being kind and compassionate were sound. Instead I started to question which areas had become fuzzy with culture, power, and misinterpretation. Human beings like to twist things to meet their own selfish ends. They would mutate beliefs for their own benefit and then claim this was the Truth. It was the challenge of the fresh eyes of each generation to reexamine and revisit the truth of the principles that were accepted as universal.
I found it exhilarating that every part of my life was important and significant enough to warrant spiritual guidance. The delicacy and complexity of the layers of meaning and hidden depths hinted that a microcosm lay inside me, waiting to be discovered. I learned about the map of my esoteric world through Islam. Through parables, sayings, and teachings, the landscape of a human being and her soul was described. I needed a partner to accompany me on this journey, and if I was to have a traveling companion, he would need to share the same map as me. How else could we journey on the same path?
My first Valentine’s card was from a man who was not a Muslim.
I found it pinned to the door of my university dorm room early on the morning of Valentine’s Day. I ripped open the envelope and devoured the contents. Inside was a handwritten poem, penned with traditional calligraphy. I read it slowly and then smiled. The poem had humor, rhythm, and perfect rhyme.
Even though there was no name, I knew straight away who had sent it. I was very flattered. He was an intelligent, charming, and generally well-liked young man. How delightful that someone could like me enough to send a Valentine’s card with a poem he wrote himself!
Powerful emotions can be evoked with the turn of a phrase, an expressive manner, the run of elegant words that conjure up an image, or a feeling. Poetry was the ultimate path to seduction, and I was vulnerable to its magic spell like generations of women before me. I often thought that this was why the Qur’an was composed of poetry and poetic prose. Poetry is designed to inspire love, and Islam is about falling in love with the Creator of the Universe. The Arabic is simple and rhythmic and has layers of meaning that reveal themselves to you each time you return. The seventh century Arabs were so taken aback by the elegance and mystery of the words, they called the Prophet Muhammad a magician. They recognized the power of ideas and eloquence to seduce the soul and create a revolution.
I saw the sender of my Valentine’s Day card later that day. He was sitting with a large group of mutual acquaintances out in the garden, including my circle of close female friends. It was a beautiful early spring evening and the night sky was clear and full of twinkling stars. I walked along the gravel path, admiring the snowdrops and crocuses beginning to poke their heads bravely into the world. I had spent the afternoon smiling quietly to myself, wistfully imagining what might happen. The romantic teenager in me had sprung into life and asked the same questions I had asked at the age of thirteen about John Travolta. Was he interested? Would he become a Muslim? As always, the prerequisite was that he should be a Muslim. But the sender was nice, I thought, and I should explore these enormous questions of faith, belief, and soul and see where we found ourselves. Even with the careful boundaries of modesty in place in our interactions, we could still talk. We could still see where life would take us.
I walked toward the group. I felt that courtesy demanded that I should acknowledge his actions. It must have taken much courage on his part to express his feelings. And of course the little voice of romantic destiny kept whispering, what if … what if … what if… he becomes Muslim?
“Hello,” I said to him.
“Hello,” he answered.
I smiled.
“Finished your essay?” he asked seriously.
“Thank you,” I answered incongruously.
“Thank you? For what?” His lips curled up cheekily at the edges.
“The card.”
He grinned. “Will you have a cup of tea with me then?”
He knew I was different, and I think he liked that. He knew that I didn’t drink alcohol, that he couldn’t take me to the pub for a drink. He also respected my modesty and at the same time saw past my hijab to the person I was. Through later years I came across many Muslim men who were put off by the headscarf. It was something they just couldn’t get past. They couldn’t see me or want me for who I was. All they saw was a walking book of religious rulings, a miserable turgid caricature. But here was a young man, not Muslim, who was drawn to me.
“I’m sitting out here right now, aren’t I?”
We both smiled nervously, and silently enjoyed the night, surrounded by our friends, as the chattering around us carried on.
I looked up at the sky, breathless from the sheer beauty of the stars. It was magnificent and indescribable. I wondered what lay beyond. But these were just physical things. What then was the Creator? Unimaginable, incomprehensible in majesty, the ultimate aesthete for creating these extraordinarily beautiful universes. I forgot that I was in company, and was lost.
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.”<
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“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
Chez 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 lec
ture 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.”
Shelina Janmohamed Page 8