“But, you, but, just now, over there, but …” I looked at him in confusion and distress. He responded by grinning at me. He sat me down at a nearby café and ordered two coffees for us.
He smiled happily, like a little beam of sunlight, but I felt a dark menacing cloud inside me. I kept repeating my mantra not to prejudge, not to be guilty of fixed expectations. Maybe he was a bit nervous, that was all?
“I wanted to see if you had a sense of humor,” he began. “And so I thought I would play a little practical joke on you.” He smiled, happier still. “You have a very good sense of humor, you took it very well!” He kept grinning. “I really like that, most girls don’t show such humor.”
I was pleased that I had passed the GSOH test. I was more pleased I had held on to my own respect and dignity. Sadly, Mobeen had not. In the race to think about what he wanted in a partner, he had forgotten that he was in the process of making an impression on me. And he had forgotten his actions would tell me more about his character than any number of words could have done.
My grandmother had recounted to me the process of selecting a suitor when she was young. If a boy presented himself to a family, and if they deemed that he was of good character and background, could earn a living, and had no untoward characteristics, then the family had no choice but to accept his proposal. There was no exploration of “compatibility” or “attraction.” You couldn’t be too picky. If a family kept a daughter in the house too long it was considered shameful. What reason could they give for refusing the first offer that came along? What if that was going to be the best or only offer that she got?
I asked my grandmother many questions about growing up as an Asian woman in the first half of the twentieth century in Tanzania. I don’t believe that her experiences were necessarily unique to her being Muslim but reflected her time and provenance from the Asian community. I imagine her Hindu, Sikh, and Christian Asian counterparts, who were quite numerous in the town where she grew up, would have experienced much the same as she did.
She told me that one day, when she was fifteen, her father—who by all accounts was a very kind, generous, and compassionate man and also deeply pious—took her to the window of their house and pulled the curtains back slightly. He pointed at a small man walking away from the house and told her, “You are engaged to this man.” She was married soon after.
My grandmother recounted the story without surprise, as though this was an experience typical of her time. I believe this was the way things were done and that her father had nothing but love for her. My mother tells me that he was more loving to his daughters than his sons. When a son was born to his wife, he would give a monetary gift to the midwife and helpers. When a daughter was born, he would give them twice that. He had seven children in total. In a time when sons, as in many cultures even today, reigned supreme over daughters, this was an incredibly unusual, pioneering—and most of all Islamic—action. So I can only believe that the way he found partners for his daughters was with the same dignity, piety, and love. How else was a young woman to be married and to have her own home?
My grandmother, like her peers, would most likely have had little knowledge of the men of the world, having been rarely exposed to them, and so she relied on her father’s judgment and connections to find someone suitable. If she didn’t marry at around fifteen, what else was she to do? A young woman would be quite mature by this age and considered to be an adult.
If the young woman didn’t marry, she would be “holding up the line” for any younger siblings. A younger sister could not marry until the older one had, otherwise the elder sister’s chances would be blown forever. Every choice a young woman made, or every action she undertook, was a communal affair—driven by, but also impacting those around her. Just like all human beings, the young woman did not—and still doesn’t—live in a vacuum. The destiny of those around her is intertwined with her own.
A young woman had to get married: for her to remain at home with her parents until she grew old would not allow her to fully flourish in the society of that era. It was also clearly impractical. Women were not able at that time to be entirely financially and socially independent—as was the case in Western societies, too—and society was family based. Once her parents died, who would look after her? What autonomy would she have? From a social and cultural perspective, marriage was a way for a woman to get status and some control over her destiny. It was believed that she could flower into womanhood in her own home, where she would be running her own show and experience a new level of happiness. From an Islamic perspective, both men and women were thought to be at their most complete when they were married. Besides, rightly or wrongly, it was believed that what women wanted most was to have their own home under their own control and then to have children.
The marriages of that time reflected the socially accepted split of responsibilities between the husband and the wife. The husband would bring in the wages: the wife would look after the home and the children. The Islamic marriage contract that bound them together does not enforce these duties on a wife. The husband certainly is responsible for providing maintenance and shelter for his wife and family. She can participate in meeting their financial needs if she wants to, or if she needs to, but she doesn’t have to. Her official obligations as a wife do not include cleaning, cooking, or even looking after the children. Her responsibility is to be a good companion to her husband. But in all aspects of Islamic law, shari’ah, a person’s obligations are set at the very minimum limit. If you fulfill those obligations then you have followed the letter of the law but not its spirit. As a Muslim, you are encouraged to be compassionate and kind and go beyond the rules and give more than you expect to receive in return. In marriage, certainly in my grandmother’s time, that meant men should support their wives in the home and women should look after the husband and family in return. The rules do not make you do any of these things: it is your love for each other that inspires you.
My grandmother had ten children. I remember her as constantly smiling, her Qur’an in one hand, her tasbeeh of prayer beads in another. She had woken up every night for more than fifty years to pray her middle-of-the-night prayers, and she stayed awake until the morning, reciting verses from the Qur’an. On the occasions she stayed, when I came down for breakfast in the morning she was already wide awake, making tea, smiling, always smiling.
She had the most radiant energy of anyone I remember, and this has left a lasting impact on me. No matter what troubles she faced, she was always content. My mother said that she was like that ever since she could recall. I could only attribute it to two things: her calm demeanor and her constant consciousness of God. She was always with her Creator, always thinking of her Sustainer, always connected. Her love for husband, children, and community was intertwined effortlessly with her Love for the Divine. I found her very comforting and soothing. I wanted to know her secret. But she didn’t appear to have any mysterious methods. She was simply dedicated to the Creator, and made sure to treat everyone with kindness. She was the embodiment of “Islam.” She was an ordinary unsung person, who hadn’t changed the big world out there. But she had completely changed the world inside herself, she had won over all the people around her, and all of that made her a hero in her own life.
She told me her stories of being a married woman and prayed that I would find a good husband. “Be kind to them and they will be kind to you,” she advised. “Look after your community. Work hard. There will be ups and downs in marriage. The way that the relationship within a marriage will work when you are married, will be the same today as it was when I got married.
“You must look after your husband. I know people have different ideas today, but if you look after him, then he will look after you, remember that, even when it feels hard, even when you don’t get what you want. Once you get married, then comes the difficult part. Remember to say sorry, even if it is not your fault. Men are different from women. When we are upset we hold it inside, men get it out o
f their system and then forget. In fifty years’ time, who will remember if it was your mistake or his? You’re on the same side, so does it matter if you apologize and he made the mistake? What he will remember is that he had a wife who loved him, and who he still cares about after so many years.”
Then she would smile and laugh loudly. “Look at me, an old woman giving you advice.”
“Naanima,” I would answer, my heart bursting with love for this radiant light that was part of my life, “will you pray for me to get a good husband?” She put her hand on my head and said with the voice of a mother and the light of another world, “I pray for all my children to be happy. God will guide you and bless you. It is in His hands, just pray to Him.”
Her love would then melt into her huge smile, and I knew she was about to tease me about getting married.
“You’re a bit skinny,” she would laugh. “Is that what the men like these days?”
Lightning
I longed for “that feeling” I believed would come from romantic sunset walks or watching the moon rise. But I also knew that this wasn’t the reality of life. Even the most handsome poetic romantic princes would struggle under the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen when you both examined the moldy contents of the fridge. Which man or woman could be perfect for more than one snapshot in time? Every human being is perpetually evolving, and so while they may be a romantic hero today, tomorrow there may be a discovery that reveals something new about them.
My dreaminess was not an affliction unique to Muslim women: it was shared by many other women and men. I reflected that if we were just to get on with it all and get married, so much of the energy, focus, and heartache we expended on looking for love would be freed up for other activities. I wondered how much time, effort, and money were spent across the country in pursuit of love, lust, and relationships. I wondered if the government had statistics on the potential for wealth, volunteerism, and happiness that had been lost in the all-out pursuit of love.
One Thursday we got a call about Karim. He was not from an East African background but rather of Indian origin. My mum was asked whether this was an issue. She responded, “Of course not, as long as he’s a good Muslim.” He sounded promising. He worked as a newspaper photographer. He was not an accountant. He had studied fine art at a prestigious university, was a year older than me, born and brought up in the UK.
My mother spoke to his mother to arrange a time for the meeting, and reported that she had sounded friendly and personable. They agreed to come over on Saturday at 3:00 p.m. There was no need to delay. If this one didn’t work out, we would have to move onto the next, and so there was no point postponing an introduction. Time is of the essence, I kept being warned. We had told Karim’s mother that we had to leave at 6:00 p.m. to attend a family wedding. We calculated that three hours was sufficient to drink some tea and have a preliminary meeting. They lived close by, so if things went well, we could always meet again; if they didn’t, at least we had a credible exit strategy in place.
By 4:00 p.m. they hadn’t arrived. They hadn’t called to say they were late either. We didn’t need to rush quite yet, but with only two hours to go, the proceedings would be constricted. Introductions require a certain amount of protocol and therefore can only be compressed so much. It would be rude of us to accelerate the meeting. My mum tried to call them to see what had happened. No answer. We assumed they had left already. We didn’t have a cell phone number to call them en route. She kept trying and at 4:30 p.m. she eventually got through.
“We’re waiting for my husband,” explained Karim’s mother. “I’m sure he’ll be home very soon and then we’ll leave. Don’t worry,” she said.
We didn’t worry, we fumed, smoke-from-ears fuming. They hadn’t even bothered to tell us they were going to be late. Eventually they arrived at 6:00 p.m. In order to make it to the wedding on time, I had changed out of my elegant, subtle skirt and shirt, and into a bright turquoise silk shalwar kameez with rich embroidery. It was perfect for a wedding but quite out of place for an introduction. I was also going through an experimental phase at the time, and to relieve the boredom while waiting for Karim, I painted my nails turquoise blue to match with my outfit. If he was cool then he would think it was just a bit of fun.
When they arrived I was dumbfounded. He was gorgeous. He had a beautiful face and amazing hazel eyes. He was courteous and charming, and had a gentle, warm presence that eased all the tension from the room. Although I was cross that they were so preposterously late, I was deeply excited. This was the first time in all the introductions made that I’d had this reaction to someone. I felt a poetic connection.
We chatted for a short time, delaying our journey to the wedding, prioritizing this meeting and feeling that even though it was they who had turned up three hours late, we had a duty to be polite and host them. Karim was intelligent and charming. He was also deeply connected to his faith as a Muslim, and that appealed to my spirit. My heart raced as I spoke to him. His smile sent shivers through me.
For once I felt tongue-tied, but he had enough skill and grace to carry the conversation. Although we only talked briefly, I felt that there was magic. At 7:00 p.m. we all exited our house. They returned to their home and we went to our wedding.
I was still annoyed at them for being so late and for the lack of courtesy, but I was smitten. He scored six out of six on the Shelina-Suitor-Scale of Essentials. The qualities I found so hard to locate elsewhere were abundantly present in him: he was a practicing Muslim who was deeply involved in running youth activities at his local mosque, he was looking for a wife who wore hijab, he was the right age, and a smart human being who was easy to talk to. And looking into his beautiful eyes, he met a few of my other Desirable qualities, too.
Finally I had found someone who shared my vision of faith and who I felt compatible with. I kept thinking about him, hoping that he had felt “that feeling,” too. I was sure that he had. All the signs were there. He had looked right in my eyes as we spoke and his smile had a certain warmth. Most importantly of all, he had told me how nice I was, and how refreshing it was to meet someone like me. I was sure that we would meet again.
Several days later we had still heard nothing. It wasn’t proper for my mother to call them. The girl’s family could not be so forward: the next move had to come from the boy’s side. We all grumbled about how we were at the mercy of the boy’s side and how humiliating it was that they controlled the whole situation. We pointed out to each other how Khadijah, the Prophet Muhammad’s first wife, who was herself a successful businesswoman, had taken the initiative in sending a marriage proposal to Muhammad. And yet despite this, we felt through the force of cultural standards that it would be too shameful to call them.
As the days went by, I lost hope and licked my wounds. I mourned that when I had finally found someone who was suitable and who I liked, he didn’t like me. Maybe it was the blue nail polish.
Three weeks later, on a Friday afternoon, we got a call. It was Karim’s mother. “We’d like to visit you tomorrow, Saturday at 2:00 p.m., so Karim and Shelina can meet again.” We were all shocked. We hadn’t heard a squeak for three weeks and now they wanted to come over tomorrow. Stunned by this revelation, my mum forgot to remain cool and agreed to her request, despite the fact we already had guests arranged. She rushed to reschedule. Suitors always took precedence: you never knew when you’d get the chance again.
At 10:00 a.m. we cleaned the house. At midday we made samosas and sweets. At 1:00 p.m. I started to get dressed to make sure I achieved a look that was both cute and modest. At 2:00 p.m. we waited. At 2:30 p.m. we continued to wait. At 3:00 p.m. we waited further, getting agitated. At 3:30 p.m. we grew furious. At 4:00 p.m. they arrived. I saw him and I melted. We talked and talked. He smiled at me and his beautiful hazel eyes lit up. I sank into them. What more could I ask for? I could feel the sparks flying. We exchanged cell phone numbers and e-mail addresses at the end of the meeting. As they left, his mother gave me an
enormous squishy hug. She looked straight into my eyes and in an adoring manner told me, “You are a very lovely girl, Shelina, I like you very much.” I smiled with affection. I was in with the mother!
Since Karim and I had exchanged contact details, my parents assumed the official liaison between them and his parents was over and left it to the two of us to negotiate further developments. They would, of course, be keeping a wise and guiding eye on the proceedings. I hadn’t done this before. The rules of meetings were changing, morphing. With new technologies and changing attitudes, cell phone calls and e-mails were now possible. By Tuesday, I had heard nothing from him. I decided that as a modern woman I too could grasp the reins of my future and get in touch with Karim. I sent him a brief e-mail.
Salam alaikum, Karim. It was nice to see you again on Saturday. I hope your weekend went well. It’s always tough to go back to work on a Monday. I’m a bit bored right now so I thought I’d drop you an e-mail to let you know that I’m off on vacation next Monday to Canada to visit my grandmother who is living there. Can’t wait. I’ve been to Toronto several times before, but this time we’re going to drive to Montreal as well and spend a couple of days there. Really looking forward to it.
What’s new with you? Shelina
I felt this struck the right balance between nonchalant and leaving the door open for him to respond without feeling pressured. I had deliberately closed with a neutral question so he had to respond but did not feel that it held weighty meaning. The note also created a time line for him to get in touch as I was going away.
I got no response.
The following Monday, I sat on a plane ready to take off for Canada. I succumbed and wrote a short text message to him. “Off to Canada today. Hope all is well with you. Catch up with you after my return at the weekend. Shelina.”
It took me half an hour to frame this message in order to achieve a tone midway between interest and detachment. I felt like a teenager. I was excited, breathless, truly believing that he was the One. In Montreal I bought him a T-shirt as a souvenir. I’d never done that before. I wasn’t sure how or when I would give it to him, but I already felt a connection. I knew that somehow he was going to be special in my life.
Shelina Janmohamed Page 11