Love Comes Later

by Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar

  “Don’t worry, they’re always late,” Luluwa had said before slipping out of the car. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

  Sangita bites her tongue instead of replying, the spark of pain a reminder that women all over the world have to deal with mothers-in-law. If she had wanted a modern romance she should never have gotten on the plane at Heathrow.

  Focus, Sangita reminds herself. You’ve got to get through this first.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Anita brings in a tray laden with tiny cups for Arabic coffee, and serves first Abdulla’s mother then Luluwa and her friends. Each takes a small demitasse that looks like an enlarged thimble. Luluwa follows with a serving canister not unlike the kind that keeps tea hot in India. Bending slightly, she pours the yellowish cardamom-smelling liquid, stopping just below halfway in each woman’s cup. The Arabic coffee is slightly bitter, and hot, but gives her something to do with her hands – for which she is extremely grateful.

  “Al salaam alaikum.”

  Luluwa stands up again as a gaggle of women, her aunts Wadha and Hessa and Noor among them, troops into the room. They stop first at Abdulla’s mother, Maryam, the eldest in the family, and greet her, showing the required respect for her place in the family, then proceed down the line. Many of the women strip off their abayas and shaylas, filling the room with the scent of their oils and the sight of their waist-length black hair. Kids of every age run around in traditional dress, miniatures of the adults around them, throwing candy, trying to eat nuts, the littlest ones reaching for filled bowls just beyond their heads.

  “Garinga’o,” Luluwa says, laughing at the confused look of a one-year-old boy as he upturns his bag, spilling all the contents. She bends to help him gather the treats before someone else scoops them up again.

  “It’s like our Halloween,” she had explained to Sangita as they filled the bags with candy and nuts earlier in the apartment. As the children, in their nasal voices, break into traditional songs, she hopes her new friend isn’t too lonely in the car. This is the trick part of their tradition. Not dressing mischievous, like Spiderman, or cozy danger, like little devils. These are old songs from the time of their grandfathers when they were pearl diving. The candy gone, the kids disperse, heading out into the courtyard for more sweets.

  “Ah, for children in our own house,” Abdulla’s mother says loudly to no one in particular.

  Luluwa studiously avoids murmuring in agreement. As the kids are leaving, in totters a shrunken figure wearing a gold mask, the batoola, across her face.

  Each of the women in the room goes to the shrouded figure – the grandmother – and kisses her on the head. Luluwa is next to last.

  “They came to your grandfather today and said Abdulla’s marriage is off. The girl called it off because he is gay and will not be a good husband.”

  “Gay?” his mother strangles out.

  Luluwa laughs, startling everyone. She lightly pinches Noor and Dana, who flank her on both sides and force wide-eyed laughs as well.

  “Luluwa, it’s true,” Noor says.

  Luluwa tosses a long lock of hair over her shoulder and shrugs, as if a rumor of homosexual deviance in the family isn’t going to devastate Abdulla and the family’s reputation, not to mention affect her own chance at marriage.

  “People will say anything, Yuma, as you’ve always told us.” Luluwa smooths a furrow out of her black linen skirt. “Abdulla changed his mind. It’s his right.”

  “How can you say that?” Noor retorts. “My sister –”

  “Don’t pretend,” Luluwa replies, putting a hand on her cousin’s wrist and pulling her down onto the sofa. Noor tries to resist but Luluwa is insistent.

  “You know as well as I do they don’t want to marry each other,” Luluwa hisses.

  Noor throws off her grasp.

  “Then he should have never said yes, instead of bringing this woman here.”

  The grandmother waddles towards the sofa and sits down between them. The girls straighten, neither of them looking at the other. Anita, who has been lurking in the doorway, returns with the tray of Arabic coffee. Another girl, a few years younger than Anita and dressed in a similar pink housecoat, brings out another tray, this time laden with different colored juices. Luluwa takes drinks to give to her grandmother, the echoes of her grandfather’s stories in her ears. She tries again to reconcile his tale of interrupted love with the look of pride her mother gives to all the women in her family assembled in the room.

  Everyone sits in contemplation of the various ramifications of the broken engagement. Luluwa feels her ears flaming as she lets herself think of the horrible scene at Carrefour Sangita described to her. She hadn’t thought ahead to what it would be like for Noor seeing Abdulla with another woman, someone other than her sister, just as Noor had put on blinders when insisting her sister was excited about the wedding.

  But to tell people he’s gay? Luluwa fights the urge to curse under her breath, any curse words, even in English, or to dig her nails into Noor and ask her what on earth her sister was thinking.

  Abdulla has told her to keep quiet about the roommate connection between Sangita and Hind. The only people who know they were living together – Noor and a few of Hind’s other female relatives – are unlikely to come forward with that information, since it would make Hind even more the outsider for rooming not with a family member but with a complete stranger. And a non-believer at that.

  The aunties each take up a glass of juice as though it were made of something stronger, and Luluwa selects a blue tumbler edged with gold filigree and filled to the rim – unlike the servings of Arabic coffee – with apple juice. She swallows a big gulp, her mind racing, wondering if Noor has really come to hate her that much for supporting Abdulla and Sangita. The aunties are murmuring amongst themselves now, truly distressed, because such a rumor has ramifications for the entire family.

  In the midst of all this growing chatter in the dialect, Luluwa feels her constricted chest ease as she hears the familiar stride of long steps in the foyer.

  “Al salaam alaikum,” Abdulla says.

  Despite the various stages of conversation in progress, the women pause as he takes off his na‘al, discarding the open-toed sandals at the carpet’s edge, and strides to greet his mother. They clasp hands and he looks into her eyes. Sangita can clearly see the origins of his proud, feline gaze in her facial structure.

  “What is going on, son?” his mother asks with a sigh.

  “Assif, Yuma,” Abdulla apologizes, squeezing his mother’s hand, “but I have someone I would like you to meet.”

  He gestures to Luluwa to go outside and she rises, holding her breath. The girl can’t hide a small, delighted grin as she heads outside.

  “It’s time,” she squeals.

  Sangita nods; she has been watching the cars arrive into the compound. She slides down from the car and follows Luluwa, who is trying her best not to break into a run. Once inside the house there is no hiding from anyone, as the sitting room has a clear sightline to the front door. This is the moment, the moment they have tried to prepare her for. Sangita walks across the room under the gaze of the aunties, their eyes roaming over the folds of her jellabiya.

  “This is Sangita Patel,” Abdulla says, “and she will be my wife.”

  Sangita tries not to show the shock she feels, or the thrill at the sound of these words, though the gasp from Luluwa lets her know she’s not the only one who is surprised.

  His mother starts to fan herself and turns away. Abdulla squeezes Sangita’s arm, leaving her standing near the sofas, and follows his mother deeper into the room.

  “I hear you are gay,” his mother says, looking at him.

  Abdulla curses under his breath. “My cousin is upset that I refused her.”

  His mother sits down and gestures for Anita to bring her juice from the glass serving cart. She sips her orange juice and regards him over the rim of the glass.

  “Are you sure that’s all?”


  “Look at her,” Abdulla says, gesturing toward Sangita. “She would be wasted on a gay man.”

  Sangita laughs with the rest of the room, but shakily, and mostly to herself. Arabs rarely mince words, and she’s not pleased to be put on display. It’s much worse than she imagined.

  Maryam takes another sip of juice, indicating he should sit next to her. He sighs and obliges.

  “Why would the girl tell this rumor?”

  Abdulla massages his face with his fingertips.

  “I know you don’t have any, but you’re not unaware of the wiles of women.”

  “And this one, what did she use to hook you?”

  Abdulla’s reaction is swift and fierce.

  “I see, I want to marry a foreigner, so I must be either gay or immoral.” He throws up his hands. “This country is unbelievable.”

  “It is your country, too,” Maryam says.

  His mother tries to pat his leg, but he fends her off with a sound that is part growl and part cough. She drains the remainder of her orange juice and hands the empty glass back to the hovering Anita. “She won’t know our traditions,” Maryam says finally. “Think of your children – our grandchildren. Will they speak Arabic? Who will show them how to behave in the majlis?”

  Abdulla snorts again, unable to help himself even in front of his mother.

  “Traditions. You sit around, drink gahwa, listen to lewd stories, and share some of your own. What’s so complicated?” He shrugs.

  “You, the eldest,” she reproaches him. “You should have more regard for your mother. You’re supposed to take my side, not force an ajnabiya daughter-in-law on me.”

  Abdulla squeezes the scar at his wrist instead of replying. He sits back and takes in his mother: her yellow jellabiya, see-through fabric over a close fitting white sheath underneath. The artfully applied makeup, the hair pulled back from her face, all say she has come prepared for this moment, to lay on the guilt that he doesn’t feel. Not for reaching for this chance for adventure, mystery, maybe even love.

  Across the room, Luluwa has been trying to keep Sangita occupied with samples of Arabic music on her iPhone. Sangita pretends to listen but, like everyone else present, she is hanging on every word being spoken across the room. Whatever is passing between mother and son, she is thankful her knowledge of Qatari dialect hasn’t progressed enough for her to follow it.

  “These things you mention," Abdulla says. “They are more important than my happiness?”

  His mother stands.

  “Stop being a woman,” she says. “You’ve been watching too many movies.”

  Abdulla rises, taking her hand.

  “I want this one, Yuma.”

  She moves closer to him, her first-born, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder, straightening his ghutra, caressing his cheek.

  “It isn’t like acquiring a toy, my darling. Who is this girl? Her family? Who could be better than your cousin?”

  Abdulla scratches the back of his neck and tries to pull away.

  “I won’t take her into my house,” his mother says.

  “Fine,” he says at last, willing to give her the full drama he senses brimming behind her words. “I’m a grown man. I don’t need anyone’s permission. And I have my own roof.”

  Luluwa tries to jump in. “Ameti, she’s a really nice girl and I think –”

  “Child, be still,” Abdulla’s mother says sharply, without turning to look at her.

  Abdulla warns Luluwa with a shake of his head.

  “I’m going to speak to your father.” It is an announcement, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “You’re trying to ruin the bloodline with even the first grandchild.”

  “Really, Yuma?” Abdulla replies acidly. “As though the diabetes and blindness in the other tribes isn’t a warning. Don’t talk to me about our purity.”

  He waits for a rejoinder and, when there is none, shrugs as if to say be my guest, talk to anyone about it, everyone. He moves toward Sangita, who is suddenly looking very fragile against the patterned furniture. She may not know exactly what they were saying, but it doesn’t take a genius.

  “I will not see her again,” his mother warns, her voice following him across the room. “I swear to God, she won’t be allowed in this house again.”

  “Let’s go,” he says to Sangita, seeing the glassy look in her eyes. Once his mother sees it will be all she needs to move in for the kill. Then it won’t matter what language anybody uses; the conflict between his mother and his future wife will be sprawled out in the open for the entire world to see.

  Hastily, they leave the sitting room and keep going, Abdulla’s hand at the small of her back guiding her through the house, Luluwa trailing behind them. Sangita looks back at the doorway and sees her young ally’s rigid shoulders framing her lone figure as they climb into the Range Rover.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Finishing another driving lesson with Luluwa, Abdulla avoids jumping the curb, even though cars much smaller than the Range Rover are taking to the sidewalk to avoid the backup from an accident at the light. Another accident. This country really is the pits as far as traffic is concerned, he reflects, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

  “How do you think it went with the aunties?” he asks. “Yuma aside, do you think she’ll grow on them?”

  Luluwa casts a doleful eye on him, then pulls down the visor and pretends to fuss with her makeup.

  “That bad?”

  “Do you really want to do this?” she says. “The fact that they lost your application” – she puts it in air quotes – “means the council is going to deny your request to marry a non-Qatari.”

  Abdulla is silent, knowing she’s right. What is he, some kind of fool for love? Wrenching the wheel, he abandons the disciplined driving practices he learned in Europe and the more cautious approach he’s taken since Fatima’s accident, and takes to the curb along with the rest.

  He inches the Range Rover through the intersection and they ride in silence, broken only by the melodies of Nancy Ajram, Luluwa’s favorite Lebanese singer. Enta omri, Nancy sings, You are my life...

  “Everybody wants to talk about love but nobody believes in it,” Abdulla says.

  Luluwa adjusts her headscarf in the mirror.

  “I’m doing this for you too,” he says.

  She laughs. “I will never be allowed to do anything like this,” she says.

  He pauses for a moment because, again, he knows she’s right. And anyway, for now, they’re focused on him. Her marriage is still a few years away.

  “You don’t even like Hind. She wouldn’t make me laugh, remember?”

  Luluwa pauses as they pull into the family compound. He will go alone on his next errand.

  “This will be a hard life, Abdulla. For you and for her. Then the children. Are you sure you aren’t just angry about something?”

  He reaches across to throw open her door for her as she gets down.

  “Life is hard, habibti,” he says, “no matter who your parents are. You know that.”

  He wheels the car around and drives back into the city, through the streets, and then makes a right into a dirt parking lot in front of a tan ministry building. Council on Marrying Foreigners says a sign in Arabic.

  He walks into the main foyer alone, wishing Luluwa was at his right elbow. Men drinking tea and thumbing newspapers exchange salaam alaikums with Abdulla. An assistant appears and escorts Abdulla into the manager’s office, where he offers him water, tea, coffee or juice. Abdulla waves the man away, and fitfully scrolls through his email, not retaining anything he reads.

  “Where is the sheikh?” he asks the tea boy when he returns. He has been sitting in the manager’s office for nearly thirty minutes.

  The tea boy has no clue, so Abdulla ventures into the hallway. Another tea server appears, this one in matching brown shirt and pants, and indicates with his head that Abdulla should follow him through a crisscross of hallways.

 
Abdulla goes over again what he will say, not implicating Hind or himself, yet still getting the result he wants: permission to marry Sangita. His first promise to Sangita, at her insistence, was not to do any harm to his cousin, her friend. His immediate reaction was to wonder why he should have to make such a promise. Of course he will do no harm. And yet everyone thinks he is destroying the family by bringing in a foreigner.

  It is supposed to be easier for him as a man, since he doesn’t have to give up his nationality and can still pass it on to his children. At the thought of children the hair on his neck prickles. Children are serious: they can seriously hurt or disappoint.

  Perhaps Luluwa is right: he is being too hasty and all this is a delusion. But he can't know that for sure without trying. Why aren’t they all just happy he’s decided to marry again, like they so desperately wanted?

  Will his family ever accept Sangita? Will her parents really be as supportive as she is sure they will be? Is his entire life going to be a fraud?

  “Come in, come in,” his Uncle Saoud is saying.

  Abdulla releases his pent-up breath and forces a smile. Once he takes the first step into his uncle’s office, there will be no turning back. Facing Hind’s father is going to be the hardest thing he has done since boarding the plane in secret to see her.

  “Marhaba,” Abdulla says.

  “Eshlonak? Shakhbarak?” his uncle answers. They exchange greetings, bumping each other on the nose as they are required to as close relatives.