Love in a Headscarf (3 page)

“You know that girl Sonia,” one of them would begin. “Such a nice girl,
so
pretty and
so
fair.”

“She got a proposal from a good family, and the boy was
very
handsome.”

“Good-looking, heh.”

“Yes,
very
good-looking.”

“She was only seventeen.”

“Yes, only seventeen, but very clever.”

“Yes, very clever.”

“And he had a good job.”

“Yes, a
very
good job in a big law firm.
Senior partner
, you know.”

“So she married him. And now she has three kids. And by the time she is forty-five, she will have had her children. The children will also be married themselves and have gone to their own homes, and she’ll be free. Then she can do whatever she wants. Study, work, travel.”

“She’s already going to university to study. She has completed her degree and is doing a master’s.”

“What you need a master’s for to clean the kitchen I don’t know!” guffawed the more buxom of the Buxom Aunties.

“Masters of making roti and biryani!” they both cackled with their gravel-laden,
paan
-tinted voices. Chewing
paan
leaves released stimulants into the blood, like nicotine, and left yellow stains on the teeth.

The Buxom Aunties raised the hairs on the back of my neck with their opinionated diktats. The unwavering confidence in their own view of the world threatened me at my point of greatest confusion: the intersection of being Muslim, South Asian, and British. I was not able to pull back the layers of culture that oozed from their Auntie-Jee pores to try to understand and assess the wholesome wisdom that lay beneath. Even their title—“Auntie” for respect and “Jee” for further respect—reinforced their standing as bastions of tradition. I cast them as old-fashioned while I thought of myself as forward-thinking and modern. I felt youthful revulsion at the stuck-in-time stereotypes of women that they supported, and my teenage self rebelled against them and all that they represented. But I did not see any paradox in engaging with the traditional process of marriage, of which they were a pivotal part. If I wanted a husband, this was how things were done.

I hush their voices away as I sit waiting for this moment, this life-changing moment for which I have been primed. I tap my fingers on the table. Is someone whispering into his ear that he should move discreetly to the other room? Is he excited? Or embarrassed?

The door swings open gently and a little head pops around the side. “Hello,” he squeaks nervously. He clears his throat. “Should I come in?” He edges into the room, looking sheepish. We look awkwardly at each other. The pretense of normality is safer than admitting our apprehensions. Is it only those brought up on Hollywood romances that find these meetings contrived and embarrassing? Or do suitors the world over have to confront the fear of opening their hearts to a complete stranger in the hope of finding a life partner? I imagine a large poster on the wall: “Marriage, yea or nay? Vote now!”

I wonder if I should stand up and help him with a chair, to fulfill my duties as hostess. Hospitality is a deeply entrenched and essential Islamic value. The British and Asian voices in my head insist I remain still: pulling out chairs is a man’s duty in our culture, they say. The pursuit of marriage trumps hospitality, they advise. Besides, my own voice echoes that it is a universal principle that a woman should leave a man to have pride in his own masculinity and to be sensitive to a woman’s femininity. I empower the man be the Man.

We sit on the corner of the dining table, at ninety degrees to each other, close enough to speak but far from intimate. The door is wide open, allowing anyone to look in on us and hear what we are saying. The easy chatter from the living room wafts toward us, making our own silence even more voluminous.

I sigh, dropping my shoulders to relax. My mother appears with a tray carrying two cups of coffee, some biscuits, and the unforgettable samosas. She smiles and speaks directly to Ali, “You both forgot your drinks.” He blushes, I blush, and then she blushes and whisks herself out the door.

I might marry this man, I think. I imagine the dress I will wear at the wedding. He will carry me over the threshold. We would live in a lovely four-bedroom, two-bathroom house, and he will take me for a promenade in the evenings in our very own rose garden. Our first child’s nursery will be painted lilac, with a crib handcrafted from natural oak.

The pause lengthens. He relaxes and at last seems pleased to be here. I wonder if he has brought an engagement ring with him in his pocket.

I look at him properly now. He has short, well-kept hair, a neatly clipped beard, and small metal-rimmed glasses. He is wearing a blue shirt and casual cream chinos. His style is neither old-fashioned nor cutting edge.

He clears his throat: “Your name is Shelina.”

“Yes.”

“This is your house?”

“Yes.”

“You’re living with your parents?”

“Yes.”

“Were you born in the UK?” He lets his voice trail gently, tilting his head toward me encouragingly, cheerleading me to participate in the conversation.

I look at him desperately and wince: “Ye-es.”

He persists: “And you’re studying at Oxford, is that right?”

“Uh-huh,” I agree. The Aunties tut-tut in my head at the poor impression I am already making. This couldn’t have got off to a worse start.

“You must be, erm, very intelligent.” His face contorts. I think it is disgust rather than nerves. The Buxom Aunties are screaming, flesh wobbling.
See, we told you so. He is telling you already that this is a problem. But, no, you didn’t listen to us. You youngsters always think you know better.

I gulp in despair and stare silently at my hands.

“What was that like?” He pursues the cul-de-sac desperately.

“Good. Hmm—yeah—good,” I stutter. I don’t know how to break the deadlock between us, and his attempts are equally ineffective.

He waits for me to carry on.

“It was really, er, very good indeed,” I elaborate.

Our hands move to our cups to pick up the coffee. We lift them to our mouths and pause. As we are about to sip our gazes cross. We’re frozen, eye to eye, lip to cup. I concede the face-off and tip the cup toward my mouth. The liquid is feverishly hot and explodes violently out from my lips in burning shock.

“Are you okay?” he asks, eyes huge, looking toward the living room. Will he be held responsible for my injury?

I smile by accident; and I step from opaque to translucent. I feel sheepish. He smiles too, concerned but laughing. I like the sudden vulnerability that I feel.

“What do you know about me?” he asks, his expression more relaxed and gentler now.

“Well, you are Ali. You are twenty-three years old. You are an accountant. How is that?”

“Most astute.” He raises his eyebrows as though he is both wise and impressed.

I match his floating eyebrow expression and raise the stakes: “Is there more to know?”

“I was born in Nairobi and I came here in my teens, finished school, went to university, and somehow ended up as an accountant.” He has an ironic twinkle in his eye now. He speaks softly and gently. The conversation is not eloquent, and barely trespasses on interesting, but it takes on its own life. We chat, sometimes smoothly, sometimes in stop-starts. It certainly isn’t memorable.

It is a peculiar feeling to talk to a stranger in the knowledge that within a handful of conversations you may decide to marry this person. The veneer of pleasantries is geared to getting to know about what makes up this person, and asking questions that would be extraordinary in any other “first conversation” context. The process is designed to allow the parties to ask fundamental questions about their life goals, their values, and their hopes for the relationship.

“What kind of person are you looking for?” he asks me.

“Someone I can talk to. Someone who will look after me. Someone who wants to explore the world.” I stop myself before I sound too picky, too romantic. I’ve been told that these are feelings to reveal only after an engagement.

“Would you like children, and if so, how many?” I ask in return.

“Lots!” He laughs. “What about a soccer team?” My face contorts in response.

“I’m just teasing,” he comforts me. “Two or three is fine.”

I’m pleased that he likes the idea of children. I want children too.

We talk about our hobbies and interests and what we would like to do when we grow older. What kind of lives do we want to create? What jobs? Where does he want to live? What does his family do? What does he expect of his wife? Then the conversation veers back to the mundane. What is his favorite film? What kinds of food does he like to eat? And back again. He hopes I will continue my studies at university. I agree: that is a priority for me. He inquires: “Am I ready to get married?” I respond: “Have you been thinking about getting married for a long time?” And back and forth we continue.

Although the conversation may have started awkwardly, I don’t find it unusual or strange that I might meet my future life partner this way. Don’t all relationships begin with a simple conversation to find out about each other, whatever the setting? Is this any different from chatting with someone in a bar, club, or restaurant? At least I know for sure that he is interested in having a serious relationship and getting married, and I am not frittering away my time over someone with relationship-phobia. He is, at the very least, open to the idea of commitment. I already know instinctively the questions that cause people heartache at the beginning of relationships: “Is he interested? Will he? Won’t he?” The roller-coaster rides of films and romantic fiction only serve to underline the need for early answers to these questions. This type of introduction gives me those answers very quickly.

The process that I am engaged in is quite clear: both parties will have to make a statement about our intentions after the meeting, albeit through intermediaries. So it doesn’t seem strange to ask huge, meaningful questions, interspersed with the basic facts of each other’s lives and frivolities. These are the critical things that will determine if we can live a lifetime together, to share love, happiness, and prosperity. I am, of course, trying to impress him. I don’t want to be turned down. Who wants to be knocked back, especially the first time?

There is a tap at the door and a disembodied voice informs us: “Ali, they are calling you, they want to leave.”

“Do you know what happens next?” I ask.

“I think you should talk to your family about our conversation and how you feel,” he responds gallantly.

I don’t press him for advice. We are in the same position but not on the same side. We exchange closing pleasantries, and the awkwardness that we had managed to erase seeps back into the room.

As we reenter the living room, I blush. They all know that we have been together, talking, in an open public space. I feel embarrassed, even though our conversation has been the key reason for the visit. I wonder with paranoia if they think we have been up to all sorts of you know what, but of course we haven’t. And they know it. My embarrassment is a demon of my own making.

Clothes rustle, pockets jangle, and chairs and tables move. The guests stand up. Ali nods in my direction and I smile instinctively, then blush at being so forward. My mother, in tune, glances at both of us and smiles. “We have to go,” faux-apologize our guests. “No, please, stay for another cup of tea,” faux-responds my father. “It’s early yet.” “No, no, we have a very long way to get home,” they counter-respond. Their answer reveals their participation in the etiquette of departure: they live only three miles away.

They shuffle toward the door, moving slowly enough to avoid appearing rude. Ali’s aunt whispers into my mother’s ear. The two women’s words oil the marriage-making machine. They both agree that they will call the matchmaker who has set up the meeting in order to report back after the encounter. If the feedback to the matchmaker is positive from both sides, we will move to the next stage, which will involve meeting again and a more serious level of negotiation. Everyone else pretends to be oblivious to their conversation. Despite their whispers being inaudible, we all know why we are here and what they are saying. The rest of us pretend that this is nothing more than a Sunday afternoon social visit.

“Come again,” we chime. “It is now your turn to visit us,” they chorus. “We had a delightful afternoon.” “Such a lovely house.” “I’m sure we will see you at the mosque soon.” “Please convey our
salams
to your family.” “We should do this more often.”

Ali’s aunt turns to look at me. She runs her eyes from my scarf down to my feet, and then pats my cheek. She turns to look at Ali maternally and then returns her gaze to face me. “I heard a lot about you before we came,” she informs me knowingly. “It was nice to meet you at last.”

“Thank you, Auntie, it was really lovely to meet you as well. We enjoyed your visit.” I smile at her respectfully. She is my elder, and I offer her the courtesy that is her due.

The men look awkwardly around the hallway, wishing this would be over quickly. They do not enjoy the niceties of the process.

“This is in Allah’s hands you know.” The woman turns pointedly toward my mother. Is she making a statement of her piety or is it a cover for an imminent rejection? “It is a matter of destiny.”

They bid farewell and file out of the front door, trooping back to their respectable-but-anonymous car. My father stands at the door, one hand resting on the handle, the other held up, hinting at a sending-off gesture to our departing guests. He watches them climb into the car, close the doors, and pull away. He waves vigorously for a moment, and then the car, and the prince it contains, disappears into the suburban horizon.

We return to the living room and I flop into one of the armchairs.

“I’m so tired,” I wail. I unpin my headscarf and remove the hair band that has been keeping my hair under control. I immediately feel more relaxed.

“Poor thing,” says my mum, patting me on the head.