Love in a Headscarf (9 page)

“HOW YOU KNOW HE’S THE ONE”

Personality, quality of character, and faith in God are key. That way you know they will always treat you right.

The choice is yours. No one can force you to marry anyone, and if there is no valid reason to refuse, then no one can veto it either.

Wealth, race, caste, skin color, family “name” should not be part of the selection criteria, according to religion.

Looks are important, but should not be the decision-making criterion.

Look for a good parent to your future children.

The process of marriage threw up some baffling confusions about the complexities of faith and culture, which I was unable to decipher. The rules from culture and faith seemed to be at odds with each other, but separating them out was nigh on impossible. As I was growing up I didn’t realize how different, even contradictory they were.

The Islamic guidelines created an aspiration for an achievable utopia for relationships. They seemed so simple and straightforward: find a good, decent man, get married, and God will support you by injecting love and mercy into your relationship. The principles embodied the importance of respecting and loving people for who they were, not their superficialities. It was about faith, spirituality, and being a good person. Race, wealth, culture, and class were irrelevant. These rules allowed for Princess Jasmine, the daughter of the sultan, to marry Aladdin, a penniless diamond in the rough.

Culture, which had a strong hand in dictating reality, appeared to be quite different from religion in the cutthroat world of bagging a partner. The process was oiled and managed by two crucial architects: the Aunties, of whom matchmakers were a subset, and Mothers-in-Law, which referred to the mothers of the grooms-to-be. The matchmaking process stretched back into the cloudy indefinable roots of cultural myth, which no one could untangle or clarify. The process was the way it was just because it was the way it was. You could not deny that it was down to earth: get the interested parties together, conduct an assessment, make a decision. Everyone concerned wanted a positive outcome: a good solid marital match, two happy families. And not to be entirely forgotten: a happily married couple.

The media culture around me had its own strong views about love and romance. I watched films like
Grease
and
Cinderella
over and over again, wide-eyed, yearning to find the man who would complete me. Which young woman would not be swept away by the romance of Sandy and Danny, of Cinderella and the prince? I would be the princess to John Travolta’s Prince Charming. We would recognize each other and see true love shining in each other’s eyes. Love would lead to marriage. And marriage would lead to us living happily ever after. This was the myth of romance at its most powerful. Films and magazines said it was true. But what “love” meant was never clear, the stories always ended before explaining. Why was it important? What did it mean about how you lived your day-to-day life?

An opulent grand wedding was always the climax of a love story. This was how life was supposed to be for everyone, and if you didn’t achieve it, you were a failure. Love was supposed to simply “happen” if you waited long enough,
and
if you were beautiful enough.

Love for women was a helpless wait, like Sleeping Beauty’s immobile slumber that stretches out passively till the savior prince arrives. Finding Love was a paradoxical aspiration: it was mandatory but it could only be achieved passively.

The love story from within the parameters of Islam started at the opposite end. Two people got married. This would then complete their faith. They would be blessed with love, all the while remembering to work at creating a relationship of love themselves. And love would bring them happiness, romance, long-term contentment, and a completion of the sense of self. Having a partner would help you to be a better human being, a better Muslim, and to get closer to God.

Love was proactive. You, your family, the man in question, his family, in fact the whole community, would drive it forward. Finding the person was only the first step: it was how you addressed what happened after the wedding that was the key. The wedding was just the gateway, and all the magic happened when you put hard work into the marriage. But hard work is never as glamorous as romance.

The classes at Sunday school, the seminars at the mosque, the sermons at weddings, even advice from family members and mosque leaders all focused on what marriage was, why you should do it, and what would happen afterward. There was just as much advice about how to find a partner as to how to keep them.

“Marriage is not a bed of roses,” the old uncles would waggle their fingers at us.

“It is going to be very hard for at least two years,” the Aunties would caution. “Do whatever he asks you for during that time, and then he’ll do whatever you want for the rest of your lives.” The whole approach was about staying the course in order to get the fruits of marriage. It was an investment plan for future comfort and happiness.

I wanted to find the One through the tried and tested traditional methods so that I could find romance, fall in love, and complete my faith. And since the two of us would share the same faith, we would work toward finding the peace and contentment that as a married couple God had promised us. And then we would live happily ever after, amen.

I wanted a lot of things. I wanted Prince Charming, romantic love, and to live happily ever after. I wanted to observe the cultural traditions of finding a husband. I wanted to follow the Islamic ideals of marriage. I also wanted to uncover spiritual love and harmony. I wanted to approach the Divine.

But what I really wanted was very simple: to make sense of the overwhelming contradictions and tangles facing me as a young Muslim woman.

^*
Delete as appropriate.

THREE
Process Princess

Biodata

M
y first introduction meeting was followed by a steady stream of suitors. They swarmed in and then out through our front door, accompanied by parents, friends, Imams, and distant relatives. Occasionally they came on their own, affecting bravado at being confident enough to face potential in-laws on their own. We were making samosas every weekend.

Despite the influx of potential husbands, it was important to be entirely focused on the task: finding someone compatible was paramount. There was simply no time to waste. My marriage, as with the marriage of any child in the family, was a collective endeavor, and I was the center of attention. It was taken for granted that everyone would participate in the venture. My eventual husband would be selected from a pool of contacts collected by family, friends, and matchmakers. The more people we all met, the wider our pool of prospects. Statistically, this would give me the greatest number of choices and the highest likelihood of Finding the One.

In order to enter the mating ritual, each candidate had to create a description of themselves, which would then be circulated among prospective families and matchmakers. This was usually done by word of mouth but was on occasion written as a document resembling a CV. It might even include a photograph of the individual. Once e-mail and Internet had arrived, these were even sent electronically to speed up the introduction process, whizzing information about prospective partners around the globe, one love-hungry electron after another. These extremely personal details were then packaged with a description of the protagonist’s character and the qualities and features they sought in a partner. The label for this package of information suggested a secret-services-hunting-down-dissidents film title:
Biodata.

I was enthralled by the starkness of the word
biodata
. But as a romantic seeker of love, it shot dread into my heart. This technical checklist drained emotion and humanity from the search. John Travolta would most certainly
not
have made the cut. I resisted putting together my own biodata as long as I could. I did not want to be dehumanized into a series of formulaic bullet points. However, without one, a prospective match could not be arranged, so I succumbed begrudgingly to the process.

It turned out to be an extremely useful document for those searching on my behalf. It helped them locate and identify suitable candidates in my absence, like headhunters. I learned that it was important that my criteria were clear, so that they were not presenting unsuitable options. However, it was also important that the criteria were not too specific as keeping an open mind about quirks and imperfections was critical. Also this would avoid the accusations of being too picky, too closed off to opportunities, too big-headed and stubborn.

I picked up a pen and a blank piece of paper, and started by creating a description of myself: a whole life, a whole person, an entire universe hidden in a soul: all of it reduced to a handful of words.

Early twenties, previously unmarried, university educated, “religious,” wears
hijab.
Five foot three, slim, nice family.

On the strength of these words, and the personal recommendation of the matchmaker or those searching on my behalf, as well as on my reputation and that of my family in the community, would my hopes of love and marriage rest. They were the foundations of who I was as a marriage prospect.

I now turned to finding the words to describe my perfect husband.

Good-looking

Height 5’8”–5’10”

Fantastic dress sense

Smells good

Handsome

Was I thirteen? I looked at the list in horror. It had written itself, a collection of words that had traveled by osmosis via Harlequin,
Just Seventeen
magazine, and Bridget Jones onto the page in front of me. It was the appendix to a trashy teenage conversation, an addendum to an adolescent dating encyclopedia. All of this was a given—everyone assumes the need for looks and style, but they are less elusive than character. Hadn’t faith and culture taught me to consider personality and character as paramount?

The self-description usually put forward by a suitor reveals nothing of their character, just as my words revealed nothing of mine. They would put on their finery, brush their hair, and comb their beards for the process, which would bring them to you in this charming manner. In reality, the stress and constraints of the process reveal everything you need to know about the suitor’s character—and your own.

I wrote a proper description, sensibly categorizing my requirements into must-haves and preferences.

ESSENTIAL

Male single

It was important to state the obvious.

Practicing Muslim

This was crucial to me. I couldn’t imagine marrying someone who wasn’t a Muslim. I felt that this way I would be able to share my values and goals with my life partner. I didn’t want someone who was identical to me but I did want someone who functioned along similar principles. Being a Muslim confirmed that scope and allowed this wish of mine to come true. I wanted him to be “practicing” so that he would want to understand religion and be inquisitive about it. It meant he would not blindly accept the tradition and cultures that pretended to be religion. I didn’t want someone who just took everything around them at face value and repackaged this as faith.

In his twenties or very early thirties

I didn’t mind if he was up to two or three years younger. I also thought that up to seven years older was fine. Matchmakers tended to draw the line at eight to ten years older as the maximum.

Involved in community activities

I wanted someone who would participate in the world around them and try to make it a better place. My strong sense of community led me to teach children at the mosque Sunday school, volunteer to look after worshippers who came for prayers, and edit the community newsletter. I wanted my partner to be the same. I did not want to be a soccer widow. I needed a man whom I could stand behind and be proud of our work together when we sat old and wrinkled in our comfy chairs in front of the fire, me knitting, him reading his newspaper.

Happy for me to wear hijab

I felt sad that I had to specify that a Muslim man should be happy for me to wear a headscarf and modest clothing, as this was my understanding of one of the requirements of Islam. It seemed that a lot of men were
not
happy for their wives to wear the hijab
.
He didn’t need to advocate it but at least support my decision to wear it. I did not want to be shown off just for being pretty. I wanted him to be supportive of the choices that I wanted to make for my own life, rather than be conscious of how other people might react to his wife wearing the hijab
.
I wanted a man who wanted a wife he could be proud of and whom he respected. And to whom he would be irresistibly attracted in private.