Love in a Headscarf (13 page)

I arrived five minutes late. I’d like to think I was fashionably, femininely late. I scanned the room. There was no sign of a man alone, wriggling uncomfortably or nervously. Each table was occupied with a couple gazing into each other’s eyes. They held delicate china teacups, and their pert cherry-lipped smiles created an angelic frieze. I wrinkled my nose optimistically: would their love perfume the air and infect us both?

I picked a table under a skylight to give us a bright setting. I sat facing the beautiful mural at the back of the café so that the sun shone onto my specially selected pale green headscarf. I was always advised to wear light colors. Apparently boys like pale colors. And apparently green is the color of attraction. I took off my jacket and sat down, handbag on knees, rummaging around inside to find my mobile phone. I scooped it from the ocean-depths of my fathomless woman bag and placed it expectantly on the table.

5:15
P.M.
: In order to avoid causing injury and embarrassment by constantly turning to check the entrance, I swap chairs and face the door.

5:20
P.M.
: I move my jacket from his seat to the back of mine.

5:30
P.M.
: The waiter asks if I want to order a coffee. I shake my head.
I’m waiting.
He raises an eyebrow. Syed is thirty minutes late and he is coming from far away. I look at the phone: he hasn’t rung to say he will be late.

5:35
P.M.
: Should I ring him to find out where he is? I decide that would not be the right thing to do on a blind date.

5:40
P.M.
: Is he all right? Maybe he’s had an accident. Maybe he is lying in a pool of blood on the highway. Maybe he is in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. Never mind, I am the girl, I can’t call him, and calling him won’t help anyway.

5:45
P.M.
: I order a cappuccino. Whether he comes or not, I still want the coffee.

6:00
P.M.
: Does he have the right address? Has he forgotten to bring my phone number? It’s been an hour. I decide to call him. At least I will know. If he isn’t coming then I can go home. Our meeting has other parties involved with their own vested interests in the outcome. I have to ensure that I have done my utmost to ensure the success of the date so I can step away blameless. It is important not to appear to give up.

I ring his number and wait. Eventually he picks up and I can hear the radio. He sounds relaxed. “Oh, yeah, I’m on my way, highway, you know, busy. Usual traffic. I’m nearby though, so don’t worry, I’ll be about half an hour.”

I sigh, half angry, half relieved. What is he thinking being an hour and a half late and not even bothering to call? It says a lot about his manners. Do I want to spend the rest of my life with someone who runs this late and who is so thoughtless and inconsiderate as to not even let me know? He has revealed so much of his character before I’ve even met him.

On the other hand, it has been drummed into me that I should not jump to conclusions about people so quickly. Maybe there was a good reason? Maybe he couldn’t ring while driving? Maybe the roads were treacherous and he had to concentrate? Maybe, maybe, maybe … There is no harm in having an open mind, is there?

Mainly I feel relief, and I try to make an effort to be excited again. I haven’t been stood up. And I won’t have to report back to the matchmaker with a failed meeting. I don’t want her pity at being unable even to secure a man for a cup of coffee. Late or not, at least I am meeting a prospect. You never know, he might be the one.

6:30
P.M.
: I am feeling hungry. I order cookies, white chocolate and hazelnut. I smile when they arrive, perhaps it is a sign: they are heart-shaped.

7:00
P.M.
: I pick up the phone to ring him just as he arrives. Two hours late. He smiles broadly. He’s five foot ten, slim, dressed in blue jeans and a crisp white shirt, short tidy dark brown hair. He smells fragranced, something soft and soulful.

He sits and stretches back in his chair. He turns to the waiter and orders a coffee. “Long drive,” he explains. I nod supportively. He’s no Indiana Jones, but he’s pleasant to look at and he puts me at ease. Maybe the waiting was a lesson to be learned.

“I need something sweet to help the coffee down,” he says by way of excuse. I point to the cookies but he wrinkles his nose. “They do good cake here, too.” I smile conspiratorially at him.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Reeaally?” He looks thrilled. A dimple appears. My soft spot,
dimples.
The other is hazel eyes, but he doesn’t have those.

He waggles his dimple enticingly at me. “Chocolate?”

I nod again, encouragingly this time. I like chocolate too. He looks at me cheekily and then yells over to the waiter, “Two slices of chocolate cake!” He turns back, grinning. I’m embarrassed at his yelling but impressed at the ease and charm with which he does it. The waiter seems happy to oblige. How does he pull it off, I wonder?

The cake arrives, dark, sticky, oozing. I eat mine in small tidy pieces, my fork weaving in between the layers of pure chocolate, whizzing into my lips, avoiding my lipstick. I am lingering over the sponge and raspberries nestling between the layers. I look up and his cake has vanished, his eyes are shining, his coffee cup in his hand. He is extremely likeable. But will he like me? I tell myself to try to be more fun.

We chat. He talks and I giggle. The two hours are long forgotten. We talk about traveling, we talk about the mosque. We talk about sports. He loves cricket. He really does love cricket.

“More than chocolate cake,” he smiles naughtily at me. I’m not a fan of cricket but I know there was a test match this afternoon.

“I’m sorry you missed it on my account,” I apologize in mock humility to him. I pause. “Perhaps it was worth it?”

He smiles broadly. “Maybe.”

I smile broadly back.

We chat some more. His work. My work. His family. My family. It’s dinnertime by now, and I’m getting hungry. I ask if he is too. He tells me he had a whole bag of chips before he left home. “Can’t watch the end of a cricket match without wolfing down a big bag of cheese and onion chips,” he advises. I don’t like cheese and onion. They make me feel nauseous when I can’t get the smell off my fingers afterward.

He turns to hunt down a waiter. All the talking is making him thirsty. There is a big bubble expanding in my head, draining the oxygen, making me feel angry. I need to know exactly why he was late now. “What time do you think the cricket match ended?” “Oh, just after half past five,” he answers distractedly, still searching for the waiter. Puzzle pieces start to meld together.

“Did you watch the whole match at home?” I ask him, stunned. To control my trembling fingers I play with the cookies that remain untouched. He grins cheesily and then slurps down his iced mineral water. The cookie snaps suddenly, right down the center. I offer him the ragged half. While I was waiting in the café on my own for two hours, he was still at home, knowing full well that he was going to be
two hours
late. I’m horrified at his audacity. He is oblivious.

I stay as long as is polite to finish my coffee. I don’t need to be as rude as he has been; I have my own character and reputation to protect. My instincts were right about him, and I should have trusted my intuition. The meeting has been revelatory. Without realizing it, his actions have shown me a great deal of what lies beneath, enough to know that despite his charm and disposition, his character has the most fundamental flaw: disrespect and devaluing of another person. Cricket versus courtesy.

The advice from my parents and the Aunties about looking for someone who is well brought up with good manners rings in my ears. The religious advice to look for someone who will treat you well because he understands how to respect other human beings echoes.

I found this process amazing. It gave you access to the most instinctive behaviors of another person and then allowed you to see your own unmeditated response firsthand. The raw humanity of addressing the issues of spending life together made it the ultimate learning experience.

We were strangers but we had to talk deeply and intimately about our futures. Syed didn’t need to explain to me in words how little he would really value his wife and how he would fail to respect others. I saw it in his actions. His words would only have told me what he wanted to believe about himself and what he
thought
he was like.

I began to ask myself the same difficult questions. Were my beliefs about myself at odds with my actual behavior? Or had I managed to achieve integrity between my words and desires? After my experience with Syed it was very clear to me that just because you are meeting a potential life partner, it does not excuse a lapse in character.

My experience with Syed also reminded me to trust my intuition. After two hours of waiting, and without an apology for tardiness, I should have seen him for what he really was. But the rules of culture had told me to pursue marriage at all costs and to subsume my own mind and instincts to the process. Instead, I should have trusted my
fitrah
, the inner conscience that the Creator has put into each of us to recognize what is right, and to assert what is our due.
Fitrah
is an amazing part of a human being: the natural instinct that everyone has to know what is right, to want to do the right thing and to expect to be treated right.

My
right was to be treated with courtesy. My culture had belittled the respect I should have had for myself. On the other hand I saw that my religion offered respect to me, telling me to trust that voice inside myself. I realized that my faith truly had something to offer me, and at that moment, I took it out of the books and applied it to my life: I was a human being and I deserved to be treated with respect.

Plus Ça Change

G
ood brains do not necessarily mean good character. Thus it was with Khalil. He was a well-qualified dentist. He had graduated first in his year and had gone on to set up a thriving practice. He was born and brought up in London, and my mother knew his mother, if only to say hello to. She told me that both his parents were very intelligent as well as attractive and religious too, and if he was indeed the son of his parents, he would be more than eligible. The matchmaker had rung my mother to find out if we were interested. He sounded like the most promising prospect we had had in a long time. We replied in the affirmative, and she asked if she could give Khalil my number to speak to me directly. “They can have a chat and if they like each other then they can arrange to meet themselves,” she explained. This process made perfect sense and felt much more relaxed.

Khalil rang on Sunday evening, a beautiful golden summer’s dusk. “Hello,” he smiled down the phone. “Hello,” I smiled back. We hit it off immediately, and chatted with both seriousness and levity. Fifteen minutes and two blinks of our eyes later, he told me he would ring again and I said I looked forward to it. He had described himself as five foot eight, slim, and “dashingly handsome of course.” I reciprocated with a sketch of my appearance. It made a phone conversation, however brief, much easier. His own mock arrogance about his looks made me laugh so much that I asked if he had any flaws. He put on a genteel accent and responded, “My dear, a small case of sleep apnea, but the ladies tell me that it is most charming.” I giggled, inexplicably allured by his confession of snoring.

He rang the next evening and we chatted again. He asked if I’d like to go to dinner on Friday, as we seemed to be getting on so well. I accepted. He had already ticked the critical box of “someone I can talk to.” This was the box I found hardest to check. He rang spontaneously the following evening for another chat. I took this as a very positive sign. Two unprompted calls. I smiled. Our dinner was only three days away.

There was no call on Tuesday or Wednesday. He rang me on Thursday. His tone was quite different. “There is something I need to tell you. I hope it won’t change things, but it is important that I’m honest with you.” My heart raced. Oh no! What hidden secret did he have? Was he married? Did he have a fatal illness? Had he been in prison?

“I just wanted to let you know that I could never marry someone who is only five foot three,” he said in a very genuine tone. “I know we get on so well. And I’m sure you are very attractive from what other people have told me. But you are just too short for me. So please don’t get your hopes up when we meet tomorrow.”

There was a long pause. What to say now? He had upset the balance of power.

“But you’re five foot eight, aren’t you?” I furrowed my eyebrows at him over the phone. “That’s really not so tall compared to me. In fact some would say it’s just perfect.” I wanted to salvage something of the situation, trying to persuade him not to destroy the hopes and burgeoning dreams for which I had been laying the foundations this week. It was so rare to find someone with whom I had such a natural spark.

“It’s just the way I feel,” he said boyishly, trying to pass this off as one of his charming quirks. I recalled the issue of his snoring.

“Anyway,” he said brightly. “Did you pick a restaurant yet?”

“I don’t see the point of meeting,” I told him.

“You think I’m shallow, don’t you?” he moped, conveying his disappointment in me. “Well, if that’s what you think, that’s a real shame.” He paused deliberately to gather gravitas. “Do you have a picture in your mind of the perfect other half?”

“Yes,” I croaked, uncertain of his motives.

“I have a picture in my mind, too. She’s taller than you.”

“Everyone has a picture,” I responded sharply. “But I know that a real person may or may not be like that picture. I might find somebody completely unexpected, who doesn’t match my imagination at all. They might be much better than I imagined. But how can you know if you have such fixed ideas? Would you give up the perfect person just because they were too short or too tall?”