Love in a Headscarf (4 page)

I turn to my father who is sitting in his special chair, remote control poised to ignite the television and check the latest news. I interject between him and his news fix, “What is your opinion, Dad? Did you like him?”

“He seems nice,” he confirms. “It’s up to you now. Whatever you think you want to do.”

I pout.

“We’re your parents,” he continues. “We can advise you but you are the one who has to live with him for the rest of your life.”

“What about everyone else?” I ask.

“I thought he seemed nice too,” says my sister-in-law, stretching her legs out onto the coffee table. “I think he would make a good husband and you would be very happy. He’s got a nice family, good job; he’s religious, quite nice-looking.” She pauses and then looks up at me mock-offended. “What? What? I can’t observe if a man is handsome?”

I turn to my mother for her opinion. “You know, many years ago a family would accept the first decent proposal that came along,” she says, then pauses. “He’s a good choice. You shouldn’t miss him.” Her hesitation belies her strong words. I can tell straight away that my feelings mirror hers, but I value her advice. As a woman, a wife, and a mother, she has already been through the journey that I am about to set sail on.

“He seems nice but that is what all of you keep saying: nice, nice, nice. How am I supposed to know? How do I know?” I look pleadingly at everyone.

Can you ever know?
ask their eyes.

He was my first, a prince among princes. Each one would offer me a very different life. How to choose?

Romance asked:
Does he make you tingle?

The Buxom Aunties whispered:
Is he a good catch?

Faith asked:
Is he a practicing Muslim like you?

I was bewildered by my own mistaken belief that there were contradictions in these different perspectives about love that came from faith or tradition, from popular or Asian culture.

It all came down to the same question:
Is he the one?

Safura

T
he next morning the matchmaker called. She was a member of the Marriage Committee at the local mosque, a group of women whose raison d’être was to introduce families who wanted their sons and daughters to get married. When your child was ready to marry, you would approach the committee and inform them that you were looking for a partner for your child. The committee members would offer prospective suitors a wide network of contacts and an unconditional dedication of their time and energy toward meeting your needs. The community was always genuinely concerned that its younger members should be helped toward attaining fulfilled and happy lives. A well-matched and happy marriage was considered a critical component.

The very first time that the matchmaker had rung our home, she had offered a courteous preamble about the importance of getting young people married to suitable partners. It was up to the whole community to assist in the process, she had commented. The matchmaker’s opening statement was both polite and heartfelt.

Marriage is a communal matter, and those who volunteer to be matchmakers play an essential part in protecting the existence of the family unit. In Islamic thinking, someone who brings two people together in marriage gains an immense spiritual reward for their good deed. The matchmaker pointed out to my mother that since I was now at university, it was a very suitable time to start on the search for a husband. It was accepted that a young woman would complete her education, if she chose to, before she got married.

“These things take time,” she had advised my mother learnedly. “And if you find the right person, then Shelina can get married and continue studying, or they can get engaged and then marry after Shelina finishes her degree.”

Then she added ominously, “The good boys get snapped up very quickly these days.” She paused and asked, “Shall I start looking for someone for her?”

Both my mother and the matchmaker knew that the question was for decorum only. They were both searching already. Parental eyes are constantly scrutinizing potential matches from childhood, making a point to come back to them when the possible suitors have grown up. It was important to think long-term when finding a partner. Etiquette demanded a reply and my mother responded by thanking her for her concern, acknowledging the challenges that matchmakers face and reiterating the reward they would gain for carrying out their Islamic duties with such diligence.

“I have someone to suggest,” cut in the matchmaker. “A
very
nice boy.”

My mother responded with an encouraging sound and the matchmaker filled in the details. My mother listened carefully, making little scribbles on the notepad, nodding vigorously as the matchmaker listed the young man’s virtues. She described his family and their connections until my mother knew exactly who they were. She elaborated on the details of the family’s finances, qualities, reputations, and education. She went on to make comments about the future mother-in-law and what she had specified as requirements for her son’s bride. She closed her speech with a brief description of the boy himself.

“I will speak to Shelina and see what she thinks,” responded my mother. “And then I will ring you back and let you know.” She paused. “Thank you so much for thinking of Shelina. It is very much appreciated.”

My mother then relayed the details to me and the family. He was religious, educated, had a good job, and was from a respected family. He was the right age and apparently quite handsome, too. “He sounds promising,” I had commented. Everyone agreed, and my mother rang back to confirm our interest.

The next time the matchmaker rang was to confirm a date and time for the suitor to visit. “They are very excited and looking forward to meeting Shelina,” she had added.

Now, post-meeting, she was ringing again to gather our feedback. She would already have spoken to the boy’s family—they were considered to be in the driver’s seat.

My mother switched the call to speakerphone so I could listen to their conversation. They chatted for a while, courteous small talk. Then, abruptly, she asked, “What did Shelina think?” My mother jolted in shock, despite fully expecting the question. Her answer was, of course, the sole purpose of the conversation.

My mother maneuvered deftly to avoid answering the question first. “Why don’t you tell me what Ali thought?” she asked in return. Offering an opinion was complicated. If we were the first to say that I liked him and they had said no, it would leave us vulnerable and embarrassed. If we said yes first and they said yes anyway, it would make us seem too forward. If we said no first and they had been planning to say yes, they would change their minds and say no to avoid being rejected, and so we would never know. But if they went first and said no, then if we said no, it would look like we had meant to say yes but were only saying no because they had done so. In addition to this, we were conscious that we would meet these individuals and their close relatives at the mosque and community events, and while the meeting would never be spoken of, everyone would be thinking about it. The denouement had to be handled diplomatically, to avoid anyone being insulted.

The matchmaker relented. “He really liked her and wants to meet again if Shelina is interested.” It was quite common these days to have at least a second meeting, much in the style of the first, rather like second viewings to buy a house. In some quarters of the Asian and Muslim community the first meeting, which had once been risqué, was now standard. Now the boundaries of
cultural
acceptability were being pushed to a second meeting. Modernity was taking its toll.

It had once been quite common for the boy’s family to make a proposal to the girl’s family after one meeting. In fact, they may have sent the proposal even without a meeting: family references would have been sufficient. However, it was now more likely that there would be a second meeting, or perhaps even a third. By then you should know if he was the one or if she was your wife-to-be. And really, truly, having spent intensive sessions with them, and armed with details of their life, family, intentions, reputation, and aspirations, why wouldn’t you know?

You would have met in person to know if you liked each other’s company. You would have a full reference history on their background, reputation, job (including salary), leisure activities, social participation, religious and mosque status, and even their school grades and a CIA, FBI, KGB, or NASA check if you wanted. Additionally, you would also know their family and their family history, including their track record as a unit of treating new spouses and their marriage and divorce rates. Your conversations would have been open and about the long-term. You ought to know exactly what this person was about and where they were going. It was a robust and time-tested method that seemed to work. As the Aunties said, wasn’t this the information you needed to choose the right person with whom to build a successful relationship?

Any risk that you might expect when marrying someone after such a short period was dealt with by community structures. Family would be on hand to support the new couple through their needs and worries, and parents and relatives would counsel the couple on any relationship-teething issues. And as one of the newlyweds you would be prepared for the relationship to take time to settle down before the Harlequin story kicked in.

The Aunties asked, what would make knowing someone for three years rather than three intense meetings a better match? It was hard to disagree with them on this point. They saw the world through a simple and practical choice between love—exciting, romantic, fireworks love—on the one hand, and a well-reasoned assessment of the practical sensibilities of life on the other. The first offered danger, exclusion, risk, a defying of convention. The latter had been proven out by history and offered respectability, a place in society, and a recognition of status and worth.

It would take me many years to realize that I had been living their paradox of believing that this was an either/or choice but also longing and desiring to have both. I believed that I was special and could and
should
have both. It would take a search for my faith to reveal to me that my instinct was right—that love and practicality needed each other.

“Shelina …” began my mother.

“Isn’t he
such
a nice boy?” chipped in the matchmaker. “
Such
nice manners and
so
good-looking. Ali said he thought Shelina was very nice and friendly.”

“Shelina …” my mother tried again, then stopped mid-sentence. “Yes, he was very nice, and his family seemed nice too.” As my mother opened her mouth to say the next sentence, the course of my life was set.

“Shelina is not keen to go ahead with him.”

In the silence I could imagine the matchmaker picking her jaw up from the floor. “Oh,” she squawked, trying to hide her shock. “Why not?”

“Well …” began my mother. What could she say that was both credible and conciliatory? Besides, she did not entirely agree with my decision. My family had encouraged me to meet with him a second time.

I was nineteen and he was the first man I had ever been introduced to, the first candidate I had considered spending the whole of my life with. It had been a constrained and artificial setting, and the signals, emotions, and chemistry couldn’t work their usual magic.

I was not aware that the artificiality of the meeting place had sucked away any instinctive attraction. In my ignorance of this fact, I did not understand that this was the reason why “that feeling” was absent. I had set myself the wrong litmus test to find a partner. The ease with which I rejected such a high-caliber suitor was naive. All that I had been looking for was “that feeling.” At nineteen I had high hopes of Finding the One. I look back and think that Ali probably would have made quite a good husband. In fact, he did go on to marry, and his wife always looks happy and radiant. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had married him.

My family took their Islamic responsibilities very seriously. I had to agree to my future partner willingly and happily. What they were offering was an arranged marriage—something very different from a forced marriage.

As part of an arranged marriage, their job was to provide potential matches and offer advice, support, and wisdom in choosing one. If I didn’t like someone they presented to me, then so be it. My choice was the determining factor. In adhering to their faith as Muslims, it was quite clear to my parents that there was to be no coercion of any sort in my selection of a husband. Besides, they could never have forced me to do anything against my will: they were too respectful of me as a human being in my own right. On top of all this, if they had used force in sealing the marriage, then it would not be valid anyway. But there was nothing sinister in them helping to “arrange” men to come my way. Who would object to help in finding the love of one’s life? And they would also be on hand to help during the agreement process. Having someone to support the relationship as it became more serious was just as important as helping to find that special someone in the first place.

My parents were also learning through this experience. I was their first marriage experience with a daughter, and the rules seemed to be completely different for girls. Had they also known the complexity of the path that I was choosing to pursue, they might have encouraged me more vigorously to consider Ali, but I think they, too, believed that the perfect prince existed. How would they settle for anything less for their princess?

“Shelina should meet him again. It’s always so hard to tell the first time, the poor little thing. He must have been nervous, she was nervous. They weren’t really themselves,” twittered the matchmaker.

My mother wanted what mothers always want for their daughters: happiness and love. Whatever the positive experiences of their own lives, mothers want something even better for their daughters. So my mum fell back on a thoroughly modern phrase: “She says that she just didn’t feel the ‘click.’”