Love in a Headscarf

by Shelina Zahra Janmohamed

  My father suddenly sees me. ‘O-ho!’ he yelps, a distinct Asian word-sound. ‘This is my daughter Shelina.’ He looks in an explanatory way at the guests, as though my arrival may be a surprise to them.

  Suddenly I am conscious of myself, standing alone in the middle of the room. Our lounge is a large square space painted in safe pale green with deep emerald velvet curtains. The patio doors overlook a picturesque garden lovingly tended by my parents. They adore the garden: the garden adores them back. The guests sit comfortably on soft leather sofas encircling the centre of the room – and whoever might be in it.

  I smile quickly, nervously assessing my surroundings. As is the norm, the men and women adopt separate sides of the room. Where is the female guest? Courtesy demands that I move to greet her first. Where is Prince Charming? I must acknowledge him openly yet modestly. How have people arranged themselves and where is the space appropriate for me to occupy? Rapid and correct decisions are critical to making the right impression.

  I move towards the female guest and say ‘Salam alaikum’, the Islamic greeting meaning ‘Peace to you’. She is Ali’s aunt. I kiss her on the cheek and she kisses me back. The matchmaker’s description of me must have been running through her head at this moment. What has she been told? Do I live up to expectations? The matchmaker is present even in her absence, holding great sway over my life and the lives of many single men and women.

  I look around shyly, spot the Boy and nod courteously at him. I instinctively occupy an empty seat near the door. I sit neatly and clasp my hands daintily on my knees. I smile charmingly into the space in front of me. The conversation revives. I breathe once again and try to gather myself. I glance fleetingly at the suitor without looking at him. I am conscious of being assessed. He appears relaxed, leaning back into the sofa, chatting to my father. My father can talk to anyone, unperturbed by their rank, age or status. He is talkative on the outside, quiet and determined on the inside. He has a short white beard that befits his stature and dignity. He likes to tease me by rubbing it enthusiastically against my cheeks. His concession to the squeals he has evoked this way ever since I was a child is to shampoo and condition the hair to keep it soft, so he does not scratch my skin.

  ‘Are you working or studying?’ The room quietens. I stare blankly at the people around me. I am being addressed. I do not realise.

  Eventually I squeak, ‘You mean me?’ I clear my throat to deflate the high-pitched cartoon voice. ‘I’m studying.’

  ‘Very good,’ continues the older male guest, who is Ali’s uncle. ‘I hear you are studying Psychology and Philosophy?’

  I nod mutely. My voice is upstairs in my bedroom in protest at this awkward social situation.

  ‘Does that mean you can tell what I am thinking?’ He chortles, and then laughs so heartily that he starts coughing.

  ‘Shelina, beti, get him some water,’ directs my father. Beti is an affectionate name for a daughter. It reveals his attachment to me.

  I return with a glass of iced water and settle myself back into my seat. I sit quietly for a few minutes, until I receive an imperceptible nod from my mother. I exit silently, my feet padding on the soft carpet towards the kitchen. I fill up the kettle with water and switch it on, watching the red indicator burning brightly, waiting patiently for the water to boil. I stare vacantly and then return to the living room. I project my most sweet, most polite, future daughter-in-law voice and ask ‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’

  I suddenly feel more confident: I have a role to play. I smile in turn at each of the guests as I ask them what they would like to drink and how much sugar and milk they would like in their tea and coffee. I restrain my splutter when I am asked for four spoons of sugar and sweetened condensed milk, a staple of Asian tea drinking. This sugar-laden tea preference is not uncommon. I try not to look too much at the Boy whilst I take the orders. He looks as terrified as me.

  I chant the drink requests mantra-like in my head. Cooking and hostessing skills are crucial in Asian culture as a sign of a ‘real’ woman, just as they used to be in Europe, too. Every woman must be a domestic goddess. It certainly would not be in my favour to make an error at this stage.

  In the kitchen once again, I arrange the cups on the tray to match the seating plan in the living room. This will help me distribute each drink to the right person. I place teabags in cups, spoon in the coffee (it is instant, for convenience), distribute sugar, pour hot water, and mop up spillages. I straighten my clothes again and lift the tray. Trying not to trip on the hem of my skirt, I hobble towards the living room. I regret my choice of long flowing chiffon skirt as my feet step on the frills.

  I put down the tray in the centre of the coffee table and place each cup carefully on a coaster next to the right person. I pick up the teacup for the Boy, and suddenly feel unsure of what to do with it. I approach his seat, just as I have with everyone else, and place the cup next to him. As I serve him, I lift my eyes briefly to look at his face. In my shyness I look away too quickly. Regretting my nerves, I raise my eyes again and find myself staring unexpectedly into his. Suddenly our shared gaze is over, and I step back into the normal space-time continuum. I flee to the kitchen, feeling flushed and haphazard.

  Samosas

  I pick up another tray that has already been prepared, of small plates and finger food. It includes my mother’s perfectly browned samosas. ‘Bringing in the tray of samosas’ is a leftover leitmotif of what was once the meeting process: the only time that the girl came into the room where her future was being negotiated. It is now simply an ironic euphemism for the introduction of a girl to a boy.

  This might be a girl’s one chance to view the prospective bridegroom. The boy must also capitalise on this opportunity. This is not the moment to be out of the room using the facilities. Along with his whole family, he may have travelled many miles for this single brief moment, perhaps his only opportunity to see the woman with whom he will share the rest of his life.

  Will his eyes sparkle when he sets his gaze upon her? Does he like the turn of her dupatta, the translucent shawl that Sub-continental women often wear on their heads in place of a headscarf? What if the fabric slips as she bends down to hand out the plates and he glimpses her long midnight black hair? The way she places the teacups on the table, or how she hands out the plates of halwa could change her fate.

  ‘Bringing in the samosas’ was originally designed for the groom-to-be and his entourage to cast their eyes over the potential wife. The girl was not wheeled out in order for her to have an opinion or play any part in the decision-making process. Her fate would be determined by the groom and his family. He was the hunter, she the hunted.

  The boy would ask himself: was she attractive? The male elders would consider: was this a good match? The entire transaction would be sealed with a few glances of the groom at his bride-to-be. She might be so covered up that he could barely see her, or, as she served him his tea, she might have the audacity to raise her eyes to his and glance cheekily at him. It was the same moment, whether from a golden Bollywood film or Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. The serving of the samosas was able to change futures, destinies and families.

  The girl did not speak during this process. Her role was to be modest and demure. In very conventional circumstances she would not have entered the room beforehand, as I had done, nor – heaven have mercy – would she have spoken. The momentary connection that the crispy meat-filled pastries had created would determine the groom’s decision. All the poor girl could do was to wait for the verdict. If the response was negative, and if she had already ticked the box of ‘good’ family, then what could she do but assume her looks had let her down?

  The female relatives who have also come to visit will grill the poor young woman and deliver their verdict to the groom and the male decision-makers of the family. The boy will only know of the bride-to-be what the womenfolk have told him. The system does not allow for the fact that the boy may find a very different type of woman at
tractive than his female relatives might expect. He must accept that Mother Knows Best.

  The importance of the female opinion is not to be underestimated. A marriage is not just between the bride and groom, but also between their families. Traditionally, a wife would most likely not have worked. She would spend more time with her mother-in-law and sisters-in-law than with her husband, as the extended family might live together. Even when the couple were to go out, she would socialise with the women while he relaxed with the men. Creating happiness in the extended family home was as much of a challenge for the new bride as creating sparks in the nuptial chamber.

  I hand out the plates and snacks. This time when I come past Ali I shine a warm smile in his direction. Somewhere in that process I begin to find my confidence and personality, and it feels good. He smiles back nervously, but we have made a connection. ‘Thank you,’ he says – it is the first time he has spoken directly to me. I feel more focused as I return to the kitchen. I have walked into a room full of people who have come to visit just for me, I have smiled, I have spoken, and I have made radio contact with a boy who is not unattractive.

  As I return to the kitchen, my mother follows me. She is small, with soft brown skin and a smile that can lift me out of even the darkest mood. I look at her lovingly, encouraging her to reveal her secret. She speaks to me in a silent whisper. My eyebrows rise in confusion to my hairline. She turns around and closes the kitchen door. ‘You need to go into the other room and talk to him.’

  The main act is about to begin: I am going to talk to a man about Getting Married.

  I peer into the dining room to make sure everything is in order and then sit down. This is to be the arena for our negotiations. Like the living room, it is square, but this time decorated in shades of blue, with a large mahogany dining table at the centre. The chairs are dark brown with curving arms and cream damask cushions. In the middle of the table yellow daffodils burst out of a blue vase. I imagine where he might sit and wonder if the better profile of my face will be turned towards him. I turn my left profile in his imaginary direction, and then my right, and then sit and mimic speaking to him. I switch places to the chair I imagine he will sit in and pretend to be him responding to my statements: ‘I think you are stunning and I have fallen in love with you,’ he informs me solemnly.

  I practise my smile again: a big smile, a cheeky one, a coquettish one, no smile at all.

  It would not be appropriate to be too enthusiastic or jovial at this stage. I ought to temper my usual exuberance in case I scare him. I have been told repeatedly by the elders and Aunties that I am too confident and clever, and that boys don’t like that. If I am serious about getting married, I will have to hide it. Showing a glimpse is fine, but it is crucial that the boys don’t think I am too clever. The Aunties have even gone so far as to say that I must not study a Masters or – heaven forbid! – a PhD, because nobody will want to marry me. Then I will have only myself to blame. ‘Nobody wants a girl who is too educated,’ they advise me. ‘Then you’ll be old and left on the shelf. Better to get married first, sort out your husband, and then you can do as you please.’

  The Aunties were always large and buxom, with strong accents that had a mesmerising yet grating lilt to them. Their voices echoed through my head like crazed Jiminy Crickets. They were loud and powerful and rang with the legacy of thousands of years of tradition and heritage. Who was I to disobey their laws?

  ‘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 45, 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 Masters.’

  ‘What you need a Masters 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, 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 Asian wisdom that lay beneath. Even their title – ‘Auntie’ for respect and ‘Jee’ for further respect – reinforced their standing as bastions of heritage and tradition. I cast them as old-fashioned whilst 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 of tradition. 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 pretence 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 fulfil 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 towards 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 bea
rd 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 towards 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 towards my mouth. The liquid is feverishly hot and explodes violently out from my lips in burning shock.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks, eyes huge, looking towards the living room. Will he be held responsible for my injury?