Love in a Headscarf

by Shelina Zahra Janmohamed

  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 23 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. ‘Would you like children, and if so, how many?’ I ask in return. 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 favourite 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 enquires: 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 to chatting to 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 rollercoaster 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 re-enter 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.

  Unexpectedly, 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-apologise 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 towards 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 towards 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, disappear 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.

  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 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 amongst 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 practising 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

  The 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 towards meeting your needs. The community was always genuinely concerned that its younger members should be helped towards 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 scrutinising 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 driving 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 manoeuvred 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 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 whilst 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 coun
sel the couple on any relationship-teething issues. And as one of the newly-weds you would be prepared for the relationship to take time to settle down before the Mills and Boon 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 realise 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.’

  The matchmaker’s eyebrows pinged to her hairline and her jaw clattered onto 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.