The natural habitat of the Auntie is weddings, gatherings, dinners and other places where young unmarried women play together. They are normally distinguished by their fulsome breasts and round tummies, and often by their taste for chewing paan. They have either been married for more years than the Rolling Stones have been alive, and their multitudes of children are married and they have a small tribe of grandchildren, thus making them experts on marriage; or they are lonely spinsters, who now devote themselves to pairing off the younger generation.
As a young woman, I was deeply suspicious and cynical of the Aunties. They appeared to me like jinnis whose sole purpose was to make me feel small and useless. I was convinced that their entire reason for being was to make my life difficult and miserable by belittling my aspirations. In return I had to be polite and affable, as they might have access to my Prince Charming, my dream man, my life happiness. And, of course, I had to play by the conventions of the search that remained unspoken:
1. A third party, preferably someone considered as an ‘elder’ – the Aunties being the first choice – should be involved in mediating the search process. It is shameful social etiquette for one party to ring up the other and say, ‘Hey, why don’t our kids get it together?’
2. Both sides must make delicate enquiries amongst contacts to find out about the other side’s family and the individual in question. Only when sufficient information and recommendations are provided will the two parties move onto the next stage of arranging a meeting.
3. The first show of interest must be from the boy’s party. The girl’s party cannot make the first move, otherwise they will be considered ‘desperate’. If the girl’s party wishes to initiate a discussion with a potential match, they must do it through a third party who should make it look like it was the boy’s party’s idea.
4. The girl must be younger than the boy by at least one day. This is not so that he can avoid a wrinkly wife but so he can assert his authority. It is also in order that the girl will be ‘mouldable’, a word entirely peculiar to Asian matchmaking. ‘Mouldable’ means that she will ‘adapt’ to the boy’s family’s way of doing things. A younger woman will be less ‘set in her ways’.
5. The girl should be shorter than the boy even while wearing heels. This is so the couple will be aesthetically pleasing when standing together. The boy can gel up his hair to gain extra height.
6. The girl should be less educated than the boy. The husband should be able to say in response to any question: ‘It is because I am your husband and I am more educated than you, so I must be right. Do not question me!’ in a surly yet dignified manner.
7. The boy’s family should be wealthier so that he can look after the girl. The boy should have a ‘good’ secure job, ideally with a title such as Doctor, Dentist or Accountant.
8. The girl should be pale in colour.
9. It is important that she is ‘homely and domesticated’. A domesticated girl is proficient in matters of cleaning, cooking, laundry and other kinds of housework. Being ‘homely’ describes a natural penchant for these activities.
10. ‘Well-mannered, religious and from a good family, this is what you should look for,’ I was told repeatedly. In Asian tradition, marriage is about becoming part of a new family, so choosing a ‘good’ family is a critical factor. It includes people in the family having good reputations, which can be built on piety and religiousness, and acts of kindness and generosity, like dedicated community service and charity. Scandals could damage a family’s reputation for years and they would directly affect the marriage prospects of the children. They were hushed away as quickly as possible. Also high on the criteria for ‘good’ family are: from the same country ‘back home’, from the same part of the same country, from the same town, from the same village. Most controversially in some communities, marriage proposals are only considered from individuals from the same caste, even though Islam, which is rooted in the principle that all human beings are of equal worth, is fundamentally opposed to the very idea of caste.
These unspoken rules of culture contradict the simple yet unheeded words of the Prophet Muhammad which sum up the criteria for a prospective partner with wisdom and simplicity: ‘Do not look for wealth or beauty as these will last only a short time, and then you will be left with nothing. Look for piety and faith and you will get everything, including beauty and wealth with it.’
Despite all the unsaid cultural regulations, it is important for both parties not to appear too fastidious when it comes to selecting a spouse. Matchmakers lose interest in families who turn down prospective partners for nit-picking reasons. It is also important not to appear too eager. The stench of desperation is universally despised across cultures but the conditions are especially stringent in the Asian context. It is shameful for a girl herself to show any interest in getting married, no matter how much she may want to. This is because women are not supposed to be interested in worldly matters such as men. Perhaps in traditional societies where a woman used to have little choice in her partner, her interest would be futile. If asked by an Auntie or potential mother-in-law ‘Are you interested in marriage?’, the girl must blush shyly, look coyly to one side and whisper a platitude: ‘Well, it’s in Allah’s hands. Of course all girls would like to get married.’
There was something in the very essence of this process that made young women squirm and even made young men run in fear. It was just so very embarrassing. We squealed at the agony of the ritual, both boys and girls. The parents, the mothers-in-law and the Aunties held it together. They were the cast and chorus, with cameos from the boy and girl. Things might not be perfect, they told us, but the Search According to Tradition had worked for generations. Do you want to change the world, or simply find a wonderful partner and live happily ever after? And who would dare to argue with that?
When I was a young girl, we had a family tradition of a Sunday afternoon drive. Part of this ritual was to listen to Sunrise Radio, the first big Asian radio station in London. The afternoon show was a phone-in for people searching for a marriage partner. It was aimed at the Sub-continental population, which included Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs and even Christians. Callers usually consisted of prospective mothers-in-law looking for wives for their sons, or of ‘fresh-off-the-boat’ Sub-continental men looking for wives, and the bonus of a British passport. Even as a child I found it extremely funny. I was blissfully oblivious to the impact that such attitudes would have on my life when I grew up. Perhaps that was why everyone else seemed to take it so seriously.
‘I’m looking for a wife for my son,’ the elderly lady would say in her thick accent interspersed with Urdu words.
‘Tell me what kind of girl you are looking for,’ the host would respond in her gentle but serious voice. I often wondered if she muted out her giggles. On air she always sounded deeply concerned and full of gravitas, an Asian Sue Lawley meets Claire Rayner.
‘I’d like someone who is about eighteen, fair, homely and domesticated, and from a good family. She should be slim and white and have finished her schooling to A-level. Not tall, please. And fair, homely and domesticated.’
‘OK,’ continued Asian Sue Lawley, ‘Tell me about your son.’
‘He’s 30, five foot three, well built, studying first degree in accounts.’ I smirked. I waited for the velvet-tongued presenter to cut in and expose the contrast between what she was offering and what she wanted, but nobody seemed to notice the double standards apart from me.
‘And what is his skin colour?’
‘He is dark and he has put on a bit of weight but he is, after all, eating his mother’s cooking,’ she beamed radiantly through the air waves.
‘And should the girl be working?’
‘It’s OK if she works until she gets married, we’re very modern. Once my son has passed his accountancy exams, she can stay at home and look after both of us.’
With the mother-in-law’s emphasis on modernity, I was sure they would have warped their beautiful names to somethin
g more ‘English’.
‘Thank you. That is Auntie Sugar from Hounslow looking for a wife for her son Harry who is 30, five foot three, dark and round, still studying and living with his mother, looking for a fair, homely and domesticated wife from a good family to stay at home and look after his mother. Number three-three-seven-eight for all you lovely ladies.’
It was an uneven playing field, but at least the rules were clear.
Intertangled
‘Love comes after marriage’ was the familiar refrain of the Imam of our local mosque. He was an indomitable figure in our community, much loved and respected. This was one of his favourite phrases about marriage. ‘What is this “click” that people are looking for?’ he would say. ‘When you first meet, he does his hair all slicked back and puts on his best aftershave. And she puts on make up and smells oh-so-good. And you are both on your best behaviour, relaxed and showing only your good sides. And you both think “Aaah! I’m in love”, “he is so wonderful”, “she is the one”. Only when you wake up in the morning and you smell his breath and you see her with her hair standing on end like a jinn, only then can you know what love is.’
This was certainly not the romance of Beauty and the Beast – or John Travolta. The Imam wasn’t anti-romance, just anti-blind-romance. He challenged the prevailing narratives around me about Finding the One, Falling in Love, Getting Married, and Living Happily Ever After. He didn’t spell it out, but he meant that films end abruptly when Sally and Harry get it together, when Seattle is no longer Sleepless, when boy gets girl. At the peak of precarious joy, the story ends. What was the reality of the After, when they said Happily Ever After? Was it endless summer breezes and dreamy flushed gazes? Or was it a negotiation around dirty dishes, unfinished DIY projects and unpaid bills?
Love was indeed a passionate human experience, of this the Imam was in no doubt. It could be transformative but it was a force to be tamed and channelled. Its rightful place was inside a marriage, where its transcendent virtues could shine without complications. Only within this structure of commitment, which gave formal security to both husband and wife, and only with the formal consent given by both the man and the woman to begin the relationship could love fully flourish. Marriage was an act of worship and love was the gift given in return.
The Imam was very clear about the importance of two things: agreement by both the individuals themselves and a formal written contract to underpin the relationship. In his words, marriage was the difference between a verbal agreement and a written contract. Whenever you dealt with matters of great importance, the law demanded a written contract in order to guarantee the rights of both parties and outline the nature of the relationship. When dealing with personal relationships, the same rules ought to apply, and so marriage would be a contract between two parties on the relationship they were agreeing to.
Talking about love, marriage and partnerships was a common and natural part of growing up for me. From a very young age, I was taught about Love. Not only about flowers and chocolates, but also about the hardships of love: its sacrifice, its divine meaning, and its joy and pleasure. The multiple and multiplying rewards of love had to be worked for, and that came with time and patience. Over and over again I heard this advice, this rhythmical lyrical preparation to love.
‘Marriage and love are not grand abstract emotions that exist outside of the realities of life,’ the Imam explained. ‘They come shackled to the drudgery of daily routine.’ This was a fact most people, especially teenage romantics like me, preferred to ignore. ‘And yet, everything you do as a Muslim,’ the Imam elaborated, ‘is an act of worship.’
‘According to the Prophet Muhammad, being a human being is very simple, “Knowing God, and serving humanity.” Even if you think they are dull and you don’t like doing them, doing your bit in the world, even with things like laundry and mopping, can help you on the path towards enlightenment.’
The Imam’s views were designed to be a walking, talking reality check about love. He encouraged people to be in love, but all the while remembering that it wouldn’t be constant high romance. Housework and hoovering were just as worthy forms of devotion to God as prayer and meditation.
We attended many weddings, perhaps one every three or four weeks. They were always community events and everyone was invited, no matter how distantly related or how tenuously known. If they weren’t invited, it would look bad. There would be hundreds and hundreds of people coming to celebrate the union of the bride and groom and the two families. Attending was seen as part of social obligation to the community, and any unjustified absences would be considered as snubs by the wedding parties and noted for the future.
Due to the sheer number of guests, weddings typically took place either in the mosque or in a large community hall. The weddings that I went to were usually segregated, with men gathering round the groom and his family on one side, and women unveiled in all their finery on the other. I loved the clothes that we wore. They were always in beautiful bright colours like crimson, pink, turquoise, emerald and purple, and embroidered with sparkling sequins, crystals and beads. They looked even more exquisite as they were made of luxurious feminine fabrics like silk, chiffon and georgette. I would wear a shalwar kameez or, when I was still a young girl, a small blouse with a skirt. The older girls and women would wear glamorous lenghas, which were heavily beaded silk bodices and long princess-like skirts. I wanted to wear these beautiful fairytale clothes too. I longed even more to wear a sari, which the women wore so elegantly and which flattered their curves, but young girls did not wear saris. I would have to wait till I was grown up.
The bride would enter the hall accompanied by her matron of honour, her veil hanging low over her face so she could barely be seen. Her hands and feet were exquisitely decorated with henna. Some brides wore red outfits; in our tradition we wore white. She might choose to wear a traditional sari, or if she was more ‘modern’ she would wear a lengha. When I was a child I would race to line the bride’s path along with the other young girls so that I could look at her bridal outfit, and see how enchanting she looked. I would then race back to my mother’s side and gasp, ‘She’s so beautiful! Can I have an outfit like that?’ and my mother would respond, ‘Yes, of course! Yours will be even more beautiful.’
The wedding ceremony began with a khutba, a short lecture given by the Imam or Shaikh, which was usually spent explaining the virtues of marriage. They reminded us that according to the Prophet, getting married meant you would ‘complete half your faith’, adding his words, ‘Whoever rejects marriage is not from me.’
The marriage would then be conducted. Both the bride and groom would usually ask someone to represent them to participate in the nikah, the Islamic marriage ceremony. The bride’s side took the first step in the ceremony by asking if the groom would accept her in marriage. This was to ensure that the bride was happy to get married. The groom’s side would respond by accepting. The Arabic words were usually used for this exchange. The bride said ‘Ankahtu’, I give myself, and the groom replied, ‘Qabiltu’, I accept. As part of the marriage, the groom would give a gift to the bride, called the mahr. This was usually a small amount of money, as a token of the groom’s affection, for when the two of them started their new life. The bride would tell the groom what she wanted the gift to be – and it could be anything, from teaching a skill, to a holiday, to a car, absolutely anything at all. Finally, the Imam would recite a prayer to bless the newly married couple. The whole marriage only took a few moments.
According to the Qur’an, God would put mercy and love between the couple. The Qur’an talks about this love with a special reverence, describing it with a sense of purity and spirituality that was dearer and sweeter than ordinary romantic love. This love, muwaddah, was reserved for those in a committed relationship and was a special gift for those who made that commitment. This is why I wanted to get married: in return for commitment, faith and dedication, there was a guarantee that love would definitely come after marri
age, and that love would be sweet, kind and compassionate. Love and marriage were like, well, a horse and carriage. Or was that a carriage and a horse?
Before the wedding itself, there would be several celebrations held by the women of the two families. My recollections as a young girl are of sitting at such gatherings listening intently to conversations about how to make a marriage successful. The discussions about love and marriage involved the whole community, including youngsters like me. The desire to make marriage and family a success was drummed into us from an early age, and we were given the guidance and tools to do so. Even at madrasah we were taught how to select a future spouse. What kind of qualities should we look for? How should we nurture a loving relationship? How should we make it last long term? We might have been very young, but the lessons were designed to grow into our hearts and into the essence of our beings.
There was one thing that bothered me. All the advice and preparation seemed entirely aimed at the young women. It seemed unfair and unintelligent that the young men were not prepared in the same way. Didn’t they also need to be ready for a relationship?
The Qur’an told me that men and women are a pair, designed to complete each other, equal and balanced. But the Aunties, who represented the conventions of culture, were quite clear in their views that the success of any marriage was in the hands of the woman. I was uneasy with this burden, as it clashed with my sense of fairness and my understanding of Islam.
On the other hand, my local Imam was constantly expressing his sadness and frustration at the over-inflated expectations of ‘young people’. He thought people should learn to be more contented and understand the bigger picture, and that it wasn’t possible to feel constantly in the throes of romantic passion. He felt that people gave up too easily. ‘Couples on the verge of divorce come to me and they say “Mulla, I don’t care for him anymore.”’ He would sigh the sigh of a man who has seen the world. ‘You can’t give up because you don’t care. You are married to him. You don’t come in and out of caring,’ he would say. He was usually very laid back but you could see that this sort of youthful flippancy made him cross.
Love in a Headscarf Page 6
