by S. Nahar
He said salaams to whoever he was talking to and hung up. “Hey, tubby.”
“Was that the Imam?” I asked, completely ignoring his childish nickname for me.
“Yeah, it was. Guess what?”
“What?”
“You got a marriage proposal!” he said, elated.
I gave him my blank stare. “Again?” I asked in a bored tone.
I’d gotten plenty of marriage proposals in the past, but none of the guys seemed to suit me. Some of them didn’t even have a sense of humor or weren’t even that practicing. I wanted a man with a kind heart, someone who wouldn’t be afraid to argue with me and someone who understood the importance of having Allah remembered not only in our minds, but in our hearts. Baba didn’t even like some of the guys that proposed to me before.
He glared, rolling his eyes. “Okay, very funny. This one is special. He’s a convert.”
This caught my attention. “How long since he converted?”
“Five years.”
That was a pretty long time. Could it be Damon?
He did defend Muslims after that riot years ago. He defended Islam on live TV. It was all over the newspapers and many Muslims talked about for months. I had to admit, whenever people talked about Damon, I’d always feel a surge of pride pulse through my veins. I taught him about Islam, and now he was a defender of Muslims, armed with knowledge and his sword of morals.
“What’s his name?” I asked, desperate to know if it really was Damon.
Tanwir pretended to zip his lips. “Not saying. It’ll ruin the surprise.”
“You can’t put stress on me like that and not tell me.”
“Too late, I just did,” he shrugged. “By the way, our parents are coming over tomorrow, along with the Imam and the guy.”
“Great. You don’t tell me about the guy and you throw the bomb of a fancy dinner at me. Just great,” I muttered under my breath.
“Heard that!” he shouted, walking away towards his bedroom.
“Good! I hope you feel bad about not telling me!” I yelled back.
“I have no remorse!”
How did I get stuck with such a pompous brother?
Chapter 53
Proposals and Suspicious Fathers
Damon Winters
My leg shook up and down, anxiety pulsing my veins like a fire set to gasoline. I bit my nail as I looked out the window, searching for some divine sign that told me I was overreacting, anything to prove that I was fine and all would go well.
The sunshine mocked my nerves.
I rehearsed everything I was going to say to Amira’s father for hours, talking until my voice was sore and my lips were dry. Now, I forgot everything.
Take a deep breath, I told myself. It’s not like my entire future with my dream girl will be ruined if I screw up. I face palmed. Man, I had horrible prep talks to myself. I wasn’t even nervous.
I was petrified.
I remembered Amira told me how overprotective her father was. Being a Bengali-Muslim father didn’t make anything easier. It only made my collar feel tighter, and my throat feel like sandpaper. I doubted that her parents would be pleased to see a white guy at their doorstep asking for her hand in marriage.
I knew I shouldn’t think this way, but we lived in a world where interracial couples were still new, especially to the Bangladeshi community. Not to mention, my father hated me for doing this.
Sad to say, Dad did not take the news of my conversion to Islam well. He threw a table at me. Imam Zakir had advised me to be patient with my parents because it wasn’t easy for them to find out that their eldest son converted to a religion they had prejudices against. Of course, I listened to him.
Zakir had been the imam that converted me. He spent the last five years being my mentor and best friend. He taught me the Arabic alphabet, Quranic grammar rules, pronunciation, how to pray, and most importantly he taught me how to read the Qur’an.
Regardless, my mind was still consumed by thoughts of the girl I loved. There wasn’t a day that went by when I didn’t think of Amira. My future was planned around her, and it included her in every aspect of my plans for my life. It didn’t matter how far the distance between us is or how many years we are apart; I would keep on loving Amira.
She was the one. She was the queen of my kingdom, the light of my eyes, the muse to my voice, and the other half to my deen (religion).
“Hey, Zakir?”
“Yeah, man?” he asked, a little distracted by the road.
I inhaled deep breath. “You’re Bengali, how do you impress Bangladeshi parents?”
Zakir glanced at me with an amused grin. “You don’t.”
“Say what now?” I asked with wide eyes. No way. Did I just dig my own grave?
Zakir chuckled. “I’m kidding.”
“You scared the crap out of me,” I breathed out in relief.
“Listen, Damon. When I got ready to propose to my wife, I was scared to death. Her father had just died and her brother was the most overprotective man I’d ever seen. I was for sure that I was a goner. Actually... I didn’t even have the guts to ask for her hand in marriage for a long time,” he said softly.
“So what gave you the courage to do it?”
He gazed at the road ahead with a longing expression. “Allah gave me the courage. I’d get nightmares of losing her or dreams about my future with her. I guess it was Allah’s way of guiding me. Eventually, I heard about a guy proposing to her and that drove anger all over my body. At that point, I knew I had to ask for her hand in marriage before I lost her.”
I let out a low whistle. “Damn, that’s deep.”
Zakir shook his head with a small smile painted across his lips. “Damon, relax. If this was meant to be, Allah will guide you. Allah is the best of planners just trust Him,” he assured me.
I trust Allah.
***
Zakir and I, sat on the couch of the small apartment. Tanwir and Zakir were chatting it up about politics. I occasionally joined in, but Amira’s dad was glaring at me, a murderous frown sent directly at me.
When the suffocation became too overbearing, I nudged Zakir in the arm. He ignored it. Rolling my eyes, I kicked his shin.
“Ow!” he hissed. “What?”
“Her dad is killing me here,” I whisper-yelled back.
Zakir nervously smiled and cleared his throat. Amira’s dad briefly glanced at him before bringing his eyes back to my terrified self. Even Tanwir looked uncomfortable as an awkward silence fell upon us, stretching between the tension and uneasiness.
“Why does a white man want to marry my daughter?” her dad questioned as he narrowed his eyes at my small beard.
Zakir and I, exchanged glances. Damn, her dad was rough. I didn’t want to mention his rudeness because in Bengali culture being blunt probably wasn’t rude. At least he was being straightforward with me.
“Brother, Damon converted to Islam five years ago. He was the man who defended Islam when the riots against the masjid happened. I’ve been his mentor for those years,” Zakir said.
Her father eyed me again. “Damon, why do you want to marry my daughter?”
I looked at Zakir and he shrugged at me. I mentally groaned. Allah, why did You make this so horrifying for me?
I took a deep breath, just talk from the heart, be blunt, and tell the truth. “I’ve heard your daughter was very religious. I would like to have a wife who follows Allah’s commands and the sunnah of our beloved Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him). I know that I am still a new convert to Islam, but sir, I have never known the peace religion gave to one’s mind and soul. Allah has brought me to the straight path and I would like to continue this religious journey with my lifetime companion, my spouse, my wife.”
Her father’s harsh expression softened as he asked, “Why did you convert?”
Tanwir gave me an encouraging nod with his head. “When I was in high school, I thought all religions were stupid, especially Islam. I was brainwashed by th
e lies the media fed me and my personal experience with one deranged Muslim. Then I met a real Muslim, who taught me through actions.
“This Muslim was patient with me when I asked rude questions or judged Islam. This Muslim helped me through the most difficult times in my life. This Muslim opened the doors to Islam for me when I didn’t have the courage to do it myself. Through this person, I learned that Islam wasn’t sent as a punishment, it was sent as a blessing to mankind,” I finished softly as I remembered Amira’s words.
Amira’s father smiled at me. “Good answer,” he grinned.
I felt my own lips curl upwards as I returned the smile. Zakir nudged my side. I raised my eyebrow at him as he gestured me to talk more.
“Oh right,” I mumbled, realizing I still had to propose. “I know it’s weird to see a white guy like me to propose, but sir, I would be honored if you let me marry your daughter. I need a woman who will help me become a better Muslim and keep me on the right path. So, may I have your daughter’s hand in marriage?” I asked with a tight smile, worried that after all this he would still say no.
Amira’s father gestured with his hands at the door behind him. My jaw almost dropped at this woman’s beauty. She was dressed in a purple salwaar kameez (Bengali traditional dress) and a hijab wrapped tightly around her delicate head. Those familiar brown eyes stared back at them with the exact love and adoration I say before she left.
The love of my life stood right in front of me. Amira.
She was as beautiful as ever, time a gentle caress that only amplified her beauty throughout the years. Her eyes were lined with black kohl, giving Amira a seductive yet subtle look to her. My arms begged to hold her after all this time apart, to cradle her cheeks and kiss those inviting lips, but I held myself together, tightening my control.
A voice cleared behind me and I quickly lowered my gaze. I probably ruined everything now by staring at her right in front of her father.
“Amira?”
“Yes, Baba?” her velvet voice said innocently.
God, she was still so pure and perfect.
“You heard everything, so what do you say to the marriage?” her father asked with a knowing smile.
Amira glanced up at me. “Yes.”
My heart stopped. Did she just say, ‘yes’? I pinched myself. This had to be a dream but to my delight, it was real.
Her father nodded. “Yes, you may have my daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Cheers erupted around us as the females who were waiting in the other room came out. I silenced everyone out as I narrowed my vision in on the girl in front of me. The urge to touch her was so strong, but I knew I had to wait. I’ve gotten this far, now I had to just wait a little more.
“Told you that I’d make you mine, beautiful,” I smirked.
Chapter 54
Her Fairytale
Amira Sarker
“Amira!” Tasneem yelled as she held the eyeliner pencil. “Look up or else I might poke your eye.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, fidgeting with the sleeves of my red bridal gown. “I’m just nervous.”
Kanza laughed from the couch across the room. “Oh, you’re funny. Good joke.” She shook her head amused, muttering something about me being a jokester under her breath.
She had been swiping through her phone, checking her social medias for the new vlog she posted yesterday. Over the years, Kanza had become fond of YouTube, and was actively posting humorous skits and vlogs during the week. Kanza figured my wedding day would be a fun time to pull the camera and record the “blushing bride” for a couple minutes.
I stared at her blankly. This girl made everything a joke.
She put her phone and camera down. “Listen, you are the most confident girl I have ever met. You give speeches and presentations like it’s no big deal.” Kanza examined her nails. “All you gotta do here is sit there and look pretty. Honestly, Amira, it’s not that hard.”
“That is not all I have to do,” I said, crossing my arms in a challenge.
Kanza raised her eyebrows at me. “Oh?”
“I have to give my testimony of agreement in front of the witnesses, sign papers, and then have that awkward staring phase with the groom,” I scoffed.
“That sounds so hard,” Kanza said sarcastically.
“You know you guys do a great job of calming nerves on my wedding day,” I mumbled under my breath.
I must have not noticed that I moved because Tasneem slapped my arm lightly. “I told you not to move!” she exclaimed.
“You’re asking for a lot when you tell me not to move.”
Kanza stifled her laugh as she fixed her hijab.
“Very funny, Amira. I’m trying to make you look like a queen, but my God you are so difficult,” Tasneem sighed.
Tasneem was an amazing makeup artist, making my face the golden canvas of her work where shimmering eyeshadow, intense eyeliner and bright lips created a mesmerizing mask of beauty and made me a glowing bride. I asked her personally if she would do my makeup, which she squealed in delight after hearing I was getting married.
“That’s right, Amira. We have to give Damon a heart attack when he sees you,” Lucy joked, playfully when she walked into the room.
“Lucy! You’re here!” I smiled and ran up to hug her while Tasneem groaned in annoyance.
“How many times do I have to tell you? Stop moving!” Tasneem scowled, pulling my arm back down on my chair. “Sit, child.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Mom.”
Tasneem glared at me. “I’d be nice to me if I were you. I can still make you look like a clown,” she threatened.
“Alright, I’ll stay still.”
Lucy sighed. “Ah, nothing like good ol’ friendship banters before a nikkah.”
Lucy was dressed in a black jilbaab and a niqab. I felt so proud knowing that I witnessed her journey to Islam from the first day. Lucy converted way back in high school, but she increased her Islamic knowledge day by day, her thirst for knowledge growing more and more. In fact, Lucy was studying to be a teacher so she could teach at an Islamic school.
“I can’t wait to see Damon’s face when he sees you,” Kanza giggled.
“Trust me, when I finish applying this red lipstick on Amira, he’s going to be putty in her hands,” Tasneem said with a determined look on her face.
The girls were chatting as Tasneem finished my makeup. I couldn’t help but wonder if all this was real. Was I really about to marry the boy who I thought would never be mine?
I smiled. Allah definitely didn’t lie when He told us to be patient for good things to come. I couldn’t get this giddy feeling out of my system. Damon was going to be my husband. He was really going to be mine.
I started to remember the days and nights that I spent crying in my room. All the pain and misery I felt, the dark abyss of guilt that withered the stem of my faith for a short amount of time, the trembling sense of regret that haunted me during those lonely nights. At the same time, so much good came out of that suffering.
Tanwir stayed by my side. He comforted me in my darkest hours, being the noor (light) that protected me against the universe. His need to play hero had saved me from wallowing in my self-pity because every time I lose myself to guilt, my brother was there to remind me of the true meaning of a Muslim.
Muslims always come back to Allah, no matter how many times they messed up or how many times they felt lost in a sea of their own emotions, the chaos would disappear as we stood in prayer, unity and faith bonding us to Allah.
Thank you, Allah. None of this would be possible without You, I thought.
“Girls,” Mum said as she opened the door.
She froze when she looked at me. Nani was right behind her. Their eyes widened, jaws dropping as disbelief and pride swirled their dark, kohl-lined eyes.
Mum’s expression filled with sadness, lips trembling as she held back a cry. My heart lurched for her, wanting to hold my mother in my arms again, to revisit those days when I was youn
g with a dream to be married and be successful in life.
Tasneem and my other friends moved to give Nani and Mum space to walk towards me. Tasneem grinned widely and gestured for me to smile.
Mum’s hand went to her mouth. “Is this really my daughter?” she asked while keeping her gaze locked to mine.
Her brown eyes ushered with tears as Tasneem replied, “Yes.”
Nani held my face in her palms, lips twisting into a sad smile. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when you would get married,” she choked on her words as she pulled me into a tight hug. “Thank you, Allah. Thank you so much for blessing me with such a beautiful granddaughter,” she kissed all over my cheeks.
I heard a quiet sob from behind Nani and we both looked. There stood my beautiful mother in her purple floral abaya, wrapped in a magenta hijab, crying. She cried out of happiness and loss. Having her youngest daughter get married wasn’t easy for any parent. It was a sign that I had grown up, that I was ready to face the world on my own, that my duty now would be to care for my parents like they cared for me.
I stood up.
With every step I towards her, my heart felt heavy. My own eyes started to well up in tears, as I focused on my mother. I inhaled a sharp breath as I stood in front of her, our identical eyes locking with one another, tears glistening them with their clarity. My chest tightened as I saw myself through her eyes.
Instantly, her arms came around me and I was greeted by her motherly warmth. I held her onto her as if I might lose her at that second, as if I would be leaving her if I let go. I couldn’t stop the tears falling from my eyes and onto her hijab.
“I-I’m sorry,” she cried in my neck. “I just… I can’t let you go like this. You’re my b-baby,” she sobbed.
“I know,” I whispered.
She pulled back and wiped my tears with the back of her thumb, exhaling softly. The emotions those eyes contained broke my heart in pieces. I knew it wasn’t easy for a mother to let their child get married, especially the daughter she spent years protecting.
