Until We Meet Again in Jannah

by Laki Khan

  Sumayah finally made eye contact with me and said, ‘Saira, you know you’re my best friend, you’re like a sister to me, but Abbuji has made it clear that if I continue to be friends with you then I won’t get any proposals and will remain unmarried like you, and people will question his honour and dignity.’ Her eyes were swimming, which made me tearful too. I stood speechless, unable to find the words to express any emotion. I gasped and hugged Sumayah. ‘Abbuji thinks that you’re a negative influence on me, and says everyone in the village is starting to gossip about why you’re not married yet, and I’m not allowed to see you anymore. I’m sorry,’ she cried.

  I was devastated to say the least. Her words cut deep into my heart like a wound, but somehow I managed to maintain a neutral expression on my face – or at least I tried. I remembered how my Abbuji had worked so hard to change the mentality of this village so that women could have and pursue opportunities like the men here. The harsh reality was that it had remained of the same magnitude; the men were thought to be superior, the providers, whilst the women were merely an object for reproduction with no status or value. Although I felt upset and devalued, I decided I was not going to submit to this attitude. I composed myself, looked at Sumayah, and explained that she was doing the right thing and that she should listen to her father. I smiled at her, locking away my sadness, and bid her goodbye. I walked home alone unable to stop tears from rolling down my cheeks. I wanted to shout in retaliation at the turmoil inside. I wanted to question the entire village and demand answers right away.

  Why was it deemed necessary for women to marry and reproduce? Was that our sole purpose and role in life?

  Were women not allowed to make their own decisions based on their own intellect?

  Had we become such a burden on mankind that an unmarried woman was thought of as disgraceful and an outcast, unless she surrendered to the superiority of men?

  Why were women continuously taught and told that they must bow down to the authority of men?

  Why were we continuously told that we can’t?

  The questions continued to manifest themselves in turn, increasing my anger and frustration all the more. I wanted to know why women were made to feel inferior, and given no choice but to conform to the cultural traditions of this village.

  I stood in our front courtyard where Ammu’s moving shadow was visible from outside. Taking care to wipe away all evidence of tears from my face I rearranged my hijab, making it neat. I was willing to go to any lengths to conceal this from Ammu. I figured she spent enough time worrying about me, and this additional stress would be totally unnecessary. Prior to entering I painted a smile on my face, attempting to bid farewell to the painful grimace and devastation I harboured inside.

  ‘Ammu, I missed you.’ I clung on to her in an embrace as she gave me that warm maternal smile and led me to our waiting dinner. Ammu chatted about the bridal gowns that she had created and how beautifully the colours complemented each other. I felt guilty for not being able to give her my undivided attention; after all, her hard work was for my benefit entirely.

  In a state of emotional turmoil I began to peel a few litchis for our dessert. ‘Saira, stop,’ said Ammu. I was so distracted that I was unable to feel the sticky litchi juice dripping down my wrists and spilling all over my kameez. Ammu knew how much I detested the feel of litchi juice and she immediately began to wash my hands, giggling while I stared down at the sticky floor, expressionless. She looked at me ominously as if she could feel the worry and concern I must have been showing. I was angry at myself for being so transparent; Ammu could read me like a book.

  ‘There you go – it’s all silky and shiny now,’ she said as she gently separated out the strands of my hair with her fingers, massaging it well with the strongly scented black seed oil. As always the massage relaxed me more than the intended result of the oil rejuvenating my hair. ‘Saira, is everything all right?’ she continued.

  I reassured her saying I was tired and in dire need of sleep. That night I sat up thinking about Sumayah; I missed her terribly. I knew the cold reality was that I would have to forsake our friendship, to save her chastity from being questioned.

  That moment I took an oath to sacrifice our years of friendship and sisterhood, for the sake of guarding Sumayah’s honour from being painted by a tarnish that would forever remain immovable.

  Chapter 4 – With Courage Comes Strength

  The next day Ammu left before me. I walked to school in a daze of fatigue, although I was relieved that today was mostly singing songs with the children, which they loved. On my way back from school, I naturally thought of Sumayah; everywhere I walked in the village was reminiscent of her. When I reached home that day Ammu was still at work, so I sat beside the stream dipping my feet in to the tune of the running water. I recalled the umpteen times I had sat at this very spot with Sumayah, laughing, chatting, eating, and just enjoying each other’s company. Her words echoed through my mind and I began to wonder. Had Sumayah’s father been right, had people in the village been questioning my celibacy? I wondered whether they had mentioned this to Ammu. This notion concerned me; I did not want the villagers to disdain or blame my mother for something she had no control over. After all, it was my decision as to whether I wanted to take this enormous step in my life. Was I psychologically, emotionally and physically ready to surrender to a lifetime of commitment and responsibility? I knew that marriage was held in high regard in my faith and Nikkah – the wedding ceremony – considered to be an act of worship.

  That evening Ammu and I were sitting together sipping ginger tea. I listened as she chatted, pausing and smiling at her every so often. ‘Where’s Sumayah,’ she asked. Her question threw me as I was secretly avoiding this scenario. However, it seemed nothing escaped her observational skills.

  ‘She’s not been very well, and is resting mostly,’ I replied hesitantly.

  Ammu’s confused expression made it obvious that she was not convinced. ‘Saira, is everything okay?’ she enquired, now with a worried undertone to her voice. I maintained my stance and continued to reassure her. I then searched for courage to broach the topic of marriage, failing miserably.

  That night I lay in bed with the words on the tip of my tongue and then blurted it right out. ‘Do you think I should think about getting married now?’ The echo of those words seemed to surround me as my voice bounced back from every wall in our house.

  Ammu sat up immediately and smiled, placing her soft hand on my head. She gently said, ‘Is that what’s been bothering you, dear?’ I nodded in relief and asked her how she knew that my father was the one for her.

  She smiled a dreamy smile and replied, ‘We seemed to have this magnetic connection with each other from the moment we met, and I just followed my heart and my instincts and left the rest to God Almighty.’ From what I had witnessed Ammu and Abbuji had had a beautiful loving relationship; neither had displayed superiority over the other, they were kind and had mutual respect for one another. They had even made the smallest of decisions together, standing side by side, unified through the good and the bad times. I decided that this was how marriage should be and this was what I would plan for: a relationship that was based on love, respect and mutual understanding, one that knew no boundaries, and with a bond so strong that it could withstand every trial and every tribulation.

  I told Ammu that I would consider looking at potential suitors for the purpose of marriage; I wanted to prevent the gossip that had been gradually spreading from reaching her. Ammu always made me feel comfortable talking to her about even the most difficult subjects. She was delighted to say the least. She looked at me again and asked, ‘Are you sure about this?’ to ensure that I had thought this through carefully. I nodded; after all, the virtues of marriage did not include secluding oneself in a cardboard box. It was one of the most beautiful bonds of life and it was naturally the next chapter in mine. Searching for potential suitors was a speciality in itself in our village. The message would be spread far
and wide by word of mouth, and people would bring potential grooms to Ammu’s attention and the process of introductory meetings would follow. However, the Nikkah would only be concluded and solemnised when both the bride and groom and their families had given their full conscious consent.

  A few weeks passed by, and I relished the beauty of my favourite season. The days were getting hotter and more humid, with the anticipation of heavy rainfall and mud slides to follow, although the villagers remained optimistic about being able to save their crops from withering away along with the monsoon rain. I continued to enjoy teaching as my children were now learning exceptionally well and never ceased to amaze me each and every day. I had a different story to narrate to Ammu every evening, which she enjoyed as much as I did narrating them.

  During this time Ammu presented me with many photos with which she had been inundated by the people of our village, and it came as no surprise that they were very keen to marry me off. Only one person caught my attention: Hamid, who was seven years older than me, also a teacher by profession, and who resided in a village nearby. He had spent two years living out in Dubai where he taught English. However, he had now decided to marry and settle back here. Ammu and I met with him with the guidance and support of Mesabji Chacha. Hamid was invited to our house along with his parents for the introductory meeting. As tradition dictated I draped a sari around me, attempting to look feminine and pretty. Although I was extremely nervous, I met with Hamid and asked him my pre-prepared set of questions, which he answered kindly, much to my satisfaction, mainly concerning my continuing to teach after marriage, which he accepted. I was so overtaken by his kind nature, level of maturity and love for teaching that I unconsciously turned a blind eye to everything else important. Sumayah’s words were still etched in my mind and I thought about the scandal and rumours that were slowly spreading about me amongst the villagers. I was determined that this was something I would never allow to fall on my mother’s ears.

  A few days later, after much deliberation, I informed Ammu of my decision to accept this alliance. In my village, this was usually celebrated by handing out home-made sweets to every household, and that was exactly what followed. The union of marriage was celebrated in various ways depending on the customs and rituals of one’s village, and your wealth and financial stability. The custom in my village was to have an intimate Nikkah followed by a public celebration which included the entire village, with food, food, and more food, accompanied by singing and dancing. The villagers would then all bid farewell to the bride and bless her with good tidings as she began the new journey in her life. The date of my Nikkah had been finalised for a few weeks’ time and the arrangements had begun, although I felt indifferent to the entire process.

  One afternoon, whilst on my return journey home, I stumbled into Sumayah who was carrying fresh vegetables that she had picked from the communal field to take back home. We both stood still on the path and a surge of happiness sparked through me. I had so many things I wanted to tell her. Unable to hold back I smiled, putting my arms out to her in the hope of a much-needed embrace; in return Sumayah flung her hands around my neck. ‘Sumayah, I have so much to tell you,’ I screeched. We walked together for a while, chatting about the smallest of things that had occurred in our lives since the last time we had met. I told her about my wedding, which sounded so strange when spoken out loud. We then chatted about Hamid; I told Sumayah everything I knew of him. Bewildered, she asked me how I had consented to marrying Hamid based on the very little information I had about him. I stood still, shocked, and stared at her in confusion and dismay.

  ‘Saira, do you feel physically attracted to him?’ This question unearthed a dilemma that perhaps I was trying to bury in the depths of my subconscious mind. I looked away in an attempt to disguise my anguish and distress, but she knew my innermost secrets. ‘Answer my question, Saira,’ she repeated.

  ‘Well, is that the most important thing? What about a person’s character?’ I replied hesitantly.

  Sumayah held my hand and said, ‘Saira, I have known you a very long time and Wallahi, I swear to God, I love you as dear as a sister, but I am pleading with you do not sacrifice your life to something your heart does not accept. Please follow your heart and not your mind and stay true to your spirit.’ She gently nudged my shoulder, giving me a knowing look, and walked away leaving me embroiled in a web of utter confusion. I sat near the footpath and watched her walk away into the distance until her shadow had become invisible and then a memory. Her words echoed in my mind, further increasing my frustration. What was Sumayah trying to tell me? How ironic that the person who had convinced me to contemplate the very idea of marriage was today the same person who was causing me to doubt my decision.

  I thought about Hamid as I walked. It was true – I was unsure of whether or not I was physically attracted to him. Would it be immoral and unethical to marry a person I did not find attractive? The internal debate only intensified, producing more questions in my mind, most of which I was unable to answer. I watched a tired-looking lady walking with her children and as usual she held out an umbrella, allowing her son to walk in the shade as she and her daughter walked in the searing heat. They came to sit near me, and the lady brought out sugar cane sticks and water, allowing her son to eat and drink first while her thirsty daughter waited patiently, holding her muddy marbles, and only came forward when her mother instructed. Childhood was where it all began. I could recall as a little girl being told umpteen times how we must wait for the boys to take the lead, be it playing a game in school, or waiting in line for sweets at the local shop. The fact remained that it was ingrained within us to feel subordinate, and inferior. This was testament to the lifestyle that was led by the women of my village.

  I finally reached home to the sweet smell of fresh jalebis, which was one of Ammu’s special home-made delicacies: a dessert she made during times of celebration such as Eid and, of course, weddings. Our house was filled with an aroma of sweetness, reminiscent of a time of celebration and joy. I stood still and silent behind Ammu, merging into her shadow. She turned around, almost scalding me with the heat from the sizzling pan in her hand, and quickly hurried me out of the way. Ammu then placed an appetising plate of jalebis in front of me, gesturing with the other hand for me to eat. I placed a piece in my mouth, devouring the juicy sweetness that tickled my taste buds, while the turmoil in my heart grew stronger, reminding me of the storm brewing in my mind. I felt ashamed; how could I be so cruel and take away this happiness? Ever since I had consented to the alliance, she had immersed herself in making arrangements and preparing for my Nikkah. She sat next to me and I smiled in an attempt to conceal my dilemma.

  ‘Saira.’

  ‘Yes, Ammu,’ I replied.

  ‘I’m just going to clean up the kitchen and then I need to show you something,’ she said. I nodded and placed another jalebi in my mouth. I sat out in the back courtyard dipping my feet into the coolness of the stream. This was my favourite place in the entire village, so beautiful and serene. I enjoyed sitting here, connecting to nature and reflecting. This was also the place where I did all my thinking, and today especially I needed perspective. I wished for Sumayah to be by my side, so she could explain what she had meant earlier. Perhaps she was implying that I was not ready to take on the responsibility of marriage.

  I heard Ammu call out for me. I lifted my feet out of the water and immediately began walking towards her voice. ‘Close your eyes,’ she instructed as I entered the house. She held my hand, guiding me to sit down. I heard rustling sounds as if she were unearthing treasure that had been hidden away. I waited anxiously, attempting to peek, although Ammu placed her hand over my eyes just in time. ‘Right, now open your eyes,’ she said with a joyous dreamy note to her voice, which I seldom heard. I opened my eyes and to my astonishment she was holding up a gown against herself. My eyes were now wide open, appreciating the sheer beauty of this dress that shone before me. I gasped as I touched the layers of raw silk fabric
that fell all the way to the floor. The dress was an off-white, milky ivory colour. The arms were long and made from a lace with intricate, delicate, and elegant patterns. The bodice was of an Italian silk covered in net lace filled with many shining diamanté stones coloured gold and bronze, resembling an antique piece of artwork. I was enthralled by the sheer beauty of this gown, which in a strange way reflected the expression on Ammu’s face, fascinating me all the more.

  As she looked at the gown I knew she was smiling internally, reminiscing about Abbuji. She walked me right in front of the mirror and held the dress against me, standing close. We both gazed at the shiny reflection of the stones against the light in the mirror. ‘Ammu, this is absolutely gorgeous, it is so beautiful,’ I squeaked in excitement.

  ‘It is, just like you, my dear,’ she replied. We sat down, still holding the gown, and, as she took my hand in hers, her voice began to break a little. I knew she was feeling sentimental. She looked at me and said, ‘Saira, your father gifted me this dress when we married, and I wore it during my Nikkah. After you came into our lives we both decided that for your Nikkah we would ask you to wear this same dress – but only if that is what you want, dear.’ She smiled and explained that my father had wanted her to wear white as it symbolised purity and a new beginning, and then added that wearing this gown would be like having a piece of Abbuji with me. Her words touched my heart so intensely that I began to feel goosebumps all over my body; this was a beautiful gesture. I felt proud to have parents who I held in such high esteem; how thoughtful of Ammu to safeguard her wedding dress all these years just so I could feel and be a part of the love they had shared between them.

  ‘This is awesome,’ I gasped.

  ‘Does that mean you will wear it?’