Love in a Headscarf (15 page)

Then she would smile and laugh loudly. “Look at me, an old woman giving you advice.”

“
Naanima
,” I would answer, my heart bursting with love for this radiant light that was part of my life, “will you pray for me to get a good husband?” She put her hand on my head and said with the voice of a mother and the light of another world, “I pray for all my children to be happy. God will guide you and bless you. It is in His hands, just pray to Him.”

Her love would then melt into her huge smile, and I knew she was about to tease me about getting married.

“You’re a bit skinny,” she would laugh. “Is that what the men like these days?”

Lightning

I
longed for “that feeling” I believed would come from romantic sunset walks or watching the moon rise. But I also knew that this wasn’t the reality of life. Even the most handsome poetic romantic princes would struggle under the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen when you both examined the moldy contents of the fridge. Which man or woman could be perfect for more than one snapshot in time? Every human being is perpetually evolving, and so while they may be a romantic hero today, tomorrow there may be a discovery that reveals something new about them.

My dreaminess was not an affliction unique to Muslim women: it was shared by many other women and men. I reflected that if we were just to get on with it all and get married, so much of the energy, focus, and heartache we expended on looking for love would be freed up for other activities. I wondered how much time, effort, and money were spent across the country in pursuit of love, lust, and relationships. I wondered if the government had statistics on the potential for wealth, volunteerism, and happiness that had been lost in the all-out pursuit of love.

One Thursday we got a call about Karim. He was not from an East African background but rather of Indian origin. My mum was asked whether this was an issue. She responded, “Of course not, as long as he’s a good Muslim.” He sounded promising. He worked as a newspaper photographer. He was
not
an accountant. He had studied fine art at a prestigious university, was a year older than me, born and brought up in the UK.

My mother spoke to his mother to arrange a time for the meeting, and reported that she had sounded friendly and personable. They agreed to come over on Saturday at 3:00 p.m. There was no need to delay. If this one didn’t work out, we would have to move onto the next, and so there was no point postponing an introduction. Time is of the essence, I kept being warned. We had told Karim’s mother that we had to leave at 6:00 p.m. to attend a family wedding. We calculated that three hours was sufficient to drink some tea and have a preliminary meeting. They lived close by, so if things went well, we could always meet again; if they didn’t, at least we had a credible exit strategy in place.

By 4:00 p.m. they hadn’t arrived. They hadn’t called to say they were late either. We didn’t need to rush quite yet, but with only two hours to go, the proceedings would be constricted. Introductions require a certain amount of protocol and therefore can only be compressed so much. It would be rude of us to accelerate the meeting. My mum tried to call them to see what had happened. No answer. We assumed they had left already. We didn’t have a cell phone number to call them en route. She kept trying and at 4:30 p.m. she eventually got through.

“We’re waiting for my husband,” explained Karim’s mother. “I’m sure he’ll be home very soon and then we’ll leave. Don’t worry,” she said.

We didn’t worry, we fumed, smoke-from-ears fuming. They hadn’t even bothered to tell us they were going to be late. Eventually they arrived at 6:00 p.m. In order to make it to the wedding on time, I had changed out of my elegant, subtle skirt and shirt, and into a bright turquoise silk
shalwar kameez
with rich embroidery. It was perfect for a wedding but quite out of place for an introduction. I was also going through an experimental phase at the time, and to relieve the boredom while waiting for Karim, I painted my nails turquoise blue to match with my outfit. If he was cool then he would think it was just a bit of fun.

When they arrived I was dumbfounded. He was gorgeous. He had a beautiful face and amazing hazel eyes. He was courteous and charming, and had a gentle, warm presence that eased all the tension from the room. Although I was cross that they were so preposterously late, I was deeply excited. This was the first time in all the introductions made that I’d had this reaction to someone. I felt a poetic connection.

We chatted for a short time, delaying our journey to the wedding, prioritizing this meeting and feeling that even though it was they who had turned up three hours late, we had a duty to be polite and host them. Karim was intelligent and charming. He was also deeply connected to his faith as a Muslim, and that appealed to my spirit. My heart raced as I spoke to him. His smile sent shivers through me.

For once I felt tongue-tied, but he had enough skill and grace to carry the conversation. Although we only talked briefly, I felt that there was magic. At 7:00 p.m. we all exited our house. They returned to their home and we went to our wedding.

I was still annoyed at them for being so late and for the lack of courtesy, but I was smitten. He scored six out of six on the Shelina-Suitor-Scale of
Essentials.
The qualities I found so hard to locate elsewhere were abundantly present in him: he was a practicing Muslim who was deeply involved in running youth activities at his local mosque, he was looking for a wife who wore hijab, he was the right age, and a smart human being who was easy to talk to. And looking into his beautiful eyes, he met a few of my other
Desirable
qualities, too.

Finally I had found someone who shared my vision of faith and who I felt compatible with. I kept thinking about him, hoping that he had felt “that feeling,” too. I was sure that he had. All the signs were there. He had looked right in my eyes as we spoke and his smile had a certain warmth. Most importantly of all, he had told me how nice I was, and how refreshing it was to meet someone like me. I was sure that we would meet again.

Several days later we had still heard nothing. It wasn’t proper for my mother to call them. The girl’s family could not be so forward: the next move had to come from the boy’s side. We all grumbled about how we were at the mercy of the boy’s side and how humiliating it was that they controlled the whole situation. We pointed out to each other how Khadijah, the Prophet Muhammad’s first wife, who was herself a successful businesswoman, had taken the initiative in sending a marriage proposal to Muhammad. And yet despite this, we felt through the force of cultural standards that it would be too shameful to call them.

As the days went by, I lost hope and licked my wounds. I mourned that when I had finally found someone who was suitable and who I liked, he didn’t like me. Maybe it was the blue nail polish.

Three weeks later, on a Friday afternoon, we got a call. It was Karim’s mother. “We’d like to visit you tomorrow, Saturday at 2:00 p.m., so Karim and Shelina can meet again.” We were all shocked. We hadn’t heard a squeak for three weeks and now they wanted to come over tomorrow. Stunned by this revelation, my mum forgot to remain cool and agreed to her request, despite the fact we already had guests arranged. She rushed to reschedule. Suitors always took precedence: you never knew when you’d get the chance again.

At 10:00 a.m. we cleaned the house. At midday we made samosas and sweets. At 1:00 p.m. I started to get dressed to make sure I achieved a look that was both cute and modest. At 2:00 p.m. we waited. At 2:30 p.m. we continued to wait. At 3:00 p.m. we waited further, getting agitated. At 3:30 p.m. we grew furious. At 4:00 p.m. they arrived. I saw him and I melted. We talked and talked. He smiled at me and his beautiful hazel eyes lit up. I sank into them. What more could I ask for? I could feel the sparks flying. We exchanged cell phone numbers and e-mail addresses at the end of the meeting. As they left, his mother gave me an enormous squishy hug. She looked straight into my eyes and in an adoring manner told me, “You are a very lovely girl, Shelina, I like you very much.” I smiled with affection. I was in with the mother!

Since Karim and I had exchanged contact details, my parents assumed the official liaison between them and his parents was over and left it to the two of us to negotiate further developments. They would, of course, be keeping a wise and guiding eye on the proceedings. I hadn’t done this before. The rules of meetings were changing, morphing. With new technologies and changing attitudes, cell phone calls and e-mails were now possible. By Tuesday, I had heard nothing from him. I decided that as a modern woman I too could grasp the reins of my future and get in touch with Karim. I sent him a brief e-mail.

Salam alaikum
, Karim. It was nice to see you again on Saturday. I hope your weekend went well. It’s always tough to go back to work on a Monday. I’m a bit bored right now so I thought I’d drop you an e-mail to let you know that I’m off on vacation next Monday to Canada to visit my grandmother who is living there. Can’t wait. I’ve been to Toronto several times before, but this time we’re going to drive to Montreal as well and spend a couple of days there. Really looking forward to it.

What’s new with you? Shelina

I felt this struck the right balance between nonchalant and leaving the door open for him to respond without feeling pressured. I had deliberately closed with a neutral question so he had to respond but did not feel that it held weighty meaning. The note also created a time line for him to get in touch as I was going away.

I got no response.

The following Monday, I sat on a plane ready to take off for Canada. I succumbed and wrote a short text message to him. “Off to Canada today. Hope all is well with you. Catch up with you after my return at the weekend. Shelina.”

It took me half an hour to frame this message in order to achieve a tone midway between interest and detachment. I felt like a teenager. I was excited, breathless, truly believing that he was the One. In Montreal I bought him a T-shirt as a souvenir. I’d never done that before. I wasn’t sure how or when I would give it to him, but I already felt a connection. I knew that somehow he was going to be special in my life.

A week after my return I’d still heard nothing back. I tried one more e-mail but got no response. Karim’s mother called my mum the following weekend. She was distressed.

“I like Shelina so much,” she told my mother. “She is so nice, so religious, wears hijab, pretty. But my son, I don’t know what to do with him. Whenever I ask him, he says, ‘Yes, she’s nice,’ but then doesn’t
do
anything. I want to see him get married, and he needs an educated, religious wife, and I show him Shelina and he is ignoring me. He says he is busy trying to set up a new business with his friend and he’s going to give up his good job. What should I do?”

My mother was trapped between counseling this poor woman and trying to secure her son for me. But she was also annoyed at this dillydallying. We’d been through too much of this before and firmly believed that clarity and honesty was the best way forward. She also knew from hard experience that when someone like Karim came along, turning our noses up in a snotty huff would do us no favors either.

My mum told her about the e-mails and text messages, and then gently consoled her and told her to be patient.

A few days later, I got a reply to my e-mail.

Dear Shelina,

Salam alaikum.

Thanks for your messages. I saw your first e-mail and just before I was going to respond our house was struck by lightning!

There was a power surge to my computer, which I had to fix. I think the hard drive was corrupted, and I lost your e-mail and your e-mail address. I will give you a call later in the week.

Take care,

Karim

I never heard from him again.

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t, I can’t.
How can they all be so awful, and the one I like doesn’t even give me a second thought? Maybe my father was right—maybe there isn’t any such thing as the perfect man. Should I stop looking for Prince Charming? Will that crackling chemistry never materialize? Perhaps my ideal of Prince Charming was just that—an ideal, a dream, something that could never be real.

Or perhaps the problem was with me. Did I expect too much? Surely I couldn’t really imagine that falling in love would mean living happily ever after? Despite pretending that I was immersed in the depths of my faith, and saw marriage as part of completing that faith, I had to admit to myself that it was Prince Charming from the fairy tales that I was looking for. I demanded such a person from the Creator. I failed to reciprocate with the right attitude. If I saw my partner through the right eyes as a companion in life and faith, then he would be perfect indeed.

Perhaps I should have learned from Karim that there would not be a perfect man. He had shown that despite meeting all my criteria on paper, and apart from the huge fact that he had evoked “that feeling,” he lacked both the character to treat me well and the desire to be with me.

My rejection should have pushed me to assess honestly what I wanted in a partner and what the reality of choosing my companion should be. I should make a choice based on who would treat me well, and then trust in God to put the mercy, compassion, and love between us, as promised. My experience in meeting Karim should have reinforced how important integrity and manners were—more important than that elusive spark.

Instead, I still prioritized “that feeling” above all else. I was still waiting for my romantic dreams to be fulfilled and believing that they would bring me a sense of completion and happiness. But that love, the love that we describe through “that feeling,” is not an understanding of the eternal and universal truth of Love. That superficial feeling of attraction is about as far from the Divine Love as it could be. Despite knowing the words to explain that, and regurgitating what I had learned as a Muslim about my faith and the extraordinary universality of love and its connection to the Divine, I didn’t really
know
it. It is easy to
say
you know something, but a completely different matter to
live
it with your being. I would have to fall harder still before I would be able to pick myself up and look directly into the face of love.