Love in a Headscarf (2 page)

I stop abruptly and berate myself. Don’t I want to fall in love and live happily ever after? This man might be my Prince Charming. He might sweep me into a world of roses and Cinderella ball gowns. Will I feel tingles and fall in love with him at first sight?

I know four facts, which I have categorized into “important” and “uninteresting.” That he is an accountant and twenty-three years old is important to know. That he is a “nice” boy and from a “good” family I find uninteresting. At nineteen these facts are irrelevant to my simple desire to fall in love.

I hear scuffling in the living room as everyone settles in. I creep quietly down the stairs and sit hidden so I can hear what is being said. They spend a few minutes discussing family ties and origins and assessing if we have any relatives in common. Asians talking about families is like English people talking about the weather: a safe preamble that can be pursued endlessly. Beneath the pleasantries it also provides critical clues about your conversation partner. What is their background, their history, their reputation?

The two parties converse until they find a mutual relative. Asian languages are well-suited for this purpose, having specific names for complex relations, making it quick to identify an obscure relative. I can identify my mother’s sister’s husband’s sister in two moves rather than the four required in English, or my father’s brother’s wife’s mother’s sister’s mother-in-law’s sister’s husband in three moves. Both sides are earnest in their desire to find a relative or friend that links them. A buzzer then sounds and a voice calls out, “Bingo! You have a match.”

After a few minutes, I instinctively know that it is time for me to make my entrance. Should I greet them with a practiced smile? Or should I bow my head almost imperceptibly as I enter the room? I tuck the rebellious wisps of hair back under my headscarf, straighten my skirt, and stride toward the door. My heart thumps
rat-tat-tat
, my brow is moist, my cheeks volcanic. It is time to meet the man.

The door to the living room is ajar. I swing it open and walk into a room sizzling with conversation. I expect silence to fall and all eyes to turn to me. Even though I stand there for several seconds, I am unnoticed. The good-natured small talk continues. Should I wave my hands? Should I speak?

My father suddenly sees me. “O-ho!” he yelps, a distinct Asian word-sound. “This is my daughter Shelina.” He looks in an explanatory way at the guests, as though my arrival may be a surprise to them.

Suddenly I am conscious of myself, standing alone in the middle of the room. Our lounge is a large square space painted in safe pale green with deep-emerald velvet curtains. The patio doors overlook a picturesque garden lovingly tended by my parents. They adore the garden: the garden adores them back. The guests sit comfortably on soft leather sofas encircling the center of the room—and whoever might be in it.

I smile quickly, nervously assessing my surroundings. As is the norm, the men and women adopt separate sides of the room. Where is the female guest? Courtesy demands that I move to greet her first. Where is Prince Charming? I must acknowledge him openly yet modestly. How have people arranged themselves and where is the space appropriate for me to occupy? Rapid and correct decisions are critical to making the right impression.

I move toward the female guest and say “
Salam alaikum
,” the Islamic greeting meaning “Peace to you.” She is Ali’s aunt. I kiss her on the cheek and she kisses me back. The matchmaker’s description of me must have been running through her head at this moment. What has she been told? Do I live up to expectations? The matchmaker is present even in her absence, holding great sway over my life and the lives of many single men and women.

I look around shyly, spot the Boy and nod courteously at him. By instinct, I choose an empty seat near the door and clasp my hands daintily on my knees, smiling into the space in front of me. The conversation revives. I breathe once again and try to gather myself. Conscious of being assessed, I glance fleetingly at the suitor. He appears relaxed, leaning back into the sofa, chatting to my father. My father can talk to anyone, unperturbed by their rank, age, or status. He is talkative on the outside, quiet and determined on the inside. He has a short white beard that befits his stature and dignity. He likes to tease me by rubbing it against my cheeks. His concession to the squeals he has evoked this way ever since I was a child is to shampoo and condition the hair to keep it soft, so he does not scratch my skin.

“Are you working or studying?” The room becomes quiet. I stare blankly at the people around me. I am being addressed. I do not realize.

Eventually I squeak, “You mean me?” I clear my throat to deflate the high-pitched cartoon voice. “I’m studying.”

“Very good,” continues the older male guest, who is Ali’s uncle. “I hear you are studying psychology and philosophy?”

I nod mutely. My voice is upstairs in my bedroom in protest at this awkward social situation.

“Does that mean you can tell what I am thinking?” He chortles, and then laughs so heartily that he starts coughing.

“Shelina,
beti
, get him some water,” directs my father.
Beti
is an affectionate name for a daughter. It reveals his attachment to me.

I return with a glass of iced water and settle myself back into my seat. I sit quietly for a few minutes, until I receive an imperceptible nod from my mother. I exit silently, my feet padding on the soft carpet toward the kitchen. I fill up the kettle with water and switch it on, watching the red indicator light, waiting patiently for the water to boil. Back in the living room, I project my most sweet, most polite, future daughter-in-law voice and ask, “Would you like some tea or coffee?”

I suddenly feel more confident: I have a role to play. I smile in turn at each of the guests as I ask them what they would like to drink and how much sugar and milk they would like in their tea and coffee. I restrain my splutter when I am asked for four spoons of sugar and sweetened condensed milk, a staple of Asian tea drinking. This sugar-laden tea preference is not uncommon. I try not to look too much at the Boy while I take the orders. He looks as terrified as me.

I chant the drink requests mantra-like in my head. Cooking and hostessing skills are crucial in Asian culture as a sign of a “real” woman, just as they used to be in Europe, too.
Every
woman must be a domestic goddess. It certainly would not be in my favor to make an error at this stage.

In the kitchen once again, I arrange the cups on the tray to match the seating plan in the living room. This will help me distribute each drink to the right person. I place tea bags in cups, spoon in the coffee (it is instant, for convenience), distribute sugar, pour hot water, and mop up spillages. I straighten my clothes again and lift the tray. Trying not to trip on the hem of my skirt, I hobble toward the living room. I regret my choice of long flowing chiffon skirt as my feet step on the frills.

I put down the tray in the center of the coffee table and place each cup carefully on a coaster next to the right person. I pick up the teacup for the Boy, and suddenly feel unsure of what to do with it. I approach his seat, just as I have with everyone else, and place the cup next to him. As I serve him, I lift my eyes briefly to look at his face. In my shyness I look away too quickly. Regretting my nerves, I raise my eyes again and find myself staring unexpectedly into his. Suddenly our shared gaze is over, and I step back into the normal space-time continuum. I flee to the kitchen, feeling flushed and haphazard.

Samosas

I
pick up another tray that has already been prepared, of small plates and finger food. It includes my mother’s perfectly browned samosas. “Bringing in the tray of samosas” is a leftover leitmotif of what was once the meeting process: the only time that the girl came into the room where her future was being negotiated. It is now simply an ironic euphemism for the introduction of a girl to a boy.

This might be a girl’s one chance to view the prospective bride-groom. The boy must also capitalize on this opportunity. This is not the moment to be out of the room using the facilities. Along with his whole family, he may have traveled many miles for this single brief moment, perhaps his only opportunity to see the woman with whom he will share the rest of his life.

Will his eyes sparkle when he sets his gaze upon her? Does he like the turn of her
dupatta
, the translucent shawl that subcontinental women often wear on their heads in place of a headscarf? What if the fabric slips as she bends down to hand out the plates and he glimpses her long midnight black hair? The way she places the teacups on the table, or how she hands out the plates of
halwa
could change her fate.

“Bringing in the samosas” was originally designed for the groom-to-be and his entourage to cast their eyes over the potential wife. The girl was not wheeled out in order for her to have an opinion or play any part in the decision-making process. Her fate would be determined by the groom and his family. He was the hunter, she the hunted.

The boy would ask himself: was she attractive? The male elders would consider: was this a good match? The entire transaction would be sealed with a few glances of the groom at his bride-to-be. She might be so covered up that he could barely see her, or, as she served him his tea, she might have the audacity to raise her eyes to his and glance cheekily at him. It was the same moment, whether from a golden Bollywood film or Jane Austen’s
Pride and Prejudice.
The serving of the samosas was able to change futures, destinies, and families.

The girl did not speak during this process. Her role was to be modest and demure. In very conventional circumstances she would not have entered the room beforehand, as I had done, nor—heaven have mercy—would she have spoken. The momentary connection that the crispy meat-filled pastries had created would determine the groom’s decision. All the poor girl could do was to wait for the verdict. If the response was negative, and if she had already ticked the box of “good” family, then what could she do but assume her looks had let her down?

The female relatives who have also come to visit will grill the poor young woman and deliver their verdict to the groom and the male decision-makers of the family. The boy will only know of the bride-to-be what the womenfolk have told him. The system does not allow for the fact that the boy may find a very different type of woman attractive than his female relatives might expect. He must accept that Mother Knows Best.

The importance of the female opinion is not to be underestimated. A marriage is not just between the bride and groom, but also between their families. Traditionally, a wife would most likely not have worked. She would spend more time with her mother-in-law and sisters-in-law than with her husband, as the extended family might live together. Even when the couple was to go out, she would socialize with the women while he relaxed with the men. Creating happiness in the extended family home was as much of a challenge for the new bride as creating sparks in the nuptial chamber.

I hand out the plates and snacks. This time when I come past Ali I shine a warm smile in his direction. Somewhere in that process my confidence and personality return, and it feels good. He smiles back nervously, but we have made a connection. “Thank you,” he says—it is the first time he has spoken directly to me. I feel more focused as I return to the kitchen. I have walked into a room full of people who have come to visit just for me, I have smiled, I have spoken, and I have made radio contact with a boy who is not unattractive.

As I return to the kitchen, my mother follows me. She is small, with soft brown skin and a smile that can lift me out of even the darkest mood. I look at her lovingly, encouraging her to reveal her secret. She speaks to me in a silent whisper. My eyebrows rise in confusion. She turns around and closes the kitchen door. “You need to go into the other room and talk to him.” My family and his are happy for us to spend some time getting to know each other.

The main act is about to begin: I am going to talk to a man about Getting Married.

I peer into the dining room to make sure everything is in order and then sit down. This is to be the arena for our negotiations. Like the living room, it is square, but this time decorated in shades of blue, with a large mahogany dining table at the center. The chairs are dark brown with curving arms and cream damask cushions. In the middle of the table yellow daffodils burst out of a blue vase. I imagine where he might sit and wonder if the better profile of my face will be turned toward him. I turn my left profile in his imaginary direction, and then my right, and then sit and mimic speaking to him. I switch places to the chair I imagine he will sit in and pretend to be him responding to my statements: “I think you are stunning and I have fallen in love with you,” he informs me solemnly.

I practice my smile again: a big smile, a cheeky one, a coquettish one, no smile at all.

It would not be appropriate to be too enthusiastic or jovial at this stage. I ought to temper my usual exuberance in case I scare him. I have been told repeatedly by the elders and Aunties that I am too confident and clever, and that boys don’t like that. If I am serious about getting married, I will have to hide it. Showing a glimpse is fine, but it is crucial that the boys don’t think I am
too
clever. The Aunties have even gone so far as to say that I must not study a master’s or—heaven forbid!—a PhD, because nobody will want to marry me. Then I will have only myself to blame. “Nobody wants a girl who is too educated,” they advise me. “Then you’ll be old and left on the shelf. Better to get married first, sort out your husband, and then you can do as you please.”

The Aunties were large and buxom, with strong accents that had a mesmerizing lilt to them, yet their voices grated as they echoed through my head. They were loud and powerful and rang with the legacy of thousands of years of tradition and heritage. Who was I to disobey their laws?