Love in a Headscarf by Shelina Janmohamed Page B

homemade sweets. Again, I sat opposite the boy. My father and the chaperone flung open the patio doors and swept dramatically into the garden, leaving Samir and me facing the lawn, and awkwardly facing each other, like budho budhi , old man, old woman, staring at their garden in the autumn of their shared lives.
    He looked indifferently at me and then at the ceiling-to-floor bookshelves that occupied the corner of the room. They were laden with books of all shapes and colors, so full that each shelf had books stacked up on top of each other and some were two rows deep. His eyes misted over at the overflowing reams of literature. He was mesmerized.
    “Whose books are all of those?” he asked, in what I thought was wonderment and awe.
    I smiled conceitedly. “They are all mine,” I boasted.
    He turned and looked at me witheringly and said, “I hate books, I hate all books. I never ever read and I don’t like people who like books.”
    My friends Sara and Noreen were also looking for their own Mr. Rights. They had grown up with me and were at the same stage of the marriage process. They too were university graduates, and were about to begin professional careers. Like me, they were involved in community affairs. They had similar disasters to recount. Sara, who wore hijab too, described the story of Fayyaz who came with the Imam who had recommended him. His biodata was promising: well-educated, religious, good family, wanting a woman who wore hijab, good job, liked to travel. He had his own flat already and so he was “domesticated” and independent. His references were also impeccable.
    She told us that the Imam—as is required of anyone in the pastoral professions—was chatty. We giggled at her description of the meeting: “Fayyaz shifted his weight from buttock to buttock. At first he was patient, but then he kept throwing me desperate looks. Two hours later the forceful Imam turned to him and asked why he hadn’t spoken to me yet.
    “Fayyaz and I went into the other room. I understood immediately why the Imam talked so much.” She explained that Fayyaz was as quiet as his chaperone was talkative. “Fifteen awful minutes of silence later we were summoned to return. Then the Imam chimes in: ‘You must have had a good chat’ and gives me a wink. Then he says, ‘These meetings, ho-ho-ho! I had a friend who was an Imam too. He went on a visit on behalf of a friend of his to meet a girl. Liked her so much he married her himself! Ho-ho-ho!’” Sara, Noreen, and I all squealed with horrified laughter.
    Noreen had her own story to tell: “Jameel was tall and good-looking. He was a doctor and had been looking to marry for quite some time. He was intelligent and funny, and very charming. Everyone seemed to really like him in the family, including my Nana and my tiny little nephew. His stories were hilarious. And he said that he wanted a wife to embody both deen , spiritual life, and dunya , the world we live in. I thought he was perfect till his mum spoke to me.”
    Noreen put on her lilting mother-in-law voice:
    “‘Such a nice boy, always thinking of everyone else, especially his poor little old Mother.’”
    “I couldn’t believe it when my own mum started gushing too: ‘He seems lovely, I’m surprised he’s not been snapped up!’”
    Noreen switched back into mother-in-law mode: “‘Well, he has liked a few girls, but you know, I never really liked any of them myself. He always says to me, ‘Mummy, you know much better, you decide. I don’t mind waiting for years until we find a girl you are happy with.’”
    Jameel remains unmarried.
    Sometimes only the mother-in-law came to visit. I still served samosas and tea and tried to win their hearts. She might be visiting from abroad without her son, to set up a marriage tour. Once the prospective girls had been vetted and a critical mass had been established, the prince would come to visit London and interview us one by one. His mother was the gatekeeper