ZYRA IRANI
The chan chan of the chudiya (bangles) sounded in the air. The scent of mogra (jasmine) marred that of the fried goods being prepared. Outside, the sky was bright and blue and full of hope and joy. Everything and more than Aisha could ever ask for.
It was on a very similar day, not long ago, that she realised how quickly her dear daughter Fariyah was growing up. The same mogra oil coated her hair then as it does now, making every strand sparkle a little bit in the light. As Aisha combed it, wove it, she told Fariyah stories of kings and princesses and the battles they went through in the pursuit of love. Told her how one day there would be a boy, and she would have to surrender her daughter to him. He would keep her happy and safe and fulfil all her desires and wishes. This was usually the part of the story where Fariyah would object, tell Aisha, ‘Ammi kasam (mother swear/promise) I’m never leaving for a boy, ammi.’ Of course, the boy would have to meet a few criteria: be nice, well-educated, from a good family who could provide for her daughter. And he had to be Muslim, of course. Fariyah was now certainly more liberal than Aisha could ever claim to be. During the course of one of these fairy-tale-filled sagas, Fariyah once asked, ‘Ammi, what if the princess doesn't want to be found?’ and Aisha just shook her head, ‘The princess will always want a prince’. Now the family was growing; Fariyah didn't have the liberty of kissing a few frogs. In their world, you married the frog and spent the rest of your life calling him a prince.
Every decision Aisha had made in her daughter’s upbringing led to this moment. The day she would source the perfect match who met the pre-existing eligibility criteria and more. There was more now, because in the past few years she realised that her daughter... well… was not the sharpest tool in the shed. Of all the work she had put in, maybe 50% of it reflected in Fariyah. Although, there were moments — small ones, easy to miss — when Aisha wondered if her daughter was humouring her. She believed that Fariyah would need someone stronger, more determined to keep up with her. And like countless other daughters, she was, after all, her papa ki pari (father’s fairy).
Aisha found herself running back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, making sure everything was perfect.
They had seen a few boys for Fariyah now, but this one was different. When Aisha first spoke to him over the phone, he was respectful, but he carried himself well. He didn’t let his mother’s constant interruptions distract from what he was trying to communicate. This one could just barely be good enough for her darling betiya.
Her biggest concern was that she may have badha badha kar exaggerated some of Fariyah’s qualities.
Jis jhoot se kisi ka ghar basta ho
woh jhoot jhoot nahi hota
A lie that helps build a
home is not a lie, right?
Besides, if it's meant to be, he’ll figure out the truth soon enough.
When the clock struck 11, the doorbell rang. They were early. The families had agreed to meet at 11, but everyone knows that means 12 pm, or 11.30 am at the earliest. Being so early must have been some kind of test to see how well equipped the girl’s side was. Luckily, Aisha treated all such situations like going to the airport; if they were not 5 hours early, they were late.
At least, the doorbell acted as an aggressive warning for her husband to go and put on some pants. He was usually utterly useless.
While doing adab adab, she ushered them in, giving the old man those few precious seconds to tuck his shirt into his pants before he made his grand appearance.
The samosas were piping hot. Fariyah knew the recipe in case anyone asked any questions about her abilities in the kitchen. One of her few admirable skills was her ability to ratta (memorise). Otherwise, Allah knows she hadn’t picked up a knife in her life. Her domesticity was unrehearsed, to say the least.
The boy entered with his parents flanked on either side, guarding their ladla beta, their darling son, against the evils of femininity that prevailed in the arranged marriage scene. He strode with a certain je ne sais quoi that was difficult to place.
On cue, the chan chan sound of the payals (anklets) foreshadowed Fariyah’s imminent arrival with the thanda thanda (cold cold) Rooh Afzha. She was a vision in light pink; the delicate embroidery of the chunni (scarf) framing her face refracted the sparkle of the light highlighter on her cheekbones and in the corner of her eye. Not much, but enough to draw you in. Ashraaf, her beauty’s chosen prey, was sufficiently stunned. His mother nodded her head approvingly.
Aisha followed behind her, with a tray of a variety of chakna and snacks and, of course, the samosas. They set the trays down and then took a seat opposite their guests.
Once the pleasantries had ceased, the men concluded that enough time had passed for the snacks to have cooled down sufficiently for them to begin politely stuffing their faces, ensuring that they wouldn’t have to have their mouths hanging open to let the steam escape their inner endless voids and burn themselves. This was also the opportunity for the mothers to go through their checklists. They did so by asking incredibly pointed questions to try and minimise the opponents' ability to beat around the bush with falsified responses.
Every time Aisha asked a question like ‘So Ashraf, who do you live with in Sydney?’ His mother would jump in with what could be assumed to be a semi-accurate answer, but then he would elaborate himself. He spoke with a certain flair, enunciating his words well. From what could be gleaned from his composed, relaxed demeanour, he seemed accustomed to his mother’s behaviour.
Slowly but surely, Aisha got satisfactory answers that passed her checklist:
-Good Muslim families, check.
-Bank statement of the last 6 months with a minimum of $20,000 AUD in savings, check.
-Copy of degree certificate stamped by a local notary as well as an Australian notary, check.
-Police verification, check.
-Taller than Fariyah, check.
-Wider than Fariyah, check.
-Not ugly, check.
The mother and son duo seemed as well-rehearsed in the niceties of the arranged marriage business as Aisha was. She appreciated that they brought supporting documents to show how serious they were in applying for this position.
They also exhibited what appeared to be a genuine interest in Fariyah, her hobbies, and intentions if she moved to Sydney with him and the kind of person she was. They appreciated her taught values and docile nature but did not emphasise it as a requirement. This led Aisha to believe that they had attained a similar level of modernity to her family. Maybe even too modern, but surely that wasn’t a bad thing. They wouldn’t ill-treat Fariyah or keep her kaidi (prisoner) in her own house.
The boy was certainly quiet, but with time, surely he would open up more. He seemed fairly preoccupied with his hair, tucking it behind his ear and meticulously smoothing out his kurta every time he shifted in his seat. Every time he said, 'yes aunty,' his voice dropped half an octave, and then rose again at the end, like he was trying the words on for size. It crawled across Aisha's skin. She had never heard a boy his age speak like that. What she didn't register was that he did it only when his mother was listening.
Once the mothers were satisfied, Aisha recommended that the kids head to the balcony for a chat.
In the background, Aisha had arranged a speaker to start playing romantic classics to set the mood. She had been working on this playlist for over a month. It started with ‘Tu Jaane na’ and then segued directly into ‘Chaleya’.
Ashraaf had a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead as he watched Fariyah close the double doors behind her. Fariyah’s eyes twinkled with clarity that contrasted the haze she found in her potential groom’s.
He started slowly, ‘So Fariyah ji, what do you think of all this?’
Immediately she countered, ‘Dekho ji (Look sir), forget about that. What is the plan? What do you really want? Do you have another bandhi (girl) in Sydney? I’m okay with all of that; I just need to know.’
His eyes widened. Surprised? Offended? She wasn’t sure yet. She wiped her sweaty palms on her chunni, the veil-like drape falling off her head, loosening a few strands of her hair. But she stood her ground.
‘I am doing this to make my ammi happy. She likes you, she likes your ammi, and I think we can live together amicably in Sydney. I am not looking for anything more than friendship. Of course, if that's okay with you? If not, that's okay too- no pressure- just tell your mother that I wasn’t very shareef (gentlemanly) and I made a pass at you.’ Ashraaf said calmly
‘I have conditions.’
‘Absolutely, bolo ji. And if you have any questions as well, I am happy to–’
‘I want to work. Equal distribution of chores. My own room. Freedom–’
‘One minute. Let me get something straight: you are not kaidi, you are not going to be tied to the kitchen. I will give you money to support you whether or not you have a job. As long as we communicate, I have no issues with anything.’ he trailed off as he looked out beyond, almost avoiding her gaze.
Fariyah reached out, touching his hand gently, willing him to look at her, ‘I don’t mind, but I don’t understand. I’ve never met a man who isn’t attracted to me. I know I’m not ugly, so what am I lacking–’
‘You’re perfect,’ he said, trying to face her but then turned away once more, ‘I just-’
‘Kya-a? I mean, what's wrong?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing ji, you are beautiful, arguably too beautiful for me, but yaar kaise bolu,’ his voice started getting softer. He paced for a moment and looked out towards the sky again, the clouds enveloping the city beyond, almost hiding it completely.
‘What do you mean kaise bolu? Mooh se! Tell me through your mouth!’ she whispered assertively.
'It's not—" he stopped, started again. "It's not that you're not… it's that I've never-'
'Ashraaf miya, I'm giving you ten seconds to save yourself right now', her polite demeanour transitioning into uncouth hands on her hips.
‘I’m gay’, he barely uttered, his head bowed towards the floor.
‘Oh Bhenchod! Sacchi? Really?’
‘Listen, I’ll do anything; just please don’t tell anybody, please, whatever you want. Please ammi kasam,’ he pinched his Adam’s apple and placed another hand on his head like a five-year-old boy who just got caught eating chocolate after being explicitly instructed not to.
‘Mujse nikaah karoge?’ she said, reaching for his hand.
‘What?’
‘I said, will you marry me?’ Fariyah looked at him in earnest anticipation.
‘You don’t have any other questions? You’re okay with this? I know it's a lot to take in–’ His previously delicate gestures suddenly took on a more animated form.
The jitter of the old balcony door clanged against the frame, distracting the young lovebirds from their intimate conversation. Both mothers were pleased with the match, and their husbands had nodded along as they struggled to keep their eyes open after eating. Had Aisha’s stupid betiya successfully charmed this poor fellow into spending the rest of his life with her?
The hopeful mothers-in-law held hands, kask ke. So tight that knuckles turned white. Waiting for one of the children to say something.
The pair looked at each other. Fariyah smiled and bowed her head slightly.
Ashraaf grabbed her hand and quietly said,
‘The proposal is accepted. Kabool hai.’
‘Kabool hai!’ his mother echoed.
‘Kabool hai!’ Fariyah chimed.
The four of them began to walk inside to give the possibly snoring fathers the good news. But Aisha held Fariyah’s hand, signalling her to wait back for a second.
Aisha looked at her daughter the way she did at the end of every fairy tale — 'Ammi kasam?'
Zyra loves tying the threads between the various aspects of identity primarily culture and sexuality; and the way they influence the individual human experience. She is currently studying Psychology and Creative Writing and has been published in Borgen Magazine for her piece on Period Poverty in Switzerland. When she isn’t writing, her idiosyncrasies include going out for a sweet treat or hosting an unnecessarily specific themed dinner. Her favourite word at the moment is ‘defenestration’.
