love in a headscarf by shelina zahra janmohamed

I am nineteen and about to step into a world that I have been prepared for since I was a young girl. What will he be like? What will I say to him? I stand in front of the mirror, staring nervously into my own eyes, trying hard to control my torrential pulse. I am no different from thousands, millions of young women on the threshold of marriage around the world. I listen in vain for a deep booming voice to announce: “Now you are a woman.” Nobody says: “Good luck.” Nor does anyone glance proudly and parentally at me, recording my transition from child to adult. The first meeting is a compulsory rite of passage. The whole family is fussing about what to wear. My blouse, in the same shade of pink, long-sleeved with ruffles on the cuffs, contrasts with my sweeping cream skirt with frills that trails gently on the floor. Fortunately, I am having a Good Headscarf Day.

The fabric delicately swathes itself over my hair and shoulders. I fold the square silk in half and place the triangle over my hair, pinning it invisibly under my chin and throwing the ends loosely in opposite directions. The color is soft and welcoming, feminine but not girly. Each scarf has been carefully draped and pinned in turn, and then analyzed for aesthetics and impact. The contents of my headscarf drawer are strewn colorfully across my bedroom floor in molehills of pink, purple, blue, and green. I have to be attractive enough for the man in question, yet modest and demure enough for his family. Choosing what to wear has been a struggle. This is the first time that my family and I are to be formally introduced to a suitor.

My father, unflustered, strolls toward the front door and swings it open to face the man who might be his future son-in-law. The lilies in the living room stand poised. The kitchen door slams shut and my father is assailed by a cacophony of shrieking voices: “They’re here! They’re here! Open the door!” The house becomes acutely still. There is panicked scuttling around the house. They are important guests, perhaps the most important ones yet. My mother is concentrating on the huge pan of bubbling oil, her hair wrapped up in an old towel, her mind focused on those who are about to arrive. Samosas are frying in the kitchen, teetering between perfect bronze and cinder black.

Love in a headscarf by shelina zahra janmohamed