I have always been very sensitive to human suffering. Growing up in the post 9/11 world drew me to seek answers and solace through faith at a relatively early age. A few lucky stints of understanding the Quran had me transformed. However, while this was so meaningful and empowering to me, it became hugely problematic among family, friends, and the society at large. I took up the Islamic dress code with my heart and soul, but with it came exclusion. This was disconcerting for my parents, who, having a daughter in mid-twenties, wanted me settled. But I did not belong anywhere: the religious thought I was too academically oriented, ambitious, vocal, and independent, while others dismissed me as odd or fanatical.
The path was not easy. As a single woman, who stuck out like an odd thumb, I was ridiculed, put down, taken as a subject of curiosity, harassed, and exploited. It broke me into little pieces that I struggled to keep together behind the facade of a brave front… Single Woman Nearly Thirty, and Ninja too…
At the Kabah, I prayed to Allah (swt): “Make my spouse the coolness of my eyes.”
Years passed, and the silver in the hair began to set in. Trays laden with delicacies did the rounds in our drawing room, as entitled mothers of eligible sons furrowed their brows at my simple and candid demeanor – I was exhausted.
At the Lahore Literature Festival 2013, I was setting out after attending a session with William Dalrymple, when a man, who claimed he had been observing me through all that time, began to follow me eerily. I told him off several times and thought he would get the message, but when I was waiting for my car in the parking lot well after sundown, I noticed him right behind me. Then, I realized this was serious. As I began to walk away, he began to chase me, asking me if I was married, offering to walk me to the car and saying: “I hope it is not your husband who is coming to pick you… hey, please, tell me you are not married yet.” “My husband will break your legs!” I lied, trembling, and ran to the main gate, where there was a security guard.
Back at home, snuggled between the covers, I cried myself sore: “Ya, Allah! I am too weak and too tired staying strong as a single religious woman in this society.”
That night I did something I never thought I would ever do – I joined an Islamic matrimonial website.
I contacted several men myself, taking heart from the example set by Khadijah (rtaf), who had initiated the marriage proposal to Prophet Muhammad (sa).
But most men here reeked of vile egotism. The hundreds of profiles I had gone through all turned out trashy. I was on the verge of quitting this frustrating pursuit, when I stumbled upon a very simple, bare profile description that said only this: “I am trying to follow the Quran and the Sunnah.” By then, I had been so sickened of boastful, egoistic profile descriptions that the simplicity of the phrase struck me as refreshingly different.
I just quickly typed a one liner: “Could you elaborate on the description you have given? Since it is my last day of subscription, I will not see your reply after today, so here is my email.”
And in the maddening daily grind juggling two jobs and volunteering, while firmly warding off uninvited interest by men I did not want in my life, I forgot the whole thing.
Weeks later I received a reply to my email, but just as brief. I responded rather irritably and curtly about how the brief one-liners were not helping, and that he should not bother me, if he cannot answer me clearly. He responded with an acknowledgement of his inadequacy and an openness to be corrected.
A rare humility shone through this man’s words, so I continued to exchange emails for getting more information I could pass on to my parents. I had always valued humility in people the highest. There was some real, deep humility, empathy and compassion right here. It won me over, as he provided me details, including the fact that he had just begun his professional life and earned very little, much less than half of what I was earning.
“This is unfair to you,” he insisted and suggested that the whole thing be called off.
But by then, I had resolved. “No,” I responded firmly, “I am clear on the fact that the basis for any relationship I have will be on shared values and not anything material or worldly.”
But Allah (swt) wanted to test me further. Around the same time, I was contacted by someone expressing interest in marriage, who happened to be extremely well established, successful, wealthy and well connected. It was tough, but I could not bring myself to reject a man, who I knew was sincere, simple, humble, and honest, just because there was another candidate with better worldly credentials. It just did not feel right. So, I decided to take the leap of faith and plunge headlong into what I knew was more pleasing to Allah (swt) – blindly, madly, fervently. Assured by my resolve, he proceeded by telling his family to contact mine. A series of fortunate events made my family willingly accept him, despite his modest earnings at the time, and made his family accept my religious lifestyle.
Through four miscarriages and two kids (one of whom has special needs), financial crises and living apart for long periods, we have weathered it with him being my solace and my constant anchor through stormy emotions. He taught me what it is to love for Allah’s (swt) sake – without conditions. There is no such thing as perfection in this world, and the key to a longstanding relationship is not to expect that from the spouse. There will be mistakes and disappointments, and it is only human. It is vital to have sincerity and common purpose in life as spouses: to bring up our children in Islam and assist each other in faith, so we can forever be companions beyond the life of this world. Now, it is the two of us sticking out like sore thumbs, struggling against the rough tides and the strong winds; no longer alone, but a twosome.
Finally, I belong.
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