Bitter Sweet | (Published) ✔

{5} Desi Days

Tasneem Uddin

Knock Knock.

I nervously bit my lip as my father opened the door. I knew my father wasn't fond of the idea of my marriage, so I could only imagine his reaction to Ibrahim. If this meeting didn't go well, then my parents could say goodbye to their café. I felt my palms start to get clammed up. There was sweat on my brow. I used a washcloth to wipe it off. I clutched my bedroom dresser.

Why am I so nervous?

I stared at my reflection. The sparkly baby blue salwaar kameez (Bengali traditional dress) contrasted with my white hijab that was still wrapped around my neck. My silky black hair fell down in curls to my waist. I applied some light makeup. The winged eyeliner made my dark brown eyes pop out. My lips were tinted with a rogue color. In the mirror, I didn't see myself as overly beautiful.

I was average.

I was average in everything. I wasn't chubby or thin. I was right in the middle. My golden tanned skin was so conflicting against Ibrahim's pale skin. I felt like we made an odd couple. I sighed. I knew I shouldn't be bothered by this, but I was. No matter how many times I pushed the thought away, I couldn't stop my doubts.

How will the Bangladeshi community feel about my marriage?

I slapped a hand to my forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I thought. Why should I care? It was my life, not theirs. I knew there would be a negative reaction. I knew people would whisper behind my back. I knew aunties would give me disappointed looks when I wasn't looking. It saddened me, knowing that the people that surrounded me would expect me to marry another Bengali. My culture refused to let me marry a man outside of the community.

My religion, however, said otherwise. Allah told us to marry those righteous Muslims and that it was a crime to refuse a marriage based on cultural ideas. Yes, the man had to be Muslim, but his culture should not matter and vice versa. Ibrahim was Turkish. Deep down, I knew he was a practicing Muslim. The way he carried himself, the way he acted around others, it all tempted me further to believe that Ibrahim was indeed a practicing Muslim. I wondered how Amira dealt with the cultural outlash when she married Damon.

Damon was not only white, but he was a convert. There was a stigma against converts in the desi community. The stigma shouldn't exist because the Prophet Muhammad (peace and be upon him) never said anything against Muslims marrying converted Muslims. In fact, the Prophet encouraged it.

I down looked at my phone. I should give Amira a call, but she was on her honeymoon. Mentally, I laughed at myself. Amira was going to be surprised to find out I was getting married when she came back.

"Tasneem!" I heard my mother call out among the murmured voices.

"Coming!" I shouted back.

I quickly tied my hair into a messy bun. Then, I pinned my white scarf around my head. I did some final touches to my makeup. When I was satisfied, I walked out of my bedroom door and into the living room. I could hear Ibrahim's deep laugh at something my father said. I felt a bundle of nerves in my stomach.

On the couch, Ibrahim and an elderly man sat down. On the opposite couch, my father sat listening intently to whatever the elderly man was saying. Bashir and an elderly woman were chatting with my mother in the dining room. A dark maroon hijab was tightly wrapped around the elderly woman's head. My mother also fastened her hijab snugly around her head. Our house was relatively small. Ibrahim's family looked so out of place.

I felt the elderly man's gaze on me. He stroked a hand through his graying beard. His eyes were identical to Ibrahim's eyes. "You must be Tasneem," he smiled. "I'm Ibrahim's grandfather."