Unique Muslimah

When I saw my grandmother after a long period of time, I cried heavily because I had missed her so much. It felt so nice to be in her soft, creamy wrinkled arms, breathing in her lovely rose scent and feeling her warm, yellow cotton ‘abaya envelope me tightly as the sun began to set. I felt like a kitten would, cosying up to its loved one on a warm summer’s day, using each of my five senses to embellish the memory of that moment in my mind forever.

Later that evening when the family were around the dinner table, grandmother began a short speech before we ate. “This may be the last time we sit together like this,” she began, smiling at each one of us, her eyes shining with a mixture of wisdom and tears. “And I want to thank God that I have such a special family.” she continued before pausing, letting her strong yet frail body heave with a sigh before finishing her sentence, ”May God bless your paths always, ameen.” her confident, soft voice echoed in my mind.

We silently repeated “Ameen” after her, with tears rolling down our faces involuntarily. I suddenly felt a rush of love and admiration towards this female figure in front of me. An inspirational figure that I had not given enough time or respect to. I wanted to run towards grandmother and hide in between her warm cotton ‘abaya where I felt safe. Where I felt nothing could ever harm me. Where I felt loved and protected. Where I felt grandmother gave me her strength so I could continue to hold the flame of life and love for her.

While lost in my thoughts grandmother gave out her magical laugh and told us, “Come on! This food is not getting any younger!” We all smiled sadly, wiping our tears away and started to eat. The salty taste of my tears had passed my lips as I slowly ate my food. Tears that were only meant to be an external show of emotion were now a part of my internal being; bittersweet tears that told the tale of my sadness and love for grandmother.

The next day I was to learn that grandmother had prepared a special treat for me. I couldn’t believe my ears or eyes; a treat just for me? My cousins would be so jealous. Even my aunties and uncles would turn green with envy. Grandmother was such an important figure in our family; everyone wished to be basked in her special attention and love, just as the plants desire the sun’s light and warmth to grow. But for a special reason that was unknown to me, grandmother chose me out of the whole family to spend a whole day with.

I was to go on a picnic with her just on the outskirts of the family home, to the privately owned hills where the beautiful coloured butterflies danced to the melodies of the wind. At the moment of learning of my day’s plans, I felt like the butterflies, dancing up and down with joy, coloured with my butterfly wings, happy that I had the love of my grandmother. A woman I would love forever.

When grandmother passed away I tasted the tears I had shed at the dinner table. I only wished I had her yellow cotton ‘abaya, so I could run away to the hills where we had had our special day. So I could wrap myself in its warmth, texture and scent. So that I could close my eyes while enveloped in this special material she had worn for years. So I could feel she was still with me in some sort of way, wrapped around my heart, like the wings of a butterfly.

It was only weeks later when I visited her family home that my aunt presented me with a softly wrapped gift that grandmother had left for me. Running to the hills that day with the wind gliding behind me, I teared at the paper with tears running down my creamy cheeks, salty tears which passed my lips again. With a hand on my mouth I laughed whilst I cried, taking out the yellow cotton ‘abaya she had left behind for me. I breathed in its rosy scent, her rosy scent, and closed my wet tearful eyes while wrapping the soft garmet around me as I lay on the freshly cut grass. She had secretly known I needed a piece of her former life to carry on with my own. My wise grandmother had known all along. And it broke her heart to leave me alone.

But with a piece of my grandmother’s former life that I had treasured for so long, I felt stronger somehow, though my heart still ached because she was not there to fill up the material. Just like a kitten cosying up to its loved one, I fell asleep in between tears on our hill, making a prayer for the beautiful lady with the cotton ‘abaya.

I was this close to getting married today. And I wasn’t your traditional blushing bride. I was mortified. The way of life that I have known for decades ceased to protect me as a new life was being offered to me, a life that I didn’t want.

But I gave it a chance and went along with it. I accustomed myself to the groom offering me his love, wealth and possessions. I recalled the Prophetic saying that if a good man came to propose then he should be accepted. This was a good man, though not my type, so I accepted him.

And as the wedding ceremony, set for today, came ever so closer, I started to panic. What have I done? Unique, the person who always thought things through carefully made such a terrible decision- and why? Just to please society? Just to tell the world that she was no longer the shameful singleton? Didn’t I know that it would never end- that the next issue society would bug me with was when I was going to give birth to an empire?

So the wedding ceremony was set for today. But I couldn’t do it. The gifts I had received were lying on my bed; beautiful clothes that were perfect for a muhajaba. Trying them on I felt protected by God, He would not let me down, though I had let my own self down by hastily agreeing to this marriage.

To think I had kept this away from you, this important part of my life. To think I had just suddenly realised that this was real; that I was getting married today. I was scared, so scared. I didn’t want to get married. But I could not tell my family that; everything had been arranged, money had been spent.

The agony I felt almost ripped me into pieces. I did not want to get married. I am comfortable with the life I know. Those who narrow-mindedly think that because I occasional talk about marriage on my blog means I am desperate to get married are completely misguided.

I talk about marriage because we are in a couple-society, because it effects us all, because I want to talk about it. It does not mean marriage is on my mind all the time, nor does it mean I am desperate. May God forgive those who think they can judge my life and through what? Posts I choose to write about on the Internet. I blog about what I feel like, which does not mean I am up for being dissected and psychoanalysed. Please, don’t assume the role of a therapist.

And there I was, terrified of getting married, of letting go of the life I knew and loved. Of giving up everything for a man I had met just a while ago. . . I honestly can’t imagine how married people do it- how they move on. I admire that. I know one day when I am ready I will be able to do that.

But I couldn’t get married. Everyone will just have to respect my decision, they will have to trust me. Trust that I am comfortable with my life right now-I have so much to complete- I don’t want to share it with someone yet. Marriage is just not on the agenda for now.

And as I woke up from this anxiety dream, I thanked God it was just that.

A dream. (Phew!)