Khadijah's proposal

New story

A Mango for a Bride
By

Maryam khan
My father's house was in a greater state of uproar than usual, and since there were six of us children - well, we're all grown now, but when we're home, we're no longer truly adults - six of us and our families spending a great amount of time in the house, the level of noise and chaos was pretty amazing My infant son Adam was the youngest of the horde, and with him in my arms I sat in the kitchen, watching Mama and my oldest sister Manal coring tiny eggplants to be stuffed and trying to keep the older kids from dipping into the pots and bowls crowded on the countertops.
"Don't eat that, you'll spoil your appetite and there won't be enough for everyone later." My nephew Ali only grinned at my rebuke, and since I couldn't chase him with the baby in my arms, I just sighed resignedly as he made off with a dripping piece of cactus fruit. I was a soft touch anyway, unable to put any authority into my voice. I had a real weakness for the luscious, refreshing teen shoki, and I had to resist the urge to ask him to bring me one. My son distracted me at that moment by spitting up on the front of my dress, so I put aside thoughts of food and reached for a towel.
"Ah, the joys of motherhood." I really wasn't complaining, for my son was the greatest joy in my life. The second greatest joy would be seeing my little brother Bashir get married, which was what all the hoopla in the house was about. When he returned from a trip overseas and announced that he was ready to settle down, we were all overjoyed and anxious, too. He was the youngest of our family, the only boy, so finding a suitable woman for him to marry would be a momentous task. He didn't have a particular girl in mind, he told us, but felt that he was ready for the commitment and eager to start his own family. I suppose my getting pregnant and having the baby had something to do with that. He realized he was now the only sibling without a child, and I had seen the longing in his eyes when he held my son and twirled him around the room. He was no longer content to be merely an uncle; he wanted to be a daddy.
"Well, daddies have to be husbands first", my mother told him when he broached the subject. "It will take some time to find the right match for you. She has to be pious, smart, and well, just right. I'll know here when I see her." With this pronouncement, the search was on. Initially, my mother closeted herself with my father, who spent hours on the prayer rug making supplication to Allah to help him find a bride for his beloved son. Then she burned up the phone lines calling his and her brothers and sisters, distant cousins and old friends. Girls were suggested and introductions made.
Rapid-fire questions narrowed down the field. Does she wear hijaab? Does she pray? Can she cook? Where did she go to school? No question was too minor and many "candidates" were eliminated because of seemingly trivial faults. This one didn't eat meat, that one listened to pop music. Those who made it through the initial phase were subjected to close physical scrutiny. Hair, nails, teeth and eyes were surreptitiously examined. I half expected her to ask the girls to crack nuts with their teeth and do pushups. She was always polite but very serious. This was, after all, the woman who would inshAllah carry on the family name.
Finally, after three months of calls, meetings, and many fervent prayers, my mother met the family of one lady who really seemed to stand out from the crowd. She was a raven-haired beauty with glowing golden skin, but the beauty was modestly hidden beneath a large khimar, which she wore comfortably instead of the more stylish, smaller hijaab favored by so many women. Her father was a doctor from Port Said, but the family had relocated to Cairo several years ago so his children could study at al-Azhar University. She could recite beautifully much of the Qur'an from memory but was becomingly shy and reticent to put herself in the spotlight. She cooked well enough to keep a man from starving, her father jokingly said, and she seemed physically fit, not a tiny waif of a girl, but womanly shaped. I had met her at their home when my brother went to see her for the first time, and she had an engaging wit and a confident manner that put me at ease. She fussed over my son, which of course put me on her side immediately, and acted as hostess with practiced grace. During the visit she and Bashir were allowed to go for a walk in the park around the corner, out of earshot but not eyesight so they could get to know one another with some modicum of privacy. We all trailed behind like a Greek chorus, trying to interpret miniscule changes in body language as they walked along. Their conversation was animated and friendly, and by the time we returned to the house, it seemed as though a decision had been reached They would continue to see each other, in the presence of a chaperone, of course, and continue to talk. Nothing had been decided about marriage at this point, my brother being a careful man, but we sensed the possibility and were quietly hopeful.