Muslim...not really

Chapter 4

The rest of the week was surprisingly uneventful, punctuated by trudging wearily between classes being followed by the human incarnation of the entire species of My Little Ponies, better known to you as Zara Qassim. Her manner of dressing earned her a number of bemused glances everywhere she went, though whether this was because of her strictly Muslim attire or the bright colors she always seem to sport, I wasn’t certain. She came to school looking like a different species of tropical birds each day, bedecked in plumages of varying colors and texture. She seems happy in wearing clothes that she liked, and couldn’t care less what others thought of her, and for this she had earned my respect. 

Much to my relief, the week had finally come to an end and I could have my two days to recuperate from too much Zara-exposure.
A visit to the mall was long overdue as my wardrobe was painfully under-equipped, and so it is there that I stood a few hours later, a smoothie in hand when I was ferociously attacked by a walking ball of cerulean blue muslin. Yes, you guessed right.
My personal nightmare was back to haunt me.

“EMAAN! Fancy meeting you here! Small world, huh?”

It’s official. The entire universe is conspiring against me.

I smiled, or rather grimaced, painfully at her, while dying a slow and painful death inside. At times it’s like my life is like a badly written story on an online website, although that may entail Zara to be the bad boy heartthrob and me the stereotypical geek-girl or the subtle pretty nobody.
I mean, God can’t be this cruel.

“Are you shopping for clothes?” she asked.

I nodded, and she followed me uninvited to the nearest store, beaming all the way.

I was flipping through the graphic Tees and cotton blouses when she pops up out of nowhere clutching various articles of clothing. I couldn’t see what they were properly, but there were a lot of long sleeves and low hemlines involved.

“How about you tr-“

“No.”

“Just try th-“

“No.”

“Please?”

“Zara, I am quite capable of picking my own clothes. Besides, I don’t do long sleeves.”

She was quiet for the next few minutes, silently observing me as I flipped through various graphic tees. Although I pretending to ignore her, mentally I’d fallen to the floor on my knees, arms raised heavenward as I shouted “HALLELUJAH!”

Finally, she spoke. “Do you know why Islam suggests a modest mode of dressing?” she asked. Although I made no reply, I was curious. “It’s because we believe that a woman shouldn’t just be a product of merely her physical aspects and beauty. She shouldn’t flaunt herself for anyone and everyone to see. Islam advises modesty and chastity, for a woman to hide her physical beauty so that she may be recognized for her intellect, her personality, her opinions, and her actions. And the Hijab isn’t merely an item of clothing. It’s the sum total of behavior, speech, manner and appearance. The dress is merely one aspect of the total being.” She smiled.

That actually makes sense, I mused.
“B-But I don’t dress for anybody.” I argued.

“It is all means to the same result.” She sighed.

We didn’t say anything after that; but as I took my purchases to the counter I saw her flash a secretive smile at the clothes I’d chose; a fair number of which had longer sleeves and hemlines than usual.