Love in a Headscarf Read Free

studying.”
    “Very good,” continues the older male guest, who is Ali’s uncle. “I hear you are studying psychology and philosophy?”
    I nod mutely. My voice is upstairs in my bedroom in protest at this awkward social situation.
    “Does that mean you can tell what I am thinking?” He chortles, and then laughs so heartily that he starts coughing.
    “Shelina, beti , get him some water,” directs my father. Beti is an affectionate name for a daughter. It reveals his attachment to me.
    I return with a glass of iced water and settle myself back into my seat. I sit quietly for a few minutes, until I receive an imperceptible nod from my mother. I exit silently, my feet padding on the soft carpet toward the kitchen. I fill up the kettle with water and switch it on, watching the red indicator light, waiting patiently for the water to boil. Back in the living room, I project my most sweet, most polite, future daughter-in-law voice and ask, “Would you like some tea or coffee?”
    I suddenly feel more confident: I have a role to play. I smile in turn at each of the guests as I ask them what they would like to drink and how much sugar and milk they would like in their tea and coffee. I restrain my splutter when I am asked for four spoons of sugar and sweetened condensed milk, a staple of Asian tea drinking. This sugar-laden tea preference is not uncommon. I try not to look too much at the Boy while I take the orders. He looks as terrified as me.
    I chant the drink requests mantra-like in my head. Cooking and hostessing skills are crucial in Asian culture as a sign of a “real” woman, just as they used to be in Europe, too. Every woman must be a domestic goddess. It certainly would not be in my favor to make an error at this stage.
    In the kitchen once again, I arrange the cups on the tray to match the seating plan in the living room. This will help me distribute each drink to the right person. I place tea bags in cups, spoon in the coffee (it is instant, for convenience), distribute sugar, pour hot water, and mop up spillages. I straighten my clothes again and lift the tray. Trying not to trip on the hem of my skirt, I hobble toward the living room. I regret my choice of long flowing chiffon skirt as my feet step on the frills.
    I put down the tray in the center of the coffee table and place each cup carefully on a coaster next to the right person. I pick up the teacup for the Boy, and suddenly feel unsure of what to do with it. I approach his seat, just as I have with everyone else, and place the cup next to him. As I serve him, I lift my eyes briefly to look at his face. In my shyness I look away too quickly. Regretting my nerves, I raise my eyes again and find myself staring unexpectedly into his. Suddenly our shared gaze is over, and I step back into the normal space-time continuum. I flee to the kitchen, feeling flushed and haphazard.

Samosas
    I pick up another tray that has already been prepared, of small plates and finger food. It includes my mother’s perfectly browned samosas. “Bringing in the tray of samosas” is a leftover leitmotif of what was once the meeting process: the only time that the girl came into the room where her future was being negotiated. It is now simply an ironic euphemism for the introduction of a girl to a boy.
    This might be a girl’s one chance to view the prospective bride-groom. The boy must also capitalize on this opportunity. This is not the moment to be out of the room using the facilities. Along with his whole family, he may have traveled many miles for this single brief moment, perhaps his only opportunity to see the woman with whom he will share the rest of his life.
    Will his eyes sparkle when he sets his gaze upon her? Does he like the turn of her dupatta , the translucent shawl that subcontinental women often wear on their heads in place of a headscarf? What if the fabric slips as she bends down to hand out the plates and he glimpses her long midnight black hair? The way