SAFFRON SEPTEMBER: A Muslim Woman's Story

By Aliya Anjum

Zara grows up privileged, in Pakistan. By the time she reaches her late twenties, she is single and no longer welcome in her home; death, illness and an arranged marriage has broken family bonds. She leaves Karachi, Pakistan to seek a new life in America. What begins as a quest for a new life turns into a journey of faith.

Zara wants what every woman wants: a husband, a family and a home. Breaking free from the traditions of her culture where marriages are arranged, Zara overcomes the constraints of her upbringing and sets out to find that special someone. Her quest is a long, hard road, beset with heartbreak and sorrow, where faith becomes her savior. One chance encounter with Ali, connects her to a kindred spirit; a man who seems like the answers to her every prayer.

This is the story of Zara and Ali, and their struggle to find eternal bliss in the land of opportunity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aliya Anjum
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9789699402067

Aliya Anjum

My pen is my passion and I write to educate, provoke thought, enthrall and amuse. I have been writing since the age of 17 when I got published in the largest selling daily of Pakistan. I have written over a wide range of topics including op-eds, book reviews, travelogues, socio-economic write-ups and economic policy critiques. I also teach part time in an MBA program which is my second favorite activity after writing. I hold a masters degree from US and I attended business school in Pakistan for my undergraduate degree. Before I discovered e-books I was an unpublished National Prize winning author of 3 books. I wrote them to find challenge in boring work. I am here as an author and as a reader. Peace be upon you!

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SAFFRON SEPTEMBER

A Muslim Woman’s Story

By

ALIYA ANJUM

Smashwords edition

For my mother, Rehana Ahmed, a pillar of strength

Copyright 2012 Aliya Anjum

Smashwords License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to.Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Likewise, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual event or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Scripture quotations are from Muhammad Asad’s translation of the Qur’an available at the site www.islamicity.com/quransearch

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

About the Author

Endnotes../../Downloads/SaffronSeptember.html - end

Chapter One

It was a warm Wednesday in June. A fortieth birthday merited something special.

Cutting the cake the staff had brought had felt good. When a single man living by himself goes home at night, he has to decide whether to pick a take-away, cook something, or microwave a frozen dinner.

Ali decided to do something impulsive on this special day. He drove towards his favorite Pakistani restaurant on Oak Tree Road in Edison, New Jersey. Making it at 10 p.m., an hour before closing time, he enjoyed some succulent kebabs with Naan. He and the owner left the restaurant together as it closed down.

It was midnight when he made it home. Tired but unable to sleep, he switched on his laptop. Five minutes later, he found himself logging on to a website which was the matrimonial hub for single Desis. He decided to contact someone randomly by clicking on the third profile in the New Match For You prompt appearing on the bottom of his screen.

His click opened a pictureless profile. Data indicated that the profile owner had last logged in over a week ago.

We have one thing in common, he said aloud.

Her description in the profile was brief.

"A gentle spirit looking for a home and a hearth with a husband. He must be into at least three of the following: movies, herbal tea, chess, animals, home cooked food, traveling, books, and art. Only open to self assured and emotionally mature men."

Cheesy; theatrical even, he thought. He muttered to himself, Which Desi woman loves to cook, and who wouldn’t love home cooked meals and movies? As he scoured the criteria, he could not find a third in the list, but then he thought, If I count man as an animal, then I love animals. Check that and done! He clicked on the Express Interest icon, sending his contact details to the faceless, cheesy profile.

He was asleep ten minutes later.

Zara returned home at 7 p.m. after a long day spent on shopping. Most of it was window shopping, but she had indulged in retail therapy with some new kitchenware and cushions. On her way up to her apartment, she picked up a package that had just arrived. A smile broke on her lips when she saw the label on the packaging. It contained a bottle of Gucci Flora perfume. She had found herself a great deal on the designer fragrance and ordered it online. Perfumes were her favorite splurge. She stepped inside her apartment, and within a few minutes she was done inspecting her purchases. Satisfied, she refreshed herself with a luxurious bath. Spritzing her new perfume on herself, she stepped out of her room.

After dinner, as Zara brewed herself some lemongrass tea, her glance fell on her watch. It was 8 p.m. on a Saturday night, definitely not the time to be dressed in your PJs, sipping tea, deciding whether to watch TV or to read a book. She sighed and switched on the TV to watch a re-run of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. An hour later, she was flipping channels to find something worthwhile to watch. She turned off her TV and pulled out her laptop. Checking her email took only a minute. Bored, she found herself logging on to a popular Desi matrimonial website. Having despaired of it ages ago, she logged in two to three times a month, more out of a sense of obligation than anything else. Being on the site served to assure her that she was not jaded, and that there was still optimism alive in her, despite it all.

One had to admit there was something peculiar about a 40-year-old spinster seeking matrimonial bliss online.

Someone had expressed an interest in her profile. She clicked on the icon to read the man’s profile.

"Salamz[1]

Please humor me by carefully reading this entire piece about me.

If you value education and enlightenment in a husband, then please read on. However, if your priority is his earning potential, or if you’re looking for a marriage of convenience, or you’re mainly looking to move to America, then please click on the next profile.

If you’re still reading this then here is a bit about me. I do not like to toot my own horn so I will stick to the facts and let you be the judge!

I have been living in America for the last 15 years. Would not call myself an immigrant because I do not know if this is my home for good. I may move to some underprivileged place in another ten years to take up a teaching assignment. My greatest achievement in life is knowledge and learning. Since arriving in America, I have experienced ups and downs, triumphs and losses, which have made me who I am. I admire America for many reasons, foremost amongst that is the appreciation for various cultures. Having said that I do appreciate my culture and am looking for a woman who shares that with me. I don’t drink or smoke. I do not pursue casual relationships and my idea of a relationship is one that lasts a lifetime. I have been brought up to respect women and I would honor and cherish the woman I marry.

I am looking for an easy-going, loyal, and committed wife: someone physically and emotionally healthy; educated, with strong family values; who knows the art of nurturing relationships; someone with a kind and big heart; and above all someone who never loses her sense of humor, come what may!

My pet peeves are envy, small mindedness, a hot temper and worst of all high expectations, instead of a mind of understanding.

I promise a life of thrills, laughter, adventure and an all enveloping sense of peace :o)"

She found herself shaking her head at the words. Word wizardry came easy to some, but their actions never spoke louder than their words. Nothing surprised her anymore. She thought of some of the men she had met off the site. An unpleasant feeling began to creep over her.

She had always been extra careful to meet people only after a cautious communication exchange, yet they all turned out to be disappointments. She had last met someone through the site some four months ago. The man had claimed to be 40, showing her pictures from a decade ago. He appeared to be 50, if not older, when they met. In addition, he had told her that he had come to America to pursue an undergraduate degree at the College of William & Mary in Virginia, and ever since graduation he had been working for a telecom company in a senior position. He had omitted that he was laid off two years ago. He had been working on small contractual assignments ever since.

Zara got up and stood outside on the terrace of her apartment. The summer breeze filled her lungs with peace. She looked at the bright stars over her head, then the chirping crickets distracted her thoughts. Somehow she always found the sound disturbing. It reminded her of graveyards. She began to feel lonely, so she returned to her computer.

Clicking on the profile again, she paused to think. Something struck her about his profile. There was no mention of seeing a picture first, as was the modus operandi of almost all the men there. There was no picture of him, either. He was probably a college or university professor, she guessed. Something prompted her to send the briefest of emails to the stated address, setting the ball rolling.

A very formal exchange of two emails followed during the following week, which established comfort on both ends.

Chapter Two

With Zara in Philadelphia and Ali in New York, it was logical to meet early on. Ali asked if they could meet, and Zara agreed. She suggested a meeting at the Philadelphia Museum of Art on the following Sunday morning. This was decided in their first telephone conversation, which lasted ten minutes. He had told her he worked in the field of scientific research, and she had told him she was working in finance. No other details were discussed, except for their respective family backgrounds in Pakistan.

At 11 a.m. Ali stood at the foot of the famous Rocky Steps of the museum, waiting for Zara. A few minutes later, he noticed a short, fat and rather unkempt Desi girl walked towards the stairs. His immediate reaction was, OK, so she lied about being 5’8"… this is not good, but it happens. However, the girl walked past him. A minute later, a tall, slender girl with striking looks walked towards him.

"Assalam Alekum," she said in a very cultured tone. It took Ali a second to catch his breath. Feeling nervous like a school boy, he spoke.

"Zara? Walekum Salam." The girl nodded her head in a graceful gesture, pointing up to the stairs.

She glanced at him and inquired in Urdu, I hope you weren’t waiting long for me?

Oh, not at all, I only just came, Ali responded, hastily taking a step towards the stairs.

They climbed up the steps together, along with the huge crowd gathered there that beautiful June Sunday. Their conversation was in Urdu.

Zara made heads turn and she seemed to take it all in her stride. At 40, she appeared to be in her mid-twenties. Her movements were graceful and they spoke of good breeding. He found himself a bit nervous throughout, trying to be on his best behavior. In the next two hours, they toured the museum, looking at objects, with Zara making very perceptive observations. Her elegance was only exceeded by her intellect; he found himself struggling to keep up.

Zara was unlike any other girl Ali had ever met before.

Sometime after 1 p.m., they stepped out of the museum to see a huge crowd gathered in Fairmount Park, along the Schuylkill River flowing close to the museum. Dressed in crème colored pants and a pale pink T-shirt, with a bright pink and orange chiffon scarf wrapped around her neck, she looked like a movie star. Zara retrieved her shades from her handbag, and she appeared ready to leave.

Perhaps we could have a quick lunch somewhere, Ali hastened to suggest. He was anxious to hear her reply. Zara hesitated for a second, and he cursed himself. I’m putting pressure on her, I sound desperate. Zara gave him a pleasant smile before she responded

This is a crowd of picnickers, we would not find anything more substantial than hot dogs here. She watched an expression of disappointment come over his face, before she added, Perhaps we could drive over to Manayunk for a more happening lunch.

Ali’s face lit up.

Where’s your car? inquired Zara, and Ali pointed to the parking lot. I’ll get to my car and wait for you outside the parking lot; that way you can follow me in your car from there, she said.

Ali nodded.

Ensconced in her red Smart Car, Zara noticed a Nissan Versa follow her with Ali in the driver’s seat. A few minutes later they arrived at a very happening neighborhood, with roadside tables filled with lunching crowds. Zara chose Riverside Pizza as their lunch venue. A waiter rushed towards them, eying Zara, Ali could not help but notice. They were given a cozy, two-chair table shaded by a green umbrella.

As they sat down, Zara pointed out to the area. This is Manayunk, my favorite part of the city, she said.

Ali looked around and saw an upbeat neighborhood buzzing with life. They were sitting on chairs around tables shaded by umbrellas, parked on the pavement outside the restaurant in a style reminiscent of European streets. He looked around and noticed that there were shops and restaurants around them and people everywhere. By then the waiter had handed them the menu card. Smiling at Zara, he turned to Ali to take their order.

What would you like to eat today? inquired the middle-aged Italian-American man.

I will have a small white pizza with a tall glass of lemonade, please, Zara told the waiter. Turning to Ali, she suggested, You might like to try the Philly white pizza.

Make it two, in that case, with a Coke for me, Ali told the waiter.

Zara noticed that the waiter had been looking at them with interest. First dates are always easy to spot, she mused to herself.

Your pizza will arrive fresh and hot in twenty minutes, the waiter assured them before he left.

I haven’t been to Philadelphia in years, and earlier on, I never saw this side of it, admitted Ali. Zara smiled.

There are many faces to Philly, but it’s somehow acquired a reputation for being a tough town, she said. Ali nodded in agreement. There is world-class entertainment here: shopping, dining, the performing arts, Zara elaborated. I like it here, and I’ve been living here for the last seven years, she said.

Really? And where were you before that? inquired Ali.

Maryland, came her reply.

So your dad was a doctor? commented Ali, referring to the information she had provided him with earlier.

Yes, and yours is an educator, you said? she responded. Zara diplomatically used the euphemism of educator for his father, a high school social studies teacher.

My mother is also an educator; she has taught English to high school students for the last twenty-eight years, Ali replied. Zara nodded.

My mother was a homemaker, she said.

You grew up in Clifton? inquired Ali, alluding to the most upscale neighborhood in Karachi, Pakistan. Zara nodded again.

Ali continued, I had a very middle-class upbringing. My parents still live in the PECHS neighborhood, where I grew up. Zara did not dwell on the matter.

Yes, you told me, she replied.

So did you come to America for school or work? inquired Zara.

Both- well, actually school, you could say, as I have a terminal degree in my field, he said.

Ali seemed a bit uncomfortable with talk of his work. Sensing it, Zara withdrew but found it puzzling. She wondered if he was employed or not. Dressed in a pale blue polo shirt and jeans, he did not appear poor. Salt and pepper hair gave him a distinguished middle-aged appearance. Upon closer inspection, Zara found him to appear to be in his late 30s. He seemed as tall as her, at about 5’8", slim and light-skinned, with a face that exuded decency. His looks were average but he had a dignified air about him. As their eyes met, Zara found herself feeling shy and she averted his gaze.

How long have you been in America? Ali broke her train of thought by asking her a question.

Twelve years. I came here for grad school, she responded. So, America is not your home yet? inquired Zara, referring to his profile.

Ali smiled a good-hearted smile as he said, I do like it here, it’s just that I don’t know if I want to grow old here. Who knows, I might one day move to Africa.

Africa is a pretty big continent, so where in Africa do you plan to go? asked Zara.

Somalia, Sudan, Eritrea; I don’t know, as I haven’t made a definite plan as yet. What about you, is this your home now? he asked her. Zara reflected for a moment before she replied.

I think so.

Are you an American citizen, then? Ali inquired.

Zara did not respond. Their pizza arrived at that moment.

Ali had to admit that the white pizza he was eating was by far the best he had enjoyed.

Like it? inquired Zara.

Ali nodded before he said, Very much.

I love Philly’s white pizza. I’m not a big fan of tomato sauce on pizza, though I’ve yet to make it myself. I do cook pizza from scratch on the weekends sometimes, Zara said. She seemed genuinely excited when she added, Cooking is another passion of mine.

Ali found himself smiling at her passionate feminine spirit.

It occurred to him at that moment that he liked her, much more than one could like a stranger on the very first meeting.

I have to admit I am a stranger to the kitchen, I don’t do much except make chai at home, he said.

Chai indeed, she said. Zara raised her eyebrows as a good-humored expression spread over her face.

He noticed her eyes twinkle and he felt himself relax. Was I tense before? He questioned himself because he had not felt any such thing. It occurred to him then that it was not so much tension leaving him, but more a sense of familiarity enveloping him. It was a new, uplifting sensation.

Ali watched a cute little blonde girl come towards Zara, seeking her attention. Zara directed a smile at the girl, which conveyed impish warmth. He found himself fascinated with her.

When lunch was over, they ordered more beverages and sat there talking. They began talking about old Pakistani television soaps, brands they had grown up with, and changes in Pakistan they had heard about but not experienced. An hour flew by.

It was past 3 p.m. when they asked for the check. When it arrived, Zara insisted on paying for her half. She then got up to take her leave.

I had a great time. Thank you for a wonderful afternoon, and the tour of the museum, she said.

Hey! I should thank you for the museum tour, because you introduced a gauche country bumpkin like me to art. And thanks to you, I discovered a hip side of Philly, he said.

The pleasure is mutual. I hope you have a safe drive back home. Take care, Zara responded.

She daintily waved her hand in a ladylike gesture, which he found endearing.

He wished they could have talked longer, but had been sagacious enough not to give words to his thoughts. All the way home to New York, the smile never left Ali’s face. He returned the rented car before riding the subway home. When he went to bed that night, the world seemed a happier place.

It took Zara barely a few minutes to arrive home, as she lived in the same neighborhood. As she got out of her car, she felt a strange sensation overcome her. Her hands began to shake and her heart was pounding. She had trouble opening the door of her apartment. She sat down, perplexed and puzzled. Trying to calm herself down, she drank water and closed her eyes. Taking deep breaths, she prayed for peace. After some time she got up, feeling better. Zara tried to distract herself by watching a comedy movie. She was not hungry at dinner and sipped tea instead. A new feeling of unease was stirring deep inside her. When she lay down on her side to sleep that night, a tear escaped from her right eye.

However, that night the sound of the crickets faded into the background.

Chapter Three

Zara woke up at 7 a.m. the next morning with a deep sense of unease stirring inside her. She stepped into the shower wondering about the cause of her anxiety, given that she had enjoyed her time with Ali.

She thought about Ali. Zara had not met anyone like him in a long time, especially in her matrimony quest. She had been at ease from the moment of their first contact. His emails had been respectful, reciprocal in their exchange, never seeking to extract more and give less, as was the case with many men. He had not insisted on seeing pictures prior to any communication, or upon talking over a Skype session. He had also let her choose the venue of their meeting. Additionally, he had arrived on time and his behavior had put her at ease. Their tête-à-tête had flowed freely, with no awkward pauses. She had initially planned to meet him at the museum for an hour or so and then leave, but it had stretched on to over two hours within the museum itself and then they had lunched together. She did not know what was causing her to feel anxious.

Rinsing her hair, Zara’s face broke into a smile, when she recalled how many times she had visited museums to meet prospective husbands. Many of her meetings had been at the Smithsonian museums, when she had lived near Washington, DC. It was a perfect venue; a public place with plentiful subjects of conversation and hustle and bustle, allowing for a prolonged conversation that could pleasantly meander through personal and general discourse. It also gave an opportunity to observe the man’s etiquette and his little gestures. The men she had met there had generally flown in from other states to meet her and there was no ambivalence in the purpose. The South Asian culture, especially the Muslim protocol, dictated a clear goal of marriage. The initial email or chat established the check-in-the-box criteria of family, education and profession. It was followed by a conversation on the phone or two, and then a meeting was inevitably suggested by the men.

Her friend Sarah had asked her about arranged marriages. She was amazed to learn that a girl like Zara had been engaged to someone for four years through an arranged proposal. Zara would sometimes discuss her matrimonial quest meetings with Sarah. Sarah was blown away at how the meetings had transpired, with men flying in from other towns after the briefest of communication. Sarah could not fathom the cultural norms and mores of Pakistanis and even Indians, which conditioned men and women for arranged marriages, even if they had been living in the west for decades. Living away from families and community, their loneliness prompted them to seek a semi-arranged marriage, where they would initiate contact with the women themselves but the process was otherwise pretty much the same as what their parents would have undertaken. Learning of it had greatly intrigued Sarah.

The marriages, happening through dozens of matrimonial sites and even through some social networking sites, could not be called love marriages in the real sense. They were semi-arranged marriages indeed. Zara sighed aloud, thinking, If it had been love, it would not have been so flimsy a bond.

Zara shrugged the thoughts aside and stepped out of the shower. She had been in the shower too long, lost in her thoughts. She rushed to dress so she could make it to work on time. Breakfast was out of the question, so she hurriedly opened the fridge to pour herself a glass of milk. As she drank the milk, she stuffed a pear in a Ziploc bag to deposit in her purse and then she rushed out.

It was hectic at work, which was a blessing in disguise, as she had no time to return to her thoughts. It was after 7 p.m. when she got through with the day’s work. She left her office exhausted.

Arriving home twenty minutes later, she heated the dinner she had cooked the previous Wednesday. It was her routine: Mondays were reserved for errands; grocery shopping was done on Tuesdays; cooking on Wednesdays, and she generally cooked enough to last her through the week; laundry and cleaning were done on Thursdays; and Friday evenings, Saturdays and Sundays were left free, purely for fun.

Switching on the TV, Zara sat down to eat her dinner. She was ravenous, as she had only eaten a pear for lunch. Watching CNBC, she finished her satisfying dinner.

She got up to brew herself some lemon cinnamon green tea. As she watched the water in the pot boil, her thoughts returned to Ali. He seemed like a genuinely nice person. Lacking unfounded airs or pretenses, he had a gentlemanly way about him. A stab of pain hit her heart as she acknowledged the fact that she liked him. An image of him conjured itself up in her mind.

Zara tried to distract herself from her thoughts. She got up to charge her cell phone, which had been lying in her purse since yesterday. As she picked up her phone, she saw three messages. She was always prompt about responding to messages, so she felt a sense of guilt at her neglect.

There was a message from Ali, sent at 6 p.m. on Sunday, which meant he must have sent it soon after reaching home. It read:

Salamz! I had a great time today. I hope to meet you again sooner than soon.

Zara’s lips widened in a smile, before a sharp stab of pain hit her heart. She sat down, staring at the message. A few minutes later, she got up and walked over to the terrace to inhale the summer breeze. She turned her attention to the next message. It was an auto-generated message from a service she had subscribed to. The next message was sent about an hour ago. It was Sarah, asking about a particular issue at work. She texted back in answer. Sarah immediately messaged back with a smiley.

Her thoughts returned to Ali. Zara sighed deeply before she told herself, It would be better, for both him and me, if I do not pursue this further.

She deleted his messages and began to watch TV. Her mind was distracted. She thought of calling Sarah but then decided against it, as she knew Sarah would urge her to meet Ali again. Sarah did not understand, even when she said she did. In any case, it would be hard to explain to Sarah why she had agreed to the meetup in the first place. Sarah had not lived her life. People said that they understood, and they said it in earnest. Sarah was divorced, she said she could relate, but no one could relate. Her experience was different, very different, even when they had a break-up in common.

Sarah had not understood when she had explained her delayed reaction to her broken engagement, all those years ago. For Sarah, what possible loss could have arisen from the break-up of an arranged engagement, where one had not been in a relationship with the man? But an engagement that had happened as the result of a promise made to her dead mother by her best friend- and that, too, to someone she had known all her life- had been a big deal. It had not been easy to get over it. It had been especially hard, after all that she had gone through ever since turning 20.

Zara had graduated from the country’s top business school, the Institute of Business Administration (IBA) in Karachi, with an undergraduate degree, only eight months prior to her engagement. It took six months to experience burn-out at her job as a credit analyst at a German bank. The situation at home greatly contributed to it as well. Her mother was fast losing her battle with cancer. There was no real battle, actually, as the disease had cheated on them by making itself visible only in the very last stage.

Her mother’s anguish for her only daughter was great. Faris was the son of her mother’s best friend, Bina Aunty, who felt her mother’s pain. Bina Aunty and her mother had known each other since they were both ten years old. Zara’s mother was worried that she would be leaving Zara without recourse to a loved one; it tortured her that once she passed away, there would be no one there to find a suitable husband for Zara, since her father was incapacitated. On her deathbed, her mother was confronted with an incapacitated, ailing husband; a single daughter; and a married son, whose wife had displayed striking selfishness and mean-spiritedness in just four months of marriage. It was not an easy way for anyone to breathe their last.

Bina Aunty had then asked her mother for Zara’s hand in marriage for her only son Faris. Born three months after him, Zara had known Faris since birth. They had played together, and he had pulled off a scooty act on her pigtails often enough. Faris had left home at 17 to attend university in London. He was a genius in the making. However, after three years at the prestigious Imperial College, he switched fields to pursue biomedical engineering at MIT, in Boston. He was still pursuing an undergraduate degree at 23, with a year more to go. The engagement was to last two years.

There