Ayesha S. Chaudhry - The Colour of God

For

Light dancing on titlywings.

My Medina.

Chiryasong of my dil.

The colour of God. And what is better than the colour of God?

The Quran

Contents

What is your name, lil munna?

My name is Sibghatullah.

What does your name mean?

The colour of God.

And what is the colour of God?

Ummm... green, I think... or maybe light brown.

Part I

Anguish

It is not my place to tell his story. Only my own. And my story is formed by him. So, should I start with the day he was born, on a cold, wintry December night, snowflakes drifting lazily in the yellow glow of street lamps? Or with the day he died, on a warm, rainy summer night in June, four and a half years later?

Theres no right place to begin, so lets start with his death. His death made me go back and rethink everything. Made me see that the most fundamental facts of life are unstable, shaky. Like time. Time does not just march forward. Sometimes it skips ahead, rushing through long stretches of life, and other times it resists forward motion, moving unbearably slowly, dragging itself out, refusing to move along. Like a puppy resisting the leash, digging his feet into the pavement, preferring to rip his pads than give in to the demands of his walker. And sometimes it loops right back, keeping you stuck in a nightmare from which you cannot wake. Like water endlessly circling the drain, never emptying out. His death floods my mind, it seeps into every corner of my brain, it drenches every memory.

Its June 28, 2005 and I am twenty-four years old. I have been married for about six months. I fought tooth and nail, prayed my heart out to marry this boy, not yet a man. He is two months younger than me. His parents opposed our marriage. They didnt come to the wedding, even though he got on his knees and begged them.

If you marry her, youre not welcome back here , they said, and then followed through.

My family was full of trepidation about our wedding, about my marrying a person whose parents disowned him. They wondered aloud if I could trust him. Does he know what hes doing? Will he change his mind tomorrow?

Yes, he does and No, he wont , I told them, with more confidence than I felt.

We got married in Las Vegas, though thats less scandalous than it sounds. My sister was living there at the time and offered to host the wedding. My parents, my siblings with their growing families and a few friends gathered, taking up too little space in a vast green prayer hall at a mosque just off the Strip. The day was December 18, 2004, Sibghatullahs fourth birthday. Whose bright idea was it for us to get married on his birthday? One of us must have thought up this plan but all of us thrilled at the harmony and beauty of it. Love upon love. Baraka multiplied. His mother, my older sister, single-handedly organised the wedding made the arrangements at the mosque, booked the reception at a restaurant, made the salon appointments, waxed my legs, arms and face the night before, hosted my entire family of six siblings, spouses, children and parents in her two-bedroom apartment.

Sibghatullah had been involved in all the planning. He had opinions about the hairstyle his mother chose for me, the cake she picked out, the clothes I would wear. He thought that the wedding was his, that he was the one marrying me, and was scandalised to learn that his Ayesha Khala wasnt coming to marry him at all, but some random guy named Rumee. He expressed his disappointment by icing him out. He never really warmed up to Rumee. Im sure he would have eventually. But there wasnt enough time.

Back to that June evening. Ive been married for six months and ten days now and I dont know what Im doing. I do not understand marriage. Ive never been in a romantic relationship before. Neither has Rumee. It took us three weeks to figure out how to have sex. If sex is instinctual, our instincts were buried so deep we didnt know where to look. Rumees friend advised him, Just get in there and explode .

Well, it took a while for him to get in there . For weeks, as we tried to figure out what comes naturally to animals, Rumee would ask, Am I in? And Id say,... I think so?

When he was finally in, we both knew. He didnt ask and I didnt respond with a question. It felt good.

Rumees parents were not speaking to him. Some of my family members were not speaking to each other. There were several fights before and after the wedding. Sometimes, families use reunions to air their grievances. Some of the fights were over money, as though money could heal years of trauma. When the visit was over, my father departed in a huff, without saying goodbye or hugging Sibghatullah. Even at his young age, he noticed and was hurt.

Why is Nana angry? he asked.

This haughty and momentary lapse on my fathers part will haunt us for the rest of our days. Some of our mistakes are carried by those we love.

Six months after the wedding, my older sister is in transit, moving from Las Vegas to a small town in New England. I have just moved myself from New York to Rumees apartment in Baltimore so that we can play house, but Im not expecting the relationship to work out. Hes working at some nine-to-five job instead of finishing his PhD. Im at home, all day, preparing for my comprehensive exams. Im doing a PhD in Islamic Studies at New York University, and on that campus and in that city I had a social network. I have no friends here. There is nowhere to walk. I am eating too much ice-cream.

On June 28th, Rumee convinces me to work out with him at the gym in our apartment complex. I reluctantly agree after much whining about how much I hate sweating. To my twenty-four-year-old mind, sweating is gross and sweating in hijab is more gross. I find fitness clothes obscene, at odds with my notions of modesty. I wear too many clothes when I work out; long yoga pants for jogging, the bottom half of the legs flared so they dont excessively hug my curves. On top I wear a long-sleeved shirt, but this is too revealing and the shape of my butt shows through the yoga pants. To fix both these problems, I wear an extra-large mens cotton T-shirt over my outfit. This hides all my curves, my butt, waist and bust. Now for the head. I tie a small, non-slip cotton kerchief on my head. This will ensure that the hijab I wrap over the kerchief doesnt move from physical exertion. I look in the mirror. Do I look modest enough? Rumee thinks so. My mothers voice in my head disagrees. I ignore her and head to the gym.

I climb the elliptical machine and, momentarily, I feel much, much better the endorphin release eases my gnawing anxiety and distracts me from the judgemental voices in my head. As we are about to head back to the apartment, it starts pouring rain. Hard, East Coast summer rain. Warm and strong. We look at each other and realise there is no way around it, we are going to get drenched. At first, we run with our shoulders hunched, as if to shield us, but pretty soon our apprehension melts into childish glee as we run through the heavy downpour, bodies open, laughing, our clothes wet and heavy, our shoes squelching.

We get home, buzzing with energy as we shower and change into dry, comfortable clothes. I make myself a hot chocolate. Rumee sits to write something at the desk in the den. I curl up on the floor behind him, my legs folded under me as I lean forward to read another book for my exams. I remember the book, Quran, Liberation and Pluralism by Farid Esack.