We sit at the dinner table, my brother, sister, her family and Mummy.
It is an occasion that almost always brings up the subject of my martial status. I try and
maintain a passive face on these occasions, indifferent, as the moment usually passes
after a while and talk turns to other (mundane) topics. Mummy is emotional, like she
always is when it is discussed. At forty-one and divorced for five years, she and the rest
of my immediate family are very eager, nay, desperate to have me remarried. I wonder what
drives their relentless urging for me to take a wife; my advancing age, my sharpening
eccentricity, the increasingly scantiness of my scalp, maybe all of the above? And so
invariably, the subject crops up and predictably Mummy ends the discussion with the words,
"You await my death before you will marry again, I know it, you want me to be out of
the picture before you bring a bahu home!" Sniffle.
I sigh, but make a mental note of doing something about the situation. I really must marry
again, this mutah business is getting to be pretty expensive anyway. Even the
heavens say so. I was at Mahshad visiting the Imam (as) recently and an aalim
nearly scared me out of my skin when he abruptly proclaimed I would never be happy or
contented at heart until I tie the knot again. The scary part was that he did not know me
or that I was single! How did he know? Maybe saw it in my eyes? I have a much greater
respect of these ulemas now, and try to cast my eyes down when I (occasionally)
converse with them. What if they come up with more hidden secrets that even I do not know?
Scary!
I am really not against the institution of marriage, really. I mean it would be great to have someone to share your life with, the joys and sorrows, you know what I mean, yes? And cheaper too, compared to mutah, I mean. Some men would argue the point… Anyway, I would be married today if I found the right person, and yes, I am choosy. I have the right to be. I have been bitten hard and I will be thrice shy. Of the women I have met since my divorce, none have really clicked; not a momeena anyway.
So on a business trip recently, I make it a point to look up an old contact in Bombay. This lady had invited me to meet her divorced daughter when I was last in India a year ago, but she had called me on my last day there, and I had promised to look her up on my next trip. Well, I call her and yes of course she remembers me, she is so, so happy to hear from me, yes her daughter is still unmarried and yes she will definitely meet me. Well and good, we make it a point to meet the next day. Incidentally, the company I am involved in on a business proposal employs this person I am to meet. Is this a coincidence or is it a coincidence?
Well, the three of us meet and guess what? As it happens once in maybe a million tries, it is a perfect match! She is pretty, (masha’Allah), intelligent and educated, (masha’Allah) and most important off all, a true momeena, (masha’Allah). I like her instantly and guess what again? The feeling is mutual, the girl actually likes me. I am on top of the world, I am ecstatic, and I am overwhelmed, I move around Bombay with a silly grin on my face and a spring on my feet. The rickshaw drivers, taxi drivers and other Bombaites write me off as another nut among the many they encounter daily. Suddenly, the heat and humidity is not so bad, the streets are not so filthy, the smells not as bad as I had first imagined…I am really happy after a long, long time.
As her father and brothers are in the Middle East and their approval is mandatory for the union to happen, the mother says we cannot meet until then but conversation on the telephone is permitted. So we talk on the phone for hours, bonding and building a relationship. We plan a future together and she demands a dowry of a trip to Hajj and Ziyarat, reinforcing my belief about her imaan. We exchange gifts and I receive a large bouquet of red roses, hmmmm.
The future seems set until a certain Mr. Istakhaaro makes an unexpected appearance…
I return to Dubai happy and contented, sure that my life will finally settle to a more
predictable pattern. Mummy, Bhayya and the maid give me odd looks at my apparent
transformation. I am taking a nap after a fine lunch next day when the maid, announcing a
telephone call from a neighboring country, wakes me up. I instinctive know who it is; Mr.
Brother wanting to come and check me out. I clear my throat and say "salaam
alaikum" in my best possible voice. The tone of reply is not at par and I immediately
realize something is very wrong. He is truly apologetic and remorseful. He has discussed
my marriage proposal with an aalim and the verdict of an ensuing istakhaaro
is bad. Real bad. So sorry, he says, so very, very sorry!
I am drenched in sweat and my heart is thumping as I replace the receiver. I am sure a
slap on my face would not have been more hurtful. My obvious fist reaction is of anger and
hurt at the rejection. Then I cool down a bit and think about the situation. There has to
be a way out, I tell myself, there must. I have waited long and hard for this person, I
can’t give up without a fight.
That same day, after magribain prayers, I seek out an aalim (with eyes
downcast, of course) and request an istakhaaro for nikah. There is a moment
of silence. Maybe he is not convinced I am still of marriageable age? Tsk, he
clicks his tongue. It is better not to do istakhaaro in case of nikah, do tawakal’Allah,
says he. There is amusement in his voice, but I am still reluctant to look into his eyes.
No, I insist, please do an istakhaaro. Very well, says he, make a niyat. I
make one and wait, heart in my mouth. Seconds later, he gives the verdict, it’s
great, very good, go ahead, mubaarak. I break into a grin and want to give him a
bear hug (eyes downcast, for sure) but race home instead to call Bombay to give the lady
the good news.
Not so fast buster, says she, why did Allah (swa) say no to me and yes to you? He loves me more, I attempt at humor? She is not amused. No, no, says she, there is divine message here, a warning maybe? Yes, I agree there is a message all right, and He says yes, go ahead, no warnings. Aacha, we will talk to Mr. Brother again, she says. Okay, I agree, and I will write an email to him too. Yes, yes please, do that, and Yusuf, please, please impress him and pray for us and give sadeqa and keep haajaat and pray extra namaaz… I quickly agree to all her demands.
And so I write an impassioned plea to Mr. Brother, requesting him to
ignore his istakhaaro result and accept mine instead. He writes back. Sorry,
can’t do that but give me a week to think over the issue and I’ll get back to
you. I accept reluctantly, as if I have a choice. I do not have to wait long. Mr. Brother
asks Mr. Istakhaaro once again the following day and their interpretation of his
ruling still refuses me a bride, my mother a bahu and my siblings a bhabhi.
So what shall we do now, I ask my lady. What can I do, she weeps in anguish, I can’t
displease Allah (swa). But He gave a resounding yes to me, I wail in pain and despair.
Well, He said no to me and I can’t go against my family wishes…our hearts weep.
I think I will stick to mutah, it’s virtually painless at the heart although
it does hurt the pocketbook now and then. But then there are no known remedies for broken
hearts, are they? Oh yes, and keep my eyes downcast in the company of those who know.
Note: Although this article is written at an attempt at humor, the underlying message cannot be ignored. There are so little known facts about Istakhaaro and the apparent misuse of it continues unabated. I personally tried to do some research on it after the above incident but surprisingly, there is very scant, if any written works in English on the subject. What are its origin, when to use it, do we have to follow the verdict, is it recommended, did the Imams (as) prescribe it…?
SAVED BY THE BELL: It means to be spared from a difficult situation at the last possible moment. In England, in the late 17th century, a sentry at Windsor castle was accused of being asleep on duty. His defence at the court-martial was that since he had heard the clock of St.Paul’s in London, 20 miles away, strike 13 at midnight, he could not have been asleep.
The court ridiculed the idea that the bells of St.Paul’s could carry between London and Windsor, and sentenced him to death. It was later verified, however, that the clock of St.Paul’s did strike 13 instead of 12 times on that particular night. Saved by the bell, the sentry was released and lived to the ripe old age of 102.
GET UP ON THE WRONG SIDE OF BED: This figure of speech refers to anyone who is moody or bad-tempered for the day. It is based on the old superstition that it is unlucky to get out of bed from the left side - left-hand side was associated with the west, where the sun sets, symbolizing death.
KICK THE BUCKET: The bucket in this phrase does not refer to the vessel used for carrying water, but to the bucket beam or wood frame on which pigs were hung after slaughter. Anyone who has ‘kicked the bucket’ has therefore died.
GONE TO POT: This refers to anything beyond repair or anyone incollapse. The phrase comes from practice of throwing leftover food into a pot for stew or hash.
ONCE IN A BLUE MOON: During the volcanic eruption on the Indonesian island of Krakatoa in 1883, the dust thrown into the atmosphere caused the moon to appear blue for some time. Natural disasters of such magnitude are rare, so the expression means something that seldom happens.
There were two young brothers, 8 and 10 years old, exceedingly mischievous. Whatever went wrong in the neighborhood, it turned out they had a hand in it. Their parents were at their wits end trying to control them. Hearing about a religious teacher nearby who worked with delinquent boys, the mother suggested to her husband that she would ask the teacher to talk with the boys and he agreed. The mother went to the teacher and made her request. He agreed, but said he wanted to see the younger boy first and alone. So the mother sent the younger boy to the teacher.
The teacher sat the boy down across his HUGE, impressive desk. For about five minutes they just sat and stared at each other. Finally, the teacher pointed his forefinger at the boy and asked, "Young man, where is God?"
The boy looked under the desk, in the corners of the room, all around, then said nothing. Again, louder, the teacher pointed at the boy and asked, "Where is God?" Again, the boy looked all around but said nothing.
A third time, in a louder, firmer voice, the teacher leaned far across the desk and put his forefinger almost to the boy’s nose, and asked, "Young man, I ask you, where is God?" The boy panicked and ran all the way home. Finding his older brother, he dragged him upstairs to their room and into the closet, where they usually plotted their mischief. He finally said, "We’re in Bi-i-i-i-g trouble." The older boy asked, "What do you mean,’BIG trouble?’" His brother replied, "I’m tellin’ ya, we’re in BIG trouble. God is missin’ and they think we did it !!"