Daily Prompt: Ready, Set, Done
Our weekly free write is back: take ten minutes — no pauses! — to write about anything, unfiltered and unedited. You can publish the post as – is, or edit a bit first — your call.
There is always diversity in traditions based sometimes on geographical origins, sometimes on strength of imposer, sometimes authenticity to root sources, and sometimes evolution of culture by displacement of time and place.
Almost two decades ago, I participated with eagerness in tradition, when I married BH in an Islamic ceremony at the Hall in San Fernando. For us, (well, my family and I since BH was a 6-month revert with little tradition in muslim marriages to draw from), that meant a nikah by proxy, followed by a walimah. Yeah, that sounds about right, isn’t that how all muslim marriages are conducted? Hmmm, well in its barest essentials, yes. But complexity is sometimes in the details.
I dressed, was driven by my female hijabi friend (the original hijabista I have always felt), and accompanied by my maternal aunt (of Hajj accompaniment last year) and my girl friend, to the mosque, where I reaffirmed my faith, and awaited the arrival of my wakil and the groom’s two witnesses (friends to this day). Wakil – Younger Brother (who as youngest, married first, we did this thing in reverse in my family, I went next, then Elder Bro, and Eldest Sister remained unmarried until death did her part), who asked if I accepted him as my wakil and if I accepted BH as my husband and if I accepted the dowry (only part of which still fits but which is all mine!). I did, and did, and did, and did (one question was asked thrice). Wakil and groom’s witnesses left and I exited accompanied by my three (or was it two?) into the waiting car to be driven around the block to the entrance of the Hall where I made my grand entrance on the arm of my father after finding my just turned one year old Niece who learnt to walk just in time to walk ahead of me down (or up) that aisle. I mounted the steps to where BH, bedecked in a green double-breasted suit and cream paghri (turban o neophytes), awaited me on the balloon-arched stage in front of the airbrushed depiction of our names above Jasmine’s (hmmm, was there some Freudian lisp in middle-naming Eldest Niece and BD?) castle in the clouds. When he greeted me and waited for me to seat myself on the chair (throne?), the sire-endowed bracelet of gold upon my wrist escaped (my aunt has forever sworn that this was symbolic…..and maybe it was). Now, it gets a little fuzzy here, and I have no videotape player or converter of videotape to disc of any sort, but mayhaps wakil was then asked thrice by our marriage officer (my teacher) whether he had questioned me and what were my responses, and thence the witnesses whether they agreed with what he had said (how much I owe YB) (hmmm, now I can’t remember just what BH did say and when:(). And thence was delivered the marriage khutbah as it was in the days of the Rasool saws, and in the presence of both bride and groom. The end. Well, it wasn’t, for then ensued speeches (would you believe Elder Bro suggested that I couldn’t boil H2O?), and instrument-less songs, dua’s, and food, and cake, a chocolate-cake enriched honeymoon in Tobago, and……….spousal living. My mother said that she felt that I had never smiled as much as I did that day.