Part One
Winter
Chapter 1
My stomach churns as I type in ‘Muslim Marriage Websites’ on my laptop and I’m not sure if it’s out of excitement or shame. Probably a bit of both. Although it feels empowering to take charge of my destiny instead of waiting around for things to happen, I can’t help feeling embarrassed. Looking for a husband online isn’t exactly the dream, is it? Anything else would have been preferable. Meeting him at uni, work, or even on the Tube would have been better than filling out a form and putting myself out there for public scrutiny. Yet here we are. Desperate times .?.?.
I hit ‘search’ and I’m immediately inundated with countless sites claiming to be the best and to do what my mum, aunts and social network have failed to do: find me a husband. As the pointer hovers over the first link, my youngest sister, Yasmin, peers over my shoulder, scrunching up her nose at the choices.
‘This is like, a bit old-fashioned, isn’t it?’ she says after I’ve clicked on the first option and we are assaulted by hot-pink branding and images of airbrushed, light-skinned brown people.
‘Huh? I thought internet dating was in fashion?’
‘Yeah, ten years ago. Now it’s all about apps. Look.’ Slamming my MacBook closed, she grabs my phone, enters my passcode and starts browsing. Despite being the youngest sibling and still at uni, she’s clearly so much more knowledgeable than I am. I didn’t even realise she knew my passcode, for God’s sake.
I let her do her thing, and mull over how my life has got to this stage. I know everyone does it. I know it’s not a big deal. It’s barely any different from a traditional arranged marriage scenario, only instead of a meddling aunty being the mediator, it’s a website. But I can’t help feeling ashamed about it all, like I’ve somehow failed because I’m still single at twenty-nine. Bengali years are a bit like cat years, so in my community, I might as well be thirty-nine.
In the end, ‘we’ decide to download an app called MuslimMate, because according to Yas, ‘That’s where all the cool people are’. She goes on to tell me that she has friends that use it, and I’m aghast that twenty-year-olds feel the need to go online to find husbands. Not just because online dating can be soul-destroying, but because now I’m going to have to compete with women a decade younger than me as well! How is that even fair? And why do they want to get married so young anyway?
‘You’re so naïve sometimes,’ Yasmin giggles. ‘They’re not looking for husbands, they’re looking for hook-ups. Boyfriends. You know, fun.’
Bloody hell. So it’s a dating app disguised as a marriage one, to make it more respectable and ‘Islamic’. I keep my opinions on the matter to myself though, as I already look like an ignorant old granny next to my younger, cooler sister.
‘I really don’t feel comfortable about this,’ I mutter as Yasmin snatches my phone out of my grasp and scrolls through my photo gallery before selecting what she thinks is the right picture; a selfie I took in a park a few months ago. The sun was beaming down on me, its rays illuminating my face and making me look radiant.
‘Let me fix this up a bit,’ she mumbles to herself, opening up an editing app and then playing around with my face until she’s zapped away a spot and blurred out a laugh line from the corner of my eyes.
‘Isn’t this deception?’ I ask, partly in awe, as I try to grab the phone back.
‘Chill out!’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Everyone does it. But look – you have to take a selfie now so they can verify that it’s actually you and you’re not a catfish.’
‘No way! Not looking like this!’ I haven’t washed my hair in three days and the evidence of yesterday’s chocolate binge is sitting on my cheek right now, all red and painful.
‘No one’s going to see it! They’ll use facial recognition technology to make sure that it’s you.’
This is getting worse by the second but I reluctantly comply. It’s either this or a Biman Bangladesh flight straight to Shahjalal Airport. A spot of online dating is definitely the lesser of two evils.
The selfie shows me in all my true glory – messy hair, a bit of uneven colouring, a sunspot or two, dark circles that are bigger than my friend circle – and I’m convinced that they’re not going to let me submit the other, manipulated photo.
‘Who’s “they”?’ Yasmin sighs. ‘It’s not going to be an actual person doing the verification, Zara. It’s some software that will see that you’ve got the same features and that’s it. Please. Relax.’ Shaking her head, she goes back to the phone and starts typing away. I have no idea what she’s writing but she won’t let me see until she’s finished. Leaning back with an accomplished smirk on her face, she hands it over and I read her intro warily.
Fun and friendly twenty-nine-year-old Londoner here, finally biting the bullet and exploring the mysterious online Muslim dating scene in the hopes of finding a like-minded someone who’s looking to settle down. I’m after someone kind, funny, intelligent and successful to join me on this adventure, to laugh, explore and learn with me. If you think you could be my match, you know which way to swipe!
‘I can’t do this.’ I gulp, staring at the words directly below the image of my face smiling back at me. ‘Am I really about to put myself out there for a bunch of nameless, faceless strangers to ogle at my picture and tear me to pieces? What if no one picks me? What if someone I know screenshots my profile and shares it? What if someone takes my picture and photoshops it onto a glamour model’s body and shares it around? What if—’
‘Relax, Z,’ Yasmin soothes me in her most calming voice. ‘Your pictures are already on every social media platform that’s out there. If someone wants to turn you into a glamour model, they don’t need MuslimMate to do it.’
‘True,’ I squeak, reaching over for my stone-cold hot chocolate to moisten my throat. ‘Is the intro too flippant though? Maybe I need to sound more serious?’
‘No way! Serious means desperate and you are not desperate. It’s fine. It’s chill. See how the responses go, you can always switch up the photo and intro in a week’s time, if you want.’
Sometimes my twenty-one-year-old sister’s social and emotional maturity is shocking.
So, I take a deep breath, whisper, ‘Bismillah’ and hit ‘save’.
*
It all started a couple of hours ago, with my mum digging her elbow into my ribs and my grandma breathing down my neck as I reluctantly put together a biodata – aka a Bengali marriage CV – under their strict direction.