Free Love in a Headscarf by Shelina Janmohamed

up in the morning and you smell his breath and you see her with her hair standing on end like a jinn , only then can you know what love is.”
    This was certainly not the romance of Beauty and the Beast— or John Travolta. The Imam wasn’t anti-romance, just anti-blind-romance. He challenged the prevailing narratives around me about Finding the One, Falling in Love, Getting Married, and Living Happily Ever After. He didn’t spell it out, but he meant that films end abruptly when Sally and Harry get together, when Seattle is no longer sleepless, when boy gets girl. At the peak of precarious joy, the story ends. What was the reality of the “after,” when they said “happily ever after”? Was it endless summer breezes and dreamy flushed gazes? Or was it a negotiation around dirty dishes, unfinished DIY projects, and unpaid bills?
    Love was indeed a passionate human experience, of this the Imam was in no doubt. It could be transformative but it was a force to be tamed and channeled. Its rightful place was inside a marriage, where its transcendent virtues could shine without complications. Only within this structure of commitment, which gave formal security to both husband and wife, and only with the formal consent given by both the man and the woman to begin the relationship could love fully flourish. Marriage was an act of worship and love was the gift given in return.
    The Imam was very clear about the importance of two things: agreement by both the individuals themselves and a formal written contract to underpin the relationship. In his words, marriage was the difference between a verbal agreement and a written contract. Whenever you dealt with matters of great importance, the law demanded a written contract in order to guarantee the rights of both parties and outline the nature of the relationship. When dealing with personal relationships, the same rules ought to apply, and so marriage would be a contract between two parties on the relationship they were agreeing to.
    Talking about love, marriage, and partnerships was a common and natural part of growing up for me. From a very young age, I was taught about Love. Not only about flowers and chocolates, but also about the hardships of love: its sacrifice, its divine meaning, and its joy and pleasure. The multiple and multiplying rewards of love had to be worked for, and that came with time and patience. Over and over again I heard this advice, this rhythmical lyrical preparation to love.
    “Marriage and love are not grand abstract emotions that exist outside of the realities of life,” the Imam explained. “They come shackled to the drudgery of daily routine.” This was a fact most people, especially teenage romantics like me, preferred to ignore. “And yet, everything you do as a Muslim,” the Imam elaborated, “is an act of worship.”
    “According to the Prophet Muhammad, being a human being is very simple, ‘Knowing God, and serving humanity.’ Even if you think they are dull and you don’t like doing them, doing your bit in the world, even with things like laundry and mopping, can help you on the path toward enlightenment.”
    The Imam’s views were designed to be a walking, talking reality check about love. He encouraged people to be in love, but all the while remembering that it wouldn’t be constant high romance. Housework and hoovering were just as worthy forms of devotion to God as prayer and meditation.
    We attended many weddings, perhaps one every three or four weeks. They were always community events and everyone was invited, no matter how distantly related or how tenuously known. If they weren’t invited, it would look bad. There would be hundreds and hundreds of people coming to celebrate the union of the bride and groom and the two families. Attending was seen as part of social obligation to the community, and any unjustified absences would be considered as snubs by the wedding parties and noted for the future.
    Due to the sheer number of