Arranged destiny (part 2)

Toledo, Ohio --- this was middle America, and this was not the country that wannabe immigrants thought of when they thought of the land of plenty and the land of opportunity. This was the country of strip malls, chucky cheese and god fearing Christians. This was not the country of the melting pot, but a country where all shades of black, white, and grey were clearly spelt out, and Manisha was always conscious of the fact that she was brown.

It was hard for Manisha to get used to the town and to her new life in the US. In Bangalore, she had always been surrounded by people, and she would go to book stores and restaurants and plays without thinking twice. In Toledo, she found herself holed up in a two bed-roomed apartment. Vivek would go the hospital at around 6 in the morning and not return till about 8 in the evenings, and on the days he had a night shift , he would spend the day sleeping. She tried to keep herself busy by experimenting with new recipes . She flipped through the channels on TV and watched the Days of Our Lives. She read, and on occasion re-read some of her favorite books. And yet, she couldn’t fill the hours. Since she didn’t know how to drive, she couldn’t venture out of the house. She had tried walking to the grocery store once, but the fierce wind had numbed her hands and feet. And after five months of marriage, Vivek still seemed like a stranger to her . Manisha desperately wanted to be a good wife – she had always excelled in everything in her life, and she was determined to make her life as a wife successful as well. She would often reads Cosmo articles on top ten ways to seduce your man to compensate for her sexual inexperience. She would try and make witty conversation. She would redecorate the house. She would cook butter chicken. Yet nothing seemed to break the ice.

One day Vivek walked in to the house late at night, and Manisha had been waiting up for him for dinner. She smelled alcohol on his breath, and asked him as demurely as she could, “Did you go out drinking tonight?”
“It’s none of your business,” he replied shoving her out of his way.
The next day at breakfast, neither Vivek or Manisha said anything about the incident. The frequency of such incidents gradually increased , and every time Vivek would become more taciturn and Manisha was pushed farther away. But Manisha didn’t or wouldn’t give up. In many of the Mills and Boons stories she had read, the man was often brusque, haughty and distant in the beginning, but would eventually succumb to woman’s love. Manisha was hoping that her story would also end that way. She kept her pain hidden from her parents, her friends and even from herself. There were days when she would look at herself in the mirror, and not see the bruise under her chin.

Of all the things that travel fast, secrets travel the fastest. Manisha’s parents had always suspected that things were not going well with their daughter, but a visit from a family friend who had just come back from the States confirmed their worst fears. Manisha’s father was livid – he insisted that Manisha leave Vivek. But Manisha’s mother was hesitant about the repercussions of divorce. But her husband who had once said, “I want everyone to talk about my daughter’s wedding” was now saying, “I don’t care what people will say – she is my daughter.”
Manisha, however, was reluctant to let go - parts of her still thought she could make it work. Her father gently but firmly pulled her away.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania --- Manisha walked out onto Spruce Street. The gothic structure of the Upenn’s school of medicine loomed behind her. She could feel the air getting cooler, and she pulled her lab coat more closely around her body. As a second year resident, she couldn’t quite tell when her nights began and her days ended. She would walk from work to home, and from home to work. Down Pine, and a left on 43rd. She had walked those six blocks for more than a year now, and yet today she was acutely aware of it. She saw the tram lines zig zagginng through the street, she saw the frat boys drinking beer on the porches, and she noticed the flamboyant flourishes of the Queen Anne row houses that lined the streets, with their columned porches and decorative spindle-work.

As she approached Pine street, she saw a middle aged man motioning to her with a flyer in his hand. “Sister, can I talk to you, “ he beckoned. “I have some good news to share.” Manisha assumed that he was from one of those evangelical groups trying to find prospects. She humored him and took the flyer, without slowing down her pace of walking. “Sister, wait, “ he said in a voice that was so gentle that she felt drawn towards it. “Praise be to Allah”, he replied as she turned around and faced the man. The man was an Imam at a local Masjid. He was originally from North Africa, and had lived in the US for more than 30 years. He was helping many new African immigrants cope with life in America , and in the process helping them to find their path to God. Manisha was never very religious, but she had always thought of herself as a good believing Hindu with secular ideals. But here she was listening to the man tell her about how she could find truth, strength and peace through Allah. He encouraged her to attend a weekend long course on Islam, and though she rarely had time to do things outside of work, she found herself saying “yes.”

For all her life, Manisha had struggled to grasp something real. Growing up as privileged child in Bangalore, she struggled to feel connected with life and she had thought that marriage would let her do that. In Toledo, she struggled to solidify her marriage and possibly latch on to this thing that was called love. Yet it always eluded her. But through the Koran , and through the Sunnah which laid out the rules and regulations of life, she finally found something, someone she could hold on to. There was no relativity here. It was absolute. It was unmoving. It was unchanging. It was infallible. And a week later, at Shahadah (conversion ceremony), Manisha embraced this absoluteness with the words, “La illaha il Allah, wa Muhammad arasool Allah. - there is no God worthy of worship except Allah, and only Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.”