The Girl You'll Never Meet ...Part 2 ...Two Different Worlds
—Rumi
I spent a restless night trying to make sense of my dreams and it's as frustrating as trying to make sense of my life.
I've spent so many empty nights haunting a crater of the Moon that by now feeling desolate and bereft should be familiar sensations to me, but they still hurt.
I'm an open wound with my life force slowly seeping out and now I'm faced with the conundrum of trying to comprehend my obsession with an arab girl and how I could possibly reconcile two different world views.
The challenge is beyond me and my limited knowledge of eastern culture.
I awake feeling rusty and out of sorts and try to distract by reading The Times, sipping my tea but it only raises more doubts.
There’s been another beheading in Ethiopia and a foiled terrorist plot involving blowing up the Canada-USA Bridge. I feel sick to my stomach.
At work, it’s not much better. There’s a buzz around the coffee machine and a few pointed looks in Mariyan’s direction.
I'm sure they see her as a threat and wonder about her intentions.
I go back to my desk depressed and exhausted. I glance at my watch—only ten o’clock. Will I even make it to lunch?
I glance over at Mariyan and she’s bathed in a silvery luminescence.
My attention is totally arrested as I hold my breath.
But just then, the phone rings and I have to answer.
Of course, the spell is broken. When I look back, the radium glow is gone.
What was it? It reminded me of snow at night—a very faint radiance.
At that moment, Mariyan lifts her eyes and stares. Were you looking for me? her eyes seem to say.
I swear I hear her whisper inside my head and begin to tremble.
What’s happening? Am I losing my mind?
The phone rings again and I warily pick up.
“Markus? It’s Raj. Are you free for lunch?”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Raj! You’re just the man I need to see. Can we meet at Coro’s at noon?”
He chuckles. “That depends, my friend—if it’s pleasure, my treat. If it’s business, it’s your tab.”
“Always a pleasure to see you, Raj, but this time I need advice.”
“In that case, if you arrive before me, order me a double scotch neat so I’ll be well fortified.”
“Will do, Pal.”
I feel better already.
I’ve known Raj—or, more formally, Dr. Dr. Rajab Basha, for over ten years. Besides being my best friend, he’s an Adlerian therapist and someone I trust enough to pour out my soul.
Also he's a product of eastern culture so he'll have some insight into what's going on inside my head
If anyone can make sense of my angst it’s him.
In the restaurant, Raj is sitting opposite me attired in a dark blue suit, looking more a Bay Street banker than an upscale psychiatrist.
His professional demeanour is augmented by years of private schooling in Calcutta—the benefit of being the only child in a wealthy Muslim family.
He’s been listening attentively as I’ve poured out my soul and now leans back in his chair and stares at me pensively.
“You say you’ve seen an aura about her?”
I immediately feel defensive.
“I didn’t use that word exactly—I think I said a faint luminescence.”
“Ah yes—a radiance. Of course, you wouldn’t know about the farr.
She must be from royalty”
I have no idea what he's talking about.
“As far as I know she’s from Jordan, but her father’s family traces back to Iran. I don’t know much more about her lineage—certainly nothing about her being of royal descent. Besides, what does that have to do with her aura?”
He smiles at my use of the spiritist term, but I’m too exasperated to quibble over words—I simply want to know what the hell is going on.
“The farr, he patiently explains, “is the visible manifestation of God’s glory often seen resting on caliphs, kings, sultans, and imams—it’ a sign of God’s favour.”
Disillusionment must have been clearly visible on my face. I feel Mariyan and I are separated by an even greater divide.
“You look disappointed, my friend. Do you have feelings for this woman?”
“No, of course not. We’ve barely spoken.”
“I see.,” he smiles. His eyes are dancing. I ignore his obvious skepticism.
“It’s this damn dream,” I growl exasperated, “and now this strange vision —it’s weird and unsettling, that’s all.”
“I take it by using the term, ‘vision’, you’re referring to her aura.
Again, I ignore his sarcasm and try to keep things focused. “It was more like smoke surrounding her.”
“Ah, so now she’s veiled in mist. Well, it must be strange for you growing up in this culture and then encountering a cultural distinction such as the seclusion of women from men. Perhaps you have never had to deal with such issues such as modesty, privacy and morality when dating western women.”
I refuse to take the bait.
I don’t want to spar with Raj today. I need him to get serious.
I shake my head sadly. “I don’t think it’s a matter of her virtue or modesty, Raj—mind you, not that I’ve had many dates with women lately for that to be an issue. It’s crazy. I’ve hardly spoken to her and yet I feel confused and unsettled by her.”
“Perhaps you could begin by conversing with her.”
The irony in his voice makes me wonder if he feels offended I’m struggling about being attracted to a Muslim woman.
Still, I’ve known Raj a long time--surely I can be honest with him about my feelings.
Suddenly, he blurts out, “Maybe you’re afraid to ask her out.”
“I don’t know, Raj—I’m intrigued, but I’m way outside my comfort zone.”
“But in your dream, you said you saw her through a trellis—hardly an imposing barrier.”
“Yeah, but c’mon Raj—she wears a hijab, for God’s sake.”
“Hmm. I could have sworn you said a loose fitting headscarf. I think you’re being evasive, Markus—you’re obviously intrigued. Why don’t you just put the mystery to rest and ask her out?”
I put up my hands in a mock gesture of surrender. “Okay, you’re right. I guess I’m just feeling off balance—dealing with something I just don’t understand.”
“Why not sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment, my friend?”
He pushes the restaurant receipt toward me. “And you can start by paying the tab for my wisdom.”
I grin ruefully, embarrassed at appearing needy. “I’ll take your advice, Raj, and try asking her out, but let’s give Rumi some credit for the wisdom.”
He laughs and lifts his glass as a toast. “Touché, my friend—so, you’re not entirely unaware of Islamic culture.”
In a limited sense he's right, but I'm vulnerable and confused. I may not be totally unaware of muslim culture...
But, hopefully, Mariyan’s not totally unaware of me.
Thank you!