The Hijab Boutique Read online

  “You’re on the right track,” Mom responds with a smile. “However, your answer applies to most Muslim hijabi women. I want you to think of why exactly your mother started to wear hijab.”

  I stand in front of Mom like a bump on a log. I’m stumped. The truth is, I never thought much about why she made this change in lifestyle and appearance. “You’ve got me, Mom,” I admit, waving my hands in surrender. “I guess I don’t know the real reason why you’re a hijabi.”

  “Well, now I’ll tell you,” Mom answers candidly, her voice taking on a more serious tone. “As you know, I didn’t know much about Islam until I was an adult. My family never practiced much; they just went to Eid prayers and special occasions like weddings or funerals. I only began taking religious classes after I got married.”

  I nod in recognition of her past and present. “Yeah, I know how much you look forward to the weekend study circles for women at our mosque.”

  “Well, it was during one of those classes,” Mom goes onto say, “that I learned that the Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him, taught us that girls should start wearing hijab once they reach puberty, and that the Holy Qur’an says Muslim women should wear loose clothing and cover everything except our hands and face. The women there had a long and animated discussion about it. Some of them, like me, had wrongly believed that covering up was just an Arab custom, or cultural practice.” Mom runs her slender fingers through her hair. “To make a long story short, I couldn’t get those verses out of my mind. It felt as if Allah was speaking directly to me.”

  “So what’d you do about it?” I ask, curious.

  Mom’s emerald eyes float past me. “I read every book and every opinion out there about hijabs. I spoke to our Imam. I poured my heart out in prayer. Finally, I knew that I had to take that step.” Mom pauses, and raises her head. “I became the first woman in my family to become a hijabi. At least, the first woman in living memory. My great-grandmothers must have also worn hijab, and the generations before them.”

  I don’t know a lot about my mother’s family. The gist of what I know is that my grandmother died of cancer when I was a baby, and other relatives died in a cholera epidemic in India years ago. I don’t want to bring this up now, so I change the topic. I recall the change Mom made in how she dressed. “I was about seven years old when you first started to wear hijab,” I say.

  “That’s right,” Mom says, confirming my memory. “Your dad was with us back then, too.”

  My stomach automatically turns at the mention of my late father. “What did Dad have to say about your decision?”

  “He was away on business when I made my intention to wear hijab,” Mom recalls with her face brightening at the memory. “I actually surprised him at the airport when I went to pick him up. I just showed up in a headscarf!”

  My eyes open wide. “How did he react?”

  “Well, your dad wasn’t enthusiastic in the beginning,” Mom answers honestly. “He was afraid for me—afraid that I’d be discriminated against.” She takes a deep breath. “Non-Muslims interpret hijab in different ways. Some think that it has to do with politics; others believe that it is a sign of women being oppressed. Some people feel that it is the duty of foreigners to fit in, or they may even feel a bit threatened by hijab. They haven’t read the Qur’an or teachings of our beloved Prophet (peace be upon him) and simply don’t understand. Or they may not understand the importance of religious freedom, and its long tradition in this country. Your dad didn’t want me to experience any more racism or Islamophobia than necessary. He was trying to protect me.”

  “So how did you convince Dad?” I ask, curiously. My father had always seemed so supportive.

  “I didn’t back down,” Mom replies with a grin. “Your dad saw how important hijab is to me, and he accepted my choice. And after I showed him the Qur’anic verses and hadiths of the Prophet (peace be upon him), he also realized that our dress code is part of Allah’s guidance and the way of Islam. Yes, it’s true that strangers sometimes give me curious or even angry stares. However, when people ask questions I use the opportunity to spread the word and message of Islam.”

  My head is spinning with all this info. “I feel so stupid, Mom,” I admit as I plop onto the floor of her walk-in closet, “not knowing any of these things about you.”

  Mom shakes her head. “That’s perfectly normal,” she says, adding, “You were still a young child. I waited to share this with you until you were mature enough to understand my choices. Now you are growing up. You’ll be a young woman soon enough yourself.”

  I am only half-listening now, and my mind wanders to what led us into this conversation in the first place. “You still haven’t explained the ‘arrangement’ you’ve been keeping from me!”

  Mom looks at me, surprised. “You really don’t know what I’ve been up to?”

  I shake my head quickly. “No, I don’t.”

  “In that case, I’ll take you to the place that’s about to change our life,” Mom says with great purpose. “Everything will make more sense then. Bismillah – let’s go!”

  She takes my hand and we hurry downstairs, two steps at a time.

  4

  DREAMS, AMBITIONS AND THE HIJAB BOUTIQUE

  Mom grabs the keys to Dad’s gold convertible. I try to play cool, but my emotions are getting the better of me. I begin to sweat. What she’s about to tell me is big – I can feel it in my stomach. It’s also totally logical because, until today, we’ve NEVER taken Dad’s beloved car out for a spin. Why, you ask? Simple. It’s because our memories of him are so deeply connected to this vehicle. He bought it after scoring a huge business contract. At the time, both Mom and I knew n-o-t-h-i-n-g about his big purchase. One afternoon, Dad surprised us by zooming into our driveway in a shiny convertible. The rooftop of his brand new car was down, and he shouted gleefully to Mom and I that our lives were about to change. He was right: we watched the only man in our lives be transformed from an ordinary businessman into Mr. Textile Mogul, and our lives were transformed right along with him. My heart still bursts with pride over his achievements.

  F.Y.I.: Dad’s success didn’t just benefit us; he also improved the lives of poor people. He donated heavily to homeless shelters in particular. Like I said earlier, Dad believed that a man’s home is his castle. He felt that this should apply to temporary housing, too. He worked very hard to make the homeless shelters in our area become beautiful, safe havens. Dad felt this was his duty as a fortunate Muslim, because he knew that his business would never have taken off if it had not been Allah’s will. He used to tell me, “Remember, Farah, that it is the poor people’s right to receive zakat and charity: our wealth can only be purified by sharing it with others.’ His heart was truly made of gold. It’s only fitting that his favourite car was the same colour.

  My mind’s eye is flooded with memories, and my body finds it difficult to keep up with its emotionally-fuelled images. I feel like I can’t breathe. Mom and I have long stopped chattering. We exit our home in silence, only stopping when we reach the entrance to our three-door garage. Mom punches in the security code, and just as programmed, the doors rise up slowly to let us in. Under normal circumstances this action is routine for me, but today everything is different. I allow my eyes to glance at the side of our garage where my dad’s convertible is parked. For the first time in the two years since his death, I find the courage to stare at the symbolic fruit of his hard work. A ray of Los Angeles sunshine hits the gold coat and temporarily blinds my vision. I squint, and turn to face Mom.

  “Are you ready?” Mom asks, her tender green eyes searching mine. “I arranged for the car to have a complete tune-up yesterday; it’s all set to go.”

  Feeling a rush of adrenaline, my head bobs up-and-down, nodding ‘yes’.

  We hop into the car. Mom turns the ignition key and the convertible smoothly pulls out of the garage, engine humming.

  Mom lowers the top of Dad’s convertible, and the unforgiving sun beats do
wn on us as we drive. Wisps of my dark hair fly in every direction, scattered by the wind. Mom’s checkered-patterned hijab is tousled, too. We zip out of our neighbourhood in record time. We drive past Miss Peabody’s Academy and I immediately think back on the times Dad dropped me off to school in this very car. An old wound opens up inside of me. My hands seek comfort by clinging to my leather seat, but it, too, burns with its heat. I look up at the palm trees lining the road, thankful that these old friends smile down at me. To my surprise, Mom pulls our car into a small shopping centre.

  Once we park, Mom drums her fingers on the steering wheel that was once held by Dad.

  “Farah…I…er…” she begins to say, but her tongue stumbles before she can complete her sentence.

  “Is everything okay, Mom?” I ask, the tension mounting up inside me.

  Mom quickly takes her hands off the steering wheel and places them over mine. She squeezes my hands tight. “We’ll be fine, honey,” she answers firmly. “We’re troopers who can handle any change, so long as we’re together.”

  I’m becoming more puzzled by the minute. “What type of ‘change’ are you talking about, Mom?”

  Mom takes a deep breath. She looks absently at the mall in front of us. “Farah, have you noticed anything different about the appearance of our house?”

  “Well…” I say, thinking long and hard, “Our house has been stuck in time since Dad passed away,” I finally answer. “Our furniture is getting worn and old. Paint is peeling in the kitchen and the bathroom. And our front lawn has become a wild jungle of weeds.”

  “Do you know why I haven’t taken care of those things?” Mom asks.

  “Umm…,” I respond, “You haven’t been able to deal with those things because it hurts too much to take over Dad’s role?”

  Mom smiles at me, and gently touches my cheek. “No, honey, that’s not the reason,” she says softly. “I struggle to maintain the upkeep of our house because I can barely make ends meet. Our two sources of income are savings and Dad’s investment money from the stock market. Stocks haven’t been doing too well, and now our money is beginning to run out.”

  It feels like a ton of bricks have just fallen from the sky and crashed onto my head. I start to feel dizzy.

  “Oh my goodness!” Mom exclaims, quickly grabbing a bottle of water from her purse. “Drink up. You look like you’re going to be sick.”

  I accept her offer of nature’s drink and take a sip, but I don’t really feel better. Seeing the worry lines on my mother’s delicate forehead, though, I say, “I’m okay, Mom.”

  “Correction,” Mom says, taking me squarely by the shoulders. “We’ll be okay.” She looks at me with twinkling eyes. “I have a plan!”

  I sit up straight. “You do?”

  “Yes, inshallah.” Mom says proudly. “I’ve figured out a way to earn an income and still care for you.” She pauses to look at the numerous shops that stand before us. “I’m opening up a business in this mall with Aunty Sheila. We’re calling it, ‘The Hijab Boutique.’”

  “Wow!” I exclaim. “That’s amazing news, Mom.”

  Mom gives me a modest smile. “Inshallah our business, ‘The Hijab Boutique,’ will be a success,” she says hopefully. “I intend to use the first earnings from the store to fix up our house. My plan is to sell our home, put our extra belongings up for sale and buy a smaller house to free up some cash for investment – and to live on.”

  “Why do we have to move?” I ask quietly, worry clawing at my heart. “I’ve never lived anywhere else. It feels like everything is being taken away from me.” I start to think about the things I love about our house and our neighbourhood, my room full of years of art projects, our neighbours…

  “Change is a part of life, Farah,” Mom says, interrupting my thoughts. “Although I understand that continuity is important, too, especially for girls your age. I know how much you value Miss Peabody’s Academy, and I will do my best to see that you still get to study there.” She pauses to stroke my hair. “We have no choice, honey, but to move to a smaller home that we can afford. There is one thing, though, that we’re taking with us for sure…”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Dad’s convertible!” she laughs, throwing her hands in the air, “Your father worked hard to earn this car, and I will do my best with this business in order to keep this tangible memory of his. I can’t bring myself to sell it.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “That sounds good to me, Mom.”

  “I’m glad,” Mom says with a wink. “Now, let’s stop talking and let me show you my second baby, ‘The Hijab Boutique!’”

  The store itself is small. The whole room is occupied by scattered boxes. My eyes note the undressed mannequins and a cash register that promises to ring up sales.

  “Yikes, is this place messy!” Mom states with an infectious laugh. “Would you like to help me get the shop under control?”

  I smile. “I’d love to give you a hand.”

  Mom picks up a box lickety-split. “The main priority on today’s agenda is to organize our merchandise,” she declares. “Let’s get started with the hijabs.”

  Together we open the seal of the first box. I see fabrics in so many colours that my eyes do a figurative cartwheel. A rainbow looks dull in comparison to these materials.

  Mom notes my expression. “These hijabs are made of Egyptian cotton,” she explains. “They come in twenty-four shades.”

  I recognize this hijab style in a jiffy. “You always wear this look to the mall,” I say, feeling the cool-to-touch fabrics. “You call it your: ‘no fuss, no muss appearance.’ I also like to wear them for prayer.’”

  “Right,” Mom says with a laugh. “These hijabs are known as the ‘one-piece.’ I like them because they’re quick to wear – simply slip on a tube that covers your hair, neck and shoulders, and voila! – you’re good to go!”

  We carefully place the one-piece hijabs on the display shelves. Then it’s time to open another box once we’re happy with our work. This time, I find rectangular-shaped materials with detailed embroidery. I run my hands over the fine threads that make up pictures of flowers and stars. Talk about beautiful craftsmanship!

  “These hijabs are known as the shayla,” Mom says. “You can wear this cut of fabric in many different styles, actually.”

  My brain suddenly has a flashback. “I remember you wearing a hip shayla head wrap style to a Muslim Sisters’ Party. Aunty Sheila helped you put the look together.”

  “My, my, daughter,” Mom says teasingly, “your memory serves you correctly. Do you think you can copy that style on a mannequin?”

  “You bet!” I state, taking one rectangular piece of fabric. “I’m always up for a challenge.” I skip over to a nearby mannequin and start my work. I twist and turn the hijab this way and that until I’m satisfied. At last I arrange it to my own satisfaction. “What do you think?” I ask nervously.

  Mom comes to inspect my efforts. She turns the mannequin from side-to-side, then looks at me. “I’m impressed,” she says.

  I bask in the warmth of her compliment.

  We now cautiously open another box, taking care not to damage any of the valuable contents. This time, I know what I’m looking at. “These are Kuwaiti hijabs, right?”

  “You’re on a definite roll today, Farah,” Mom remarks. “Right again.”

  Curiosity gets the better of me. “Can I try on a Kuwaiti hijab?”

  “Of course, honey,” Mom says, lifting one out of a box. “Come stand in front of me so I can help you arrange it properly.”

  I do as I’m told. Mom starts her magic right away. She first slips a beaded tube onto my head, to go under the scarf. Then she takes a long piece of cloth, drapes it loose at one side of my head, and wraps it around the back of my head to my opposite temple, pinning it into place above my ear.

  “There–we’re all done,” Mom says, stepping back to admire me. “Mashallah, you look like a Muslim princess!”

 
I dash off to the dressing room mirror. I turn from left to right, then spin around. “I definitely like what I’m seeing, Mom!”

  We open up another box once the Kuwaiti hijabs are put on display. I discover pieces of square fabric in mind-boggling patterns—even in hippy-style tie dye.

  “These are square hijabs,” Mom explains. “You can be really creative in the way you wear these. You’ll often see the square hijab photographed in editorial fashion spreads.”

  To emphasize her point, Mom goes behind the store’s cash register and pulls out a stack of magazines, and hands them to me.

  I can’t believe my eyes. “I had no idea that hijabis had their own fashion magazines!”

  Mom laughs. “We sure do. As you can see, hijab doesn’t mean you have to look ugly. Looking modest and decent is important, but you can still look nice.”

  I flip through glossy page after page. “I’m impressed, Mom. These magazines are seriously neat. I always did wonder what you were reading.”

  Mom winks. “Now you know. Not that that’s all I read, of course!”

  “No, of course not,” I reply, remembering the thick volumes on the history of India, classic novels and various books on Islam that fill our livingroom bookshelves.

  Mom and I start to set up the Muslim fashion magazines and women’s magazines that will be for sale at ‘The Hijab Boutique’. Then we stand in front of our last of the small boxes. I wonder what treasures it contains. Mom opens it, and I gasp with delight. The box is filled with ribbons, dangling tassels, chiffon, silk and glittering sequins.

  “These are the fancy party hijabs that our Muslim sisters wear at weddings, on Eid or at all-girls get-togethers,” Mom explains.

  I feel the glamorous materials at hand. “These hijabs are really beautiful…”