The '4Th' is with me!

May is 'Short Story Month'. Depending on your location, the forces of nature have April showers heralding the blossoming of May flowers... or the onset of chilly weather, like here in South Africa. But, whatever the weather, those changing hues of nature are always pleasing to the muses, if you're in the mood to write... or perfect weather to just snuggle up with a good collection of 'short stories' if you're not.

The Force is strong in May, and particularly on the 4th, which is Star Wars Day and also my birthday! Google tells me that I share this birthday with Katherine Jackson (mother of the King of pop, Michael Jackson), Kimora Lee Simmons, and Audrey Hepburn among others. Though I cannot speak for them, the number four plays a strangely prominent role in my life - something I only noticed about four or so years ago... (Yes... trust me to ponder over such things:))

For starters, my mother is the fourth daughter of six born to my maternal grandparents. She was born on the thirteenth day of November. Broken down as you do in numerology, thirteen comprises of the numbers one and three. Adds this up and you get the number four again.

On my fourth birthday, my crown, I received a copy of Richard Scarry's Storybook Dictionary from my parents which, by the way, is still in my possession:) On the fourth page, counting backwards from where the numbering starts on page seven, are the letters of the alphabet. The first few pages introduce the animal characters found in the book. I vividly remember sitting on the balcony of the flat we lived in at the time with an older cousin and 'testing' her on her alphabet. Using a black pen, I marked every letter with a dot as she proceeded to recite the alphabet with her eyes shut tight. She knew the alphabet. When it came to my turn, she underlined the letters I knew, using the pen and a ruler, so that we could differentiate the two. When I opened my eyes, sixteen letters were not underlined, which, if we're pondering how this fits in, is four squared! Tying in with my crown birthday... four on the fourth... two fours... four squared.

Then, in high school and thereafter, marriage proposals started coming in. As was the norm at the time (and still happens this way to some extent even now), people would approach my mother or maternal grandmother, who I call Nanima, and ask for my hand in marriage for their son, brother, or some other relative. It felt odd, as if people were watching a loaf of bread proving and were eager to snap it up as soon as it came, hot and fresh, out of the oven. I was no more than bread! But I somehow managed to evade the fate of many of my older female cousins, who were taken out of school and married off. Sometimes I think that this was also one of the reasons why I kept working so hard at school ... so that I could STAY in school!

But then came the proposal I was fated to accept, at the age of twenty two - yes, another four! I had just moved back to Cape Town on transfer to Standard Bank, Heerengracht, and living with my mum's brother and his family. (Previously, I was there as an 'Ikey' - a student at UCT). I was thoroughly enjoying the laid back atmosphere of the new branch in comparison to my previous branch up in Johannesburg and was even on added duty as 'key bearer', with one other, to open up those huge, gorgeous wooden doors of that beautiful old building. My grandmother was weary by this time of approaching me with any marriage proposals, especially when I was all the way across the country and more able to be evasive...

I remember the Friday morning I received that call from Pietermaritzburg informing me that Nanima was ill. She was a very strong woman and was rarely ill back then. (She's a hundred and two now, still possesses a razor sharp mind, and reads at least two novels per week! But she is now in Cape Town and I am here, in Pietermaritzburg). I remember frantically arranging leave and flying home. An aunt and uncle picked me up from the airport in Durban and the following day, Sunday, we drove down to Pietermaritzburg. By this time, Nanima was already feeling better as I soon found out. That afternoon, she told me about a new Indian restaurant that had opened down the road, saying that she would like to have supper there that evening. She asked me to wear a punjabi. (I still had clothing at her place). I chose the buttercup yellow with green embroidery around the neckline and down the front and paired it with a matching yellow, high heeled, slip on sandal. It felt cheerful.

The evening seemed to drag on with no indication that we would leave for the restaurant any time soon. When I asked, Nanima said that she was 'waiting for a customer to come and pick up a parcel'. She was a well-known and well sought-after dressmaker. At eight that evening, they finally arrived, a mother accompanied by her two grown sons and a young daughter. Four of them. Nanima asked me to make some tea while she chatted to them. A few minutes later, I entered the room with the tea tray. Almost immediately, everyone stood up and started exiting the room and making their way into the kitchen, taking the tea tray, and leaving me behind with the eldest son. I caught the lady saying, "Let's give them a chance to talk." It was then that I realised what was going on. I felt betrayed! Trapped!

Nevertheless, not being one to make a scene, I took the furthest seat near the window - the furthest I could get. I kept looking out of that window onto the street below, as if searching for a means to escape. It had begun to rain. The street was deserted, deserted like me. The streetlights cast a dim, blurred light in the rain. In the room, I was being questioned. No! More like bombarded with questions.... interrogated! On almost every topic under the sun! The subjects I took at school, global politics, religion... I felt like that tarmac on the street below, being pelted by the rain... But I answered, briefly whenever possible... perhaps even curtly.

My mind kept racing, recalling moments, like the time Nanima took me to a wedding. Towards the end a well-dressed lady came over and prodded me in the chest with her finger while saying to Nanima, "We want this one here!" Then pointed to a young man in a tuxedo and continued, "For him!"

I remembered feeling humiliated! Debased! But again, I remained quiet. And when I got a private moment with Nanima as we were leaving, all I said - softly and politely, yet firmly - was, "I am not a cow on parade! And I am not for sale!"

She did not respond but rolled her eyes as if thinking, "What am I going to do with this one?!"

In the kitchen, as I was told later... much later... his mother kept saying, "They're still talking!" She'd let slip that since he had been back in the country after studying and living abroad, they had taken him 'to see over fifty girls' but he kept 'getting up and leaving after just ten minutes, sometimes even five,' leaving them flustered and 'having to offer apologies on their way out'. (My interrogation lasted well over two hours!) When they finally left, I heaved a great sigh of relief, thinking that it was all over and I had escaped yet again. I planned to put it all behind me and use the next two days to just relax and de-stress before flying back on the Wednesday. But it was not to be that way...

Just after eight the following morning, Monday, his mother returned. I had begun my plan to de-stress by putting on a face mask and had to quickly duck into the bathroom to wash it off when I heard the unexpected knock on the door. I only emerged after I was sure that the coast was clear. Nanima and my mother were seated at the kitchen table and relayed the message as I stood in the doorway: "The boy likes the girl."

My immediate response was no! But they were not letting me get away so easily this time.

"You keep saying no!"

"By the time you decide to marry, there will be no-one left to marry!"

"All these offers will be gone!"

"All the doors will close!"

"As it is, you're on the shelf too long!"

And so they went on. I was in tears, but they didn't let up until the call to mid-day prayer could be heard from the centre mosque in Church Street.

"I will read Istikhara after Zuhr," I finally said and escaped into the room...

Istikhara is a special prayer for requesting guidance and direction in settling a matter. I had done it once before at that point. A man in a long cream robe came to me in my dream with the answer: "This is not for you. There is something better in store for you," he had said. It is often read at night to facilitate an answer by way of a dream, but it can be read whenever the need arises. The most I was hoping for was perhaps a dream that night, or a sense of knowing...

I sat pouring my heart out. "You know that I want to work, study and travel. You know that I'm afraid of marriage. And how am I supposed to marry a stranger? What about love?" I cried. Then, while my head was bowed down, I heard a voice seemingly coming from within me that said:

"What you think is good for you, can be bad for you and what you think is bad for you, can be good for you. When you marry, you complete half your faith (and) Allah puts love between husband and wife."

(four?)

I was stunned! I completed the prayer and wobbled to my feet... wobbled back to the kitchen... and when I saw my mother and grandmother, all I could say was: "Bismillah!" (In the name of Allah) which was also an indication to proceed. They were overjoyed and hugged each other, hugged me. My mother began to tear, then went to relay the message. By four o'clock that afternoon, less than twenty four hours after meeting, he put a piece of sweetmeat in my mouth, as was the custom, and a ring on my finger. Incidentally, his was the fourth proposal from a doctor. He was also thirty one years old at the time... another four.

We laugh about that first encounter now. I asked him one day what it was that made him want to marry me.

"You looked so sad that day," he said. "I didn't want to leave you. I just had this strong urge to protect you!"

For the first two to three years of marriage, we lived with my in-laws in a beautiful double storied, old Victorian house with high ceilings and wooden floors. The number of that house is 409. Four plus nine is thirteen. This, further broken down (one and three) gives you... four!

We later moved out on our own and rented a flat, eight stories high, in Church Street. The flat number was 805. Yes! Four again! We lived there for about four years.

Then we bought our own home in a quiet cul de sac in the suburbs, and the number of our home? NUMBER FOUR!

And so it is that the fourth is with me:)