Why I love fiction: Because it suggests to me ways to be human with human experiences, rather than telling me (quite patronisingly) that there is no such thing as ‘Islamic couples’.
And I love love love the last paragraph.
Don’t look for it. It will find you. And if it doesn’t, your aunties on your mother’s side will find it for you in the form of a young Muslim girl, probably the daughter of a doctor or a lawyer, likely the last sister in her family to be unwed. She will be cute, but not the cutest, they will say, but she’s a good, pious girl. We will all be invited for chai one day at her mansion in a gated community on a hill, but really they just want to see you, your demeanor, your ability to lead prayer in a stranger’s home, everyone putting on their most Islamic face, their most Islamic dress. You will not fail this test, but your mother and I don’t want you to take it.
We want you to be yourself. Walk your own slow, slouched, clumsy walk down the hallways of…
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