HINA IN GUARDIAN FAMILY

Hina Belitz

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We rarely recognise our own prejudices and so it takes something significant to open our eyes. The challenge to my fixed views started with a call from my husband’s boss. “Can you come and collect a box of your husband’s stuff from the office?” he asked. “We’re swapping desks, you see.”

We were recently married and my new husband was away on business. This was a strange request not least because we lived in Guildford, Surrey and his office in Twickenham in south-west London wasn’t exactly around the corner. I responded with the sensible suggestion that the stuff be left under his new desk and that on return from his business trip, he could bring it home himself. “But,” said my husband’s boss, “there are confidential things like cheque books. We don’t really want to leave it here.”

“Fine,” I said and set off by car to collect the box. Back at home, I placed it in the hall thinking nothing of it until later in the day. In the evening, I lifted off the lid and at the top was a cheque book, just as I had been told. It was what lay underneath that would change my life irreversibly in ways I could never have foreseen.

Although we had met at university, there was nothing else predictable about us. He was German and had been brought up in Australia. His commitment to the idea of us was such that not only did he choose to live in the UK, but he converted to Islam to marry me. And what a wedding. We celebrated in a French chateau high on a hill among chequered fields lined with grapevines. Every detail was perfect. The dress, the speeches, even the wedding meal, which went on for hours and included an assortment of delicious hand-selected vegetables picked that morning from the chateau gardens. Afterwards, we flew to the Maldives for an idyllic honeymoon on an island no bigger than the chateau in which we were married.

So what had I to fear? In the box, underneath the cheque book was a letter. It was handwritten, addressed to my husband care of his office and revealed that he was involved with another woman.

After this discovery, there was, I confess, nearly a bunny boiler episode during which I confronted my husband over the phone, cross examining him on every detail. I structured it as a form of entrapment during which at first I didn’t reveal the fact I knew everything. Great practice for a trainee lawyer. (Tip for soon-to-be-divorcees – don’t do this!) And then there was the call to the woman to let her know her boyfriend is married. She didn’t know. (Tip for soon-to-be-divorcees – do this!)

By the time the divorce was final, I had lost all faith in romantic love. It was, in my estimation, an illusion arising from indoctrination by endless romantic movies and children’s fairytales. I threw myself into my legal career.

I wonder if it possible to want something and not want it with equal and opposite force? I didn’t want to live my life alone and had always wanted children. And the idea of remaining unmarried was also virtually unacceptable for girls from my cultural and religious background. We were taught from early childhood the sacred importance of creating and maintaining family bonds, and that the breaking of a family bond is to cut yourself off from the mercy of God.

After some years, I landed a great new job and decided to take a break before starting. I had always wanted to learn more about my heritage and family and a trip with my mother to visit my grandmother in Pakistan seemed like the perfect way to do this. I decided to interview her. I took recording equipment and prepared my questions carefully. As I had a limited grasp of the language, I also knew that recording the interviews would enable me to get help translating the answers I didn’t fully understand.

The trip was amazing and my grandmother was an inspiration. She took to the idea of being recorded with relish. She even read out poems she had written in between my questions. The interviews took place each morning for about an hour. Afterwards, my mother and I would visit relatives, shop in the amazing marketplaces of Lahore and enjoy delicious freshly made curries with chapattis and rice. On street corners, for pennies, we bought paw paws the size of watermelons, thought nothing of eating 50 satsumas between us in one sitting and enjoyed endless hours of chatting and togetherness with friends and family.

About a week into our visit, when relatives arrived to see us, I noticed a strange man in the corner of the living room. He was wearing a shirt that was about two sizes too small for him and a fixed grin he directed towards the coffee table between us. He was introduced by my uncle by name, but nothing more. More such men started appearing randomly at restaurants and gatherings. They would come and join us at the table or hover near a wall, like the tall man who was directed to sit next to me at a takatak restaurant (the name is onomatopoeic from the sound of the cooking process. Curries are chopped rhythmically as they are cooking on giant circular hotplates by men wielding what look like wallpaper strippers in each hand). I attempted a conversation with that particular man, but he didn’t reply. He smiled and looked away with every question I asked, like a shy child.

And then there was the man who was the spitting image of the subway ghost in the movie Ghost. I discovered these meetings were my grandmother’s attempt at arranging a marriage for me. I wasn’t fazed. I was a strong, independent woman. I could handle this. I explained politely that I wasn’t interested in an arranged marriage. I had so little in common with someone brought up in Pakistan and, anyway, the minimum requirement for me, if I were to be fussy, was the ability to thread words together to form a sentence. However, I understood my mother and grandmother meant well, so I went along with these strange, uncomfortable meetings.

Both my grandmother and mother had had arranged marriages, which is hardly surprising. They were born and brought up in India and Pakistan and that was they way things were done. My grandmother had never even set eyes on her husband before their wedding day. She told me she was so keen to get a glimpse of her husband-to-be that she climbed on to an upside-down bucket in the bathroom and peered out of a small window as he left. I, on the other hand, considered myself to be modern British Asian and there was no need for that archaic practice any more. I would meet Mr Right myself and things would be wonderful.

Except they weren’t. Mr Right had been anything but.

The day before we were due to leave Lahore, a friend of the family came to visit the relative with whom we were staying. He and his son – a young, handsome, intelligent man – were unaware that my mother and I were visiting from London so were thrilled to be meeting us. His son walked over from the other side of the living room and introduced himself. He sat beside me and we spoke about my time in Lahore, my life in London, the business he had started and much more. I noticed my grandmother’s eyes on us from the corner of the room. When his father indicated it was time to leave, he asked if I would mind if he emailed me. Without hesitating, I noted down my email address and we exchanged telephone numbers. As he left, he smiled at me. A smile that held nothing back (my sister would later refer to it as his “winning smile”).

Almost as soon as we landed back in London, my grandmother had already discussed the possibility of marriage with the family friend and a proposal was made. A few months later, Kamran and I were married.

Before getting married, I felt conflicted. I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing, but I decided to challenge my fears and reservations and dive in.

The wedding took place over several days. It was colourful and loud with bhangra dancing and great urns of the most delicious food. Afterwards, we travelled several hours to Murree for our honeymoon, a stunning town in the foothills of the Himalayas. From the balcony of the hotel, we could see clouds below us in the valley.

Marrying in this way was the best decision I have ever made. Now I see an arranged marriage as more of an introduction service, like online dating.

We now have two sons and are very much soulmates. I cannot imagine my life with anyone else and it is amazing to think this all came about from a willingness to open my mind to an alternative possibility.

I realise now that the rigid views we hold can limit our lives. It isn’t easy to recognise them and harder still to change them. I had always understood this from my work as a discrimination lawyer, but it took these extremes of life experiences to finally break down my beliefs about how to find a life partner and, hopefully, a match made in heaven.

• Set Me Free by Hina Belitz is published by Headline Review, £7.99. To order a copy for £6.55, go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call the Guardian Bookshop on 0330 333 6846