I could not wait to get married. In our home, my grandmother decided everything — what I wore, where I went, whether I could cut my hair. When we came to Toronto and I saw the other girls in their jeans and their short haircuts, I wanted the same, and she always said no. What she did say was that once I married, I could do as I pleased. So marriage, to me, meant a life of my own. I longed for it long before I ever imagined the man it would bring.

He came into my life the way most things did then — arranged. It had begun with Nasim, Amir’s sister-in-law; she had seen me somewhere and decided I was the one for him. She telephoned Amir in Winnipeg, where he was training as a doctor, and told him he simply had to come and meet this girl. And so, that December, he did.

I was not ready to be met. I had never been allowed so much as to speak with a man outside my own family, and when he arrived at the door my nerve left me completely and I ran to my room. They came after me, calling me to come out and at least sit with the guest. I would not. I stayed where I was until he gave up and left. For years afterward Amir liked to say that all he ever saw of me that night was my hair, flying as I disappeared down the hall.

That should have been the end of it. But Amir was not so easily discouraged, and my family, it turned out, had quietly taken his side. By then his brother Mehmood and Nasim had gone to my grandmother and my father to tell them he was interested, and the whole household was in on it.

The next summer, they tricked me. Nasim told me we were going shopping — to Honest Ed’s, the big bargain store I had been wanting to visit. I happily agreed. Only when I climbed into the car did I find Amir already sitting there, and no one would tell me why. The whole afternoon he stayed at my side, one question after another, asking about my family, my life, anything I would answer — while I, who had never in my life spent an afternoon with a boy, quietly hated every minute of it. When I came home my father asked how the shopping had gone. “I don’t know what he was doing,” I told him, “but he talked to me the entire time.” My father only laughed.

By that Christmas, the third time, they had put Amir in the back seat, beside me — Mehmood and Nasim up front. And this time I did not run.

It was in the elevator on the way home that Nasim pressed a photograph into my hand. It was Amir, she told me — her brother-in-law — and he liked me very much; what did I think of him? I thought I might float straight up through the roof.

I told my father everything. There was a great deal to weigh — I had five or six proposals at the time — but in the end it was my grandmother who decided. She sat me down. “Come here, Masuma,” she said. “I have something to tell you. I know this family. I know the mother, and she is one of the finest people I have ever met.” That was enough for her, and so it became enough for me.

He came once more, the following June, and soon after, we were married.

I will never forget the first thing Amir did once I was his wife. He took me out and bought me jeans — and shorts, which I had never in my life been permitted to wear. I was half scandalized, and I hid those photographs for years; my grandchildren delight in them now. The very freedom I had been waiting for, my husband simply handed to me, as though it had always been mine.

I could not wait to get married. In our home, my grandmother decided everything — what I wore, where I went, whether I could cut my hair. When we came to Toronto and I saw the other girls in their jeans and their short haircuts, I wanted the same, and she always said no. What she did say was that once I married, I could do as I pleased. So marriage, to me, meant a life of my own. I longed for it long before I ever imagined the man it would bring.

He came into my life the way most things did then — arranged. Amir’s sister-in-law had seen me somewhere and decided I was the one for him. She telephoned him in Winnipeg, where he was training as a doctor, and told him he simply had to come and meet this girl. And so, that Christmas, he did.

I was not ready to be met. I had never been allowed so much as to speak with a man outside my own family, and when he arrived at the door my nerve left me completely and I ran to my room. They came after me, calling me to come out and at least sit with the guest. I would not. I stayed where I was until he gave up and left. For years afterward Amir liked to say that all he ever saw of me that night was my hair, flying as I disappeared down the hall.

That should have been the end of it. But Amir was not so easily discouraged, and my family, it turned out, had quietly taken his side.

The next time, they tricked me. My sister-in-law told me we were going shopping — to Honest Ed’s, the big bargain store I had been wanting to visit. I happily agreed. Only when I climbed into the car did I find Amir already sitting there, and no one would tell me why. The whole afternoon he stayed at my side, one question after another, asking about my family, my life, anything I would answer — while I, who had never in my life spent an afternoon with a boy, quietly hated every minute of it. When I came home my father asked how the shopping had gone. “I don’t know what he was doing,” I told him, “but he talked to me the entire time.” My father only laughed.

By the third time, they had put Amir in the back seat, beside me — his brother and sister-in-law up front. And this time I did not run.

It was in the elevator on the way home that my sister-in-law pressed a photograph into my hand. It was Amir, she told me — her brother-in-law — and he liked me very much; what did I think of him? I thought I might float straight up through the roof.

I told my father everything. There was a great deal to weigh — I had five or six proposals at the time — but in the end it was my grandmother who decided. She sat me down. “Come here, Masuma,” she said. “I have something to tell you. I know this family. I know the mother, and she is one of the finest people I have ever met.” That was enough for her, and so it became enough for me.

Before long, we were married.

I will never forget the first thing Amir did once I was his wife. He took me out and bought me jeans — and shorts, which I had never in my life been permitted to wear. I was half scandalized, and I hid those photographs for years; my grandchildren delight in them now. The very freedom I had been waiting for, my husband simply handed to me, as though it had always been mine.