First Drops of Rain Part1 of 3 ....I'm unable to speak or paint you in words

Burnt by the sun of your mouth
I am unable to speak
or paint you in words

I recall the first day Yasmin appeared in my life.

My colleague, Carolynes introduced us in the faculty lounge. We had been discussing Carolynes’ life in Venezuela and how difficult it was for her as a young working class girl to attend university and persevere through graduate studies to become a lecturer.

“You think that’s difficult?” Yasmin’s eyes blazed with passion, “Just imagine the struggle Isalmic women face standing up to oppression and male intolerance.”

She continued her fiery polemic against the oppression of Third World women but I tuned out her words, mesmerized instead by the beauty and purity of her soul.

It was strange—I used to find veiled women peculiar and intimidating, but Yasmin struck me as mysterious and captivating.

Suddenly, she turned to face me and I saw dark surprise in her eyes.

It was a timeless moment where our souls seemed to recognize each other.

I felt joined to her in a deeply intimate way and it filled me with wonder, but the experience had a more upsetting effect on Yasmin.

I knew she sensed what I felt, but while it filled me with longing, it caused her to appear distraught and visibly shaken.

She grew very silent, as if withdrawing somewhere deep within herself.

Carolynes continued on talking, but Yasmin was sullen and restless, and after waiting a socially acceptable few minutes, she mumbled a weak excuse and hurried away.

Surprisingly, Carolynes seemed oblivious of Yasmin’s upset and afterwards, only remarked on her anger and the simmering sense of injustice that permeated the very air about her.

I nodded in acknowledgement, but later when alone, began musing about Yasmin and her dark, passions.

I couldn’t deny the effect she had on my emotions and felt a strong, almost mystical bond, had been forged between us.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay on my bed for hours thinking of her and trying to commune with her soul.

I kept hearing Carolynes’ comments about her anger, but at the same time, another voice deep within me—a still, small whisper.

I closed my eyes and let the words well up.

You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you.

I had no idea where the thought came from but a great burden was somehow lifted from me and I felt totally at peace.

I fell into a deep sleep and dreamt of Yasmin—the two of us alone beneath a starry sky.

The next day I lectured in the morning and then met Carolynes for lunch in the great dining hall at Hart House.

It was strange how the two of us evolved from being colleagues to enjoying a warm friendship. Somehow we understood there would be no romance, but that didn’t seem to matter.

Rather than being a barrier, our clearly defined relationship enabled us to trust each other with our deepest secrets and intimacies.

As we sat in the Great Hall with its soaring stained glass windows and timbered ceilings I smiled inwardly about how unusual it was to be in a romantic setting with a beautiful woman and instead of pursuing her, I was hanging on her every word as we passionately discussed world affairs.

Carolynes was a Professor of Race Relations and a brilliantly entertaining conversationalist, and I could listen to her for hours fascinated by the depth of her reading and knowledge.

She was explaining her views on whether Muslim women should be allowed to wear the niquab while taking the oath of citizenship. But suddenly, in the middle of her mini discourse, she stopped and looked at me and her tone became personal.

“To cover or not to cover? It’s a thorny topic, Callum. But personally, if I were you, I’d run for cover, especially the way Yasmin Saleh has been looking at you lately.”

I was thunderstruck—Carolynes had given no indication she noticed Yasmin’s reaction to me. I was at a loss for a reply.

“Don’t look so shocked, Callum,” she teased, “I’d have to be blind not to see Yasmin’s feelings toward you.”

“Did you notice my feelings towards her?” I croaked.

She nodded solemnly. “Take care, my friend—you’re venturing into deep waters.”

I sighed and let down my defences.

“I know I’m way out beyond my depth, Car. I mean, it’s not like I have loads of experience with women—I don’t, and a Muslim woman? It scares the hell out of me.”

“She’s not just a Muslim, Callum, she’s an Islamic feminist. Lately she’s been associating with Hillary Notely—even you must have heard about her campus protests against gender inequality. Do you really want to get involved with that?”

“Not really,” I said glumly.

Carolynes smiled at me with compassion. “These are not just deep waters, but a veritable mine field that could blow you and your romantic dreams right out of the water.”

I felt helpless—I knew the truth of what she was saying, but still I had to know if there was any hope for me.

“Do you think it’s possible Yasmin and I can put aside any differences and simply be together without referencing all these gender and cultural controversies?”

She went silent a full minute before responding.

“That’s a deep question, my friend. I know you’d have no problem accepting Yasmin as an equal, but would she be willing to surrender her views for love? I sincerely doubt it.”

I felt a complete fool. How naïve of me to imagine that love alone would conquer all.

I left the dining hall feeling desolate.

I knew circumstances would throw Jasmin and me together again, but how the hell would I be able to romance a woman who saw me as a westerner and an oppressor?

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.

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