“Sir, I will do whatever it takes to make this marriage work.”

Another gust of wind surged into the room. Papers flew off the desk and Omar stood up to retrieve them but Del’s father sat unperturbed and raised his hand to stop Omar.

“This country is rotten to the core. You must know this.”

Omar sat down and nodded.

“Right and wrong sometimes look like the same thing. And you might only realise which is which when it is too late.” Del’s father fixed his eyes on Omar. He continued. “I have to trust you. Del loves you. I can see that.”

Omar repeated, “I love her deeply, sir.”

Del’s father smiled and said, “Then that’s all, really. That is all there is to it. Just love her.”

That was all Omar needed to hear. He had to leave that instant. He stood up and said brusquely.

“Thank you for your time, sir. We will keep you informed about dates…for the wedding,”

Del’s father nodded and continued puffing on his pipe. He had swivelled the chair to face the window and seemed lost in thought.

“I will let myself out, sir, please don’t get up.”

Del’s father said quietly, “She’s all yours now. She is.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Omar walked, then ran down the hallway, closed the front door, bolted the squeaky gate, got into the car, slammed the accelerator and drove like a fiend to the nearest petrol station where in a urinal that stank of pink mothballs and ammonia, he released his bladder with a shudder and a loud sigh.

“Right, glad that’s done,” he muttered.

Outside, ominous-looking clouds had started to gather, and soon it began to drizzle.

So, I had to convert. To Islam. I dreaded it.

The inevitable fact was that I had to convert into Islam and if I didn’t, we couldn’t get married. Omar was not religious, neither were his parents. But in order for the marriage to be legal, I had to do it.

Imran volunteered to accompany me to the Islamic Department of Kuala Lumpur as a male witness, or “wali”. There, he had to state that yes, I am a Muslim. But when he was asked to recite the Shahadah he shook his head, shrugged and was glared at fiercely by the lady in the bright yellow tudung at the counter.

Kenapa tak tahu? Betul ke dia ni orang Islam? She was merciless.

Yes, he is Muslim, but he has lived abroad for a long time. His Arabic is rusty, I replied.

She raised her eyebrows and looked as if she was ready to flay him. She scrutinised his glasses, his worn tweed jacket, his shoes and his pale skin. She shrieked loudly: Maybe he should recite the Shahadah again so that Allah will once again be reminded of who this man is.