by Zara Raheem
Seeing Double
“Oye! Thoda is taraf!”
“Yahaan par?”
Dhak! Dhak!
“Thoda us taraf . . . bas! Ab frame bilkul sahi lag rahi hai!”
I rubbed my eyes and turned over. The sound of voices hammering outside my door had stirred me awake. The other half of the bed was neatly made—sheets smoothed, pillows propped. Meena was not there. I pulled back the thin gauze of mosquito netting and wrapped a robe around myself. Yawning, I walked down the darkened hallway toward the commotion. What time is it? And where is everyone?
I peeked into the kitchen before stepping into the living room—the source of all the noise. The room was teeming with almost a dozen people—none of whom I recognized from last night—all working meticulously on every square inch of space. There were short, potbellied uncles holding clipboards and shouting instructions. There were sari-clad aunties bustling around as they arranged elaborate bouquets and adorned the windows and door frames with colorful garlands made of carnations, roses, and marigolds.
I walked through the room, taking in all the sights and smells. The sweet scent of gardenias lingered in the air, mixed with an aromatic incense. All the sofas had been pushed against the walls, leaving a large open space in the center of the room in front of an impressive makeshift stage. Along the other three walls were scattered dozens of pillows and cushions, silk and embroidered. The stage was embellished with yards of bright silky fabrics that draped elegantly over two chairs with beautiful designs hand-carved into the wooden frames. A big gold-sequined heart was centered behind the chairs. The words MEENA + HAROON were spelled out in blooming crimson roses. I held my breath, taking in the vibrancy of the decor—the yellows and reds and purples and teals. The colors were loud yet understated. Over-the-top, yet classy. It was beautiful. It was exactly how I imagined a traditional Indian mehendi ceremony to look. It was exactly how I’d dreamed my own Bollywood-themed wedding would look . . .
Absorbed in every detail, I turned the corner and bumped nose first into a tall figure walking straight toward me.
“Oomf!” I said, staggering backward in surprise.
“Oh!” the figure said, looking into my face. It was the man from Meena’s photograph. In person, he was about six feet tall with chestnut-colored skin and a single dimple that punctuated his left cheek as he pursed his lips together. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, lines of concern appearing between his light brown eyes.
I shook my head, patting my nose.
“As’salaamu Alaikum.” He smiled; the indent in his cheek deepened. “I was looking for Meena?” Directly behind him was the giant heart hanging from the stage.
So this is Haroon. I tilted my head to get a good look at him. I was impressed. He might not have been the boy of Meena’s choosing, but her parents had come through for her, at least in the looks department.
“That makes two of us,” I said, smoothing the tangle of hair from my face and trying not to get distracted by his striking good looks. After my talk with Meena last night, any negative feelings I once had for her had dissolved. I was surprised by her willingness to open up to me about her reasons for marrying. I couldn’t believe how gravely I had misunderstood her all of these years. And now, as someone whom she trusted as a friend, I suddenly felt this big-sisterly responsibility to make sure the sacrifices she was making would be worth it.
“I’ve heard so much about you.”
The look in his eyes switched from concern to confusion.
“I’m Leila, Meena’s cousin.” I held out my hand and he shook it slowly. “Meena is a great girl. And as someone who once felt very differently about her, trust me when I say you got yourself a good one.”
“Oh. Yeah . . . Meena’s great, masha’Allah—”
“And I know you guys are doing the whole arranged marriage thing, but you should know that Meena has so much more to offer than just being a stay-at-home housewife who cooks and cleans all day.”
He crumpled his brows.
“She’s smart. And strong-willed. I mean, she’ll probably still cook for you because, you know, she’s Indian—but what I mean is, that’s not all she can do.”
“I see. Um . . .”
“I know you two have only met three times—which is still in-freaking-sane to me—but did you know she has a talent for design?”
“Huh?”
“Interior design.”
“Oh . . . I—”
“You should see her room. I mean, obviously after you’re married—not now because her parents would probably flip—” I laughed nervously. In my head, I knew I sounded as crazy as I looked with my disheveled hair and polka-dotted pajama bottoms, but it was too late. The words kept coming. I couldn’t stop. “Design is Meena’s passion, and she needs someone who’s going to support her in that dream.”
“I—I think that’s great. I’ll make sure to—”
“But just saying it is not enough,” I interrupted. “You have to show her you support her. Like give her a whole house to decorate, not just a bedroom. You know what I mean?”
“Uh . . .”
“She needs someone who’s going to stand beside her, not on top of her.”
He scratched his head.
“Basically, Haroon, what I mean to say is you’re a good-looking guy—I mean, you were cute and all in the photo, but in real life, whoa! You’re even better than I anticipated—”
He tilted his head and gave me a sideways smile.
“—but a relationship is more than just charmingly good looks. You need to be more than that. You have to be the type of husband who is deserving of a girl like Meena.” I drew in a deep breath before I continued. “Anyways, that’s all I wanted to say. Congratulations again.” I smiled.
He stood silent for a moment as if processing everything I had just said. He finally opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Jamila aunty walked into the room.
“Beta!” she exclaimed with her arms outstretched. She walked over and gave him a warm embrace.
“As’salaamu Alaikum, aunty,” he said, still scratching his head.
“And Leila, you are finally up?” she said, glancing at the clock. It was 9:32. Much earlier than I normally woke up during the summer. I was pleased with myself. “I see that the two of you have already met.” She smiled at us. “Leila, this is Hisham, Haroon’s twin brother.”
Hisham? His twin bro—
“I’m sorry . . . what?” I stammered, confused.
Hisham looked at me with an amused smile.
“Hisham has just stopped by to pick up a few things for the mehendi ceremony tonight.”
I wrapped my robe around me tightly, suddenly feeling very aware of the fact that I was in my pajamas. This isn’t Haroon? My cheeks burned with humiliation. Why didn’t he stop me? How could he just let me go on and on like that, yammering away about Meena?
“Yes, aunty ji, I was just here to pick up Haroon’s outfit and to find out what time his party should arrive.”
I stood there awkwardly while the two of them discussed details. Did I really tell him that I thought he was even better-looking than I anticipated? I glanced at the hallway, wondering how quickly I could make myself disappear.
“And Meena? Is she around? Haroon wanted me to give her this.” He pulled out a blue velvet box. “It is a small gift for her to wear for the ceremony tonight.”
“Leila’s mother has taken her to the beauty parlor to get ready,” Jamila aunty said. “But Leila, beti, why don’t you hold on to it and you can give it to her when she returns.”
“Huh?” I said, my eyes still glued to the hallway.
Hisham smiled and placed the small box in my hand. “Thank you, Leila,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Come both of you into the kitchen with me,” Jamila aunty said suddenly. “Leila, have you eaten anything? Of course not,” she continued before I had a chance to reply. “You have just woken up! Hisham, tell me, what would you like me to prepare for na
shta?”
“No, no, aunty, I must get back,” Hisham said. “There is still plenty to do for tonight.” Jamila aunty’s face dropped, but after a little back-and-forth, she finally gave in.
“Leila,” Hisham said, turning toward me. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” He nodded his head forward. “I will be sure to convey your . . . advice . . . to Haroon.” He smiled mischievously and gave a slight wave as he walked toward the door. I stood there feeling utterly mortified.
As soon as he had gone, Jamila aunty shifted her attention back to me. “Come, Leila, let us eat something,” she said, walking quickly. “Do you like halwa puri? It goes very well with chai.” She bobbled her head.
I stood there clutching the small box tightly in my hands. The velvet exterior was soft and smooth. I can’t believe Haroon has a brother. Not just any brother—but a twin brother . . . a ridiculously good-looking twin brother. I scratched my head, wondering how Meena had managed to forget to mention that tiny detail.
“Leila? Beti, are you coming?” Jamila aunty called from the hallway. I placed the box in my pocket and followed her into the kitchen.
* * *
“And then I said something like, ‘She needs someone to be next to her, not on top of her!’”
Meena threw her hands over her face and laughed loudly. As soon as she had gotten home, I’d pulled her into her bedroom so I could share with her my humiliating faux pas. For the past twenty minutes, I had relayed every embarrassing thing I had said to the man I’d assumed was Meena’s soon-to-be husband as she held her sides and wiped the tears from her eyes.
“And now, I’m going to see him again at your mehendi tonight and—” I pressed my face against a pillow and groaned. “Have I just made a total fool of myself?”
“Not at all.” Meena smiled reassuringly. “Hisham has a good sense of humor, from what I’ve heard from Haroon. He probably got a big laugh from it.”
“I’m sure he did,” I said, shaking my head.
“So, you really told him you thought he was good-looking?”
“Charmingly good-looking, I think was my exact phrase,” I corrected her as we both broke into giggles.
“You know,” she said, suddenly composing herself. “I could ask Ammi to talk to your ammi about Hish—”
“Absolutely not,” I interrupted her, waving my hand. I could only imagine the level of humiliation I’d have to endure if my mother took up her matchmaking nonsense in the land of arranged marriages. “I made the mistake of falling for a charmingly good-looking guy once. Let me tell you, it did not end well.”
“Maybe your search for ‘the one’ brought you to India for a reason,” she said, her eyes gleaming.
“The only reason I’m in India is to celebrate you and your wedding. And speaking of weddings, I have something for you.” I pulled out the small blue box from the nightstand. “Hisham came by to give this to you. It’s from Haroon.”
Meena took the box and gently lifted the top. Inside was a beautiful gold tikka with small diamond accents and a teardrop topaz stone glistening in the center. We both leaned in to take a closer look.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, watching as she lifted out the piece from the box and held it against her forehead. We walked over to the mirror so we could admire it together.
“You know, eight weeks ago, I didn’t even know Haroon. And now I am going to be his wife,” Meena said softly, glancing at my reflection. “Never underestimate kismet, Leila. It is a very powerful thing.”
Mehendi Nights
I smiled politely as I attempted to make my way through a crowd of strangers. Every inch of space in the flat was occupied with guests of both the bride and the groom, and the sheer number of bodies made it difficult to breathe—let alone move—without bumping into someone.
The mehendi ceremony, hosted by the bride’s family, was the first big event to kick off the three-day wedding festivities and was typically followed by a sangeet, nikkah, and reception. In my parents’ generation, mehendi ceremonies would have been attended only by women; however, Meena and Haroon’s families decided to combine the mehendi with the sangeet, making it a joint affair so that everyone could come together in the celebrations and bless the soon-to-be-wed couple.
The elders in the room were seated near the front of the stage, soberly wah-wah-ing to traditional qawwali and ghazal songs, while the youngsters were gathered in gender-segregated groups along the back walls, obsessively grooming themselves while sneaking flirtatious glances at members of the opposite sex.
I glanced around the room, feeling slightly disappointed. We were two hours into the mehendi ceremony, and there was still no sign of Hisham. After my talk with Meena earlier, I’d started thinking about what she had said about kismet. Maybe there was such a thing as fate. Or chance encounters. It happened for Meena and Haroon. It happened for my parents. Maybe it was what happened this morning with Hisham. Embarrassing as that run-in was, maybe we were destined to meet.
A part of me was still digesting my thoughts from the night before. I wondered what the greater purpose of marriage was for me; my reasons for wanting to marry. However, the thought of my deadline remained at the forefront of my mind. Hisham was cute, and I would be crazy to not explore an opportunity that was right in front of me. My heart fluttered as I thought about his smile. With less than a month before my parents’ anniversary, this could very well be my last true shot at . . . something. American-born desi men wife-shopped abroad all the time—perhaps it was time I did the same.
Near the stage, I noticed Asima aunty clapping and swinging back and forth unrhythmically to the music. I quickly inched my way in her direction.
“Salaams, aunty,” I shouted when I reached her, slightly out of breath.
“Walaikum As’salaam, Leila beti!” She turned around, giving me an enthusiastic smile. “Are you enjoying the ceremony?” she shouted back.
“I am.” I nodded.
“Good, good, because you are next in line, Leila.” She wagged a finger at me. “Soon, we will be dancing at your mehendi party!” she said, still swaying awkwardly.
I gave her a tight-lipped smile. Asima aunty was the fifteenth person this evening to tell me I was next in line. The only time I was glad to hear it was when I was at the buffet.
“What time does the groom’s party arrive?”
“I’m sorry?” She pointed at her ear and shook her head.
“The groom’s party,” I repeated loudly. “When do they arrive?”
“Not until the very end . . . tafri abhi shuroo ho rahi hai!” She bobbled her head, giving me a teasing wink.
I sighed, looking down at my watch. For all I knew, this party could go through the night, and frankly, I doubted if my patience—or my hairstyle—would last that long. The last time I saw Hisham, I had funky morning breath and an unkempt ponytail. This time around, I’d decided I would step it up, so I was wearing a green banarasi sari and red lipstick, and had styled my long hair into tight, sleek curls in an effort to come across as a modern-day Sridevi. But as I patted the sweat from my forehead with the edge of my dupatta, I was afraid I was looking more like a modern-day poodle than an iconic eighties heroine. Sadly, even the strongest hair spray was no match for Mumbai humidity.
Asima aunty turned back to the music, and I distracted myself by readjusting the pallu on my shoulder. While my outfit would have been perfectly appropriate for a wedding function in L.A., I couldn’t help but feel grossly underdressed as I took in the extravagance surrounding me. All of the women—young and old—were decked out in their most lavish attire: glittery saris, silky hijabs, and enough gold jewelry to buy a small island. I remembered hearing once that Indian housewives held eleven percent of the world’s gold, and it seemed about half of that reserve was currently dancing around in Meena’s living room.
I looked up at the stage to see Meena seated perfectly still in the center, smiling shyly at each guest as dark green henna was carefully applied to her delicate hands and feet.
Although I had only attended a handful of desi weddings over the years, I was always enchanted by the vibrancy and beauty of a traditional Indian bride. Meena was no exception. She was wearing a bright yellow lehenga choli with heavy silver embroidery throughout the front. Her thick hair was braided along the side with jasmine and roses weaved into it, and the golden tikka framed the crown of her head. Her quiet beauty rose above all the pomp and glitter and emanated through each and every corner, captivating all eyes in the room with her simple radiance. She was the prettiest bride-to-be I had ever seen.
Meena’s eyes suddenly met mine and she nodded at the empty seat beside her. I stepped over the platform and made my way next to her. Before sitting down, I carefully adjusted the bottom of my sari, the jingling of my glass bangles barely audible as the music from the speakers thumped behind us.
“How are you doing?” I leaned in and whispered into her ear.
She looked at me with both her arms outstretched and shrugged. Her thin arms were covered with intricate patterns of lotus buds, peacocks, and flowers spiraling delicately along the curves of her forearms, adorning every inch of skin all the way up to her elbows. I laughed, wondering how she managed to stay so composed with everything going on around her.
While we waited for Meena’s arms to dry, the henna aunty hunched over and carefully applied the dark green paste to Meena’s feet using a paper cone with a fine tip at the end. We watched as the aunty expertly drew in each pattern, adjusting her designs to follow the shape of Meena’s foot. Her hands were steady, yet quick with each movement.
“What is the significance of all these designs?” I asked.
“Lotus signifies beauty and femininity,” the aunty explained. “And these spirals,” she said, drawing delicate vines that curved up and around Meena’s ankles, “these are for longevity.”
“And the flower buds?”
“The start of new life.”
I looked at Meena and smiled.
“The meaning is not just in the design,” the aunty continued, “but also in the color of the mehendi. The darker the color, the deeper the love between the couple.”