by Zara Raheem
“Is it true?”
“Why, are you interested?”
I shrugged. While my feelings about marriage were still slightly mixed, I’d be lying if I said a teensy part of me wasn’t intrigued by this “silly custom.”
“I mean . . . I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try.” I smiled sheepishly as he let out an amused laugh. I blushed, suddenly realizing how ridiculous I sounded.
“I suppose it wouldn’t.” He smiled and gently pushed me toward the stage.
“Are you coming?” I asked, looking back at him. He waved his hand to indicate that I was on my own. However, he gave me a thumbs-up, encouraging me to keep going as I hesitantly made my way through the crowd.
As I neared the stage, I spotted my mother, who nodded at me with approval. As much as I hated satisfying her wishes, it was too late to turn back now. I knew she was probably hoping my going up there might mean good news for me and Asad, but Asad was not the one for me. Of that I was certain.
When Meena saw me approach her, she removed the plastic glove from her hand and dipped the tip of her mehendi-covered finger directly into the pot—despite Jamila aunty’s anxious looks. She brought my face close to hers and rubbed her finger gently across my cheek; the paste was refreshingly cool against my skin.
“May this bring you ‘the one’ you are looking for, Leila.” She smiled as her eyes drifted toward Hisham and then back to me. I drew in a deep breath and thought about everything I had gone through over these past few months. Every disappointment, every disaster, every heartbreak flashed through my mind like a tragic movie reel. From the corner of my eye, I could see Hisham watching me from the crowd with a slight smile across his face.
I turned to Meena with a hopeful heart. “Insha’Allah,” I whispered softly. “Insha’Allah.”
Guilt Trip
Bright rays of sunlight greeted me from the dining room as I stumbled in groggily. The mehendi festivities had continued late into the night and well into the early morning. By the time my head finally hit the pillow, the fajr adhan was sounding off in the distance. I was hardly able to squeeze in a few winks of sleep in between all the giddiness I felt from the second half of my night.
After the haldi ceremony, I spent the rest of the night with Hisham. From our insightful discussions about traditions and customs, to consuming bowls of rasmalai, to dodging rishta aunties, my mother, and Asad, there was something about Hisham that was different from the guys back home. He was funny and sharp-witted, yet at the same time cultivated and courteous. It was the first time I found myself attracted to someone Indian-born, and the more we talked, the more I found myself drawn to his endearing mix of traditional and modern values. As I nibbled on a cake rusk, silently lost in these thoughts, my mother suddenly emerged from her room.
“Good morning, Leila beti,” she said sleepily, sitting down next to me at the dining table. The celebrations must have also taken a toll on her because it was a rare occurrence for her to sleep past sunrise. She squinted her eyes as she glanced at the clock hanging above the sofa. “Why are you up so early?” she asked, yawning.
“I was thinking of going out for a bit,” I said, handing my mother a cup of chai.
“Oh?” she said, raising a brow and taking a sip.
“I wanted to buy a new outfit for the wedding tomorrow,” I explained. After I had witnessed the sheer extravagance in the room last night, I realized the outfits I had brought with me would not cut it. I needed to step up my game. “I was thinking of maybe asking Meena to come with me.”
“No, no, no.” My mother shook her head. “The bride must not step out of the house after the mehendi ceremony. It is maayun. Don’t worry, Leila, I will come with you.”
“No,” I said quickly. “That’s not necessary; I can just go on my own.”
“Nonsense, Leila,” she said, getting up. “Let me quickly change, and I will arrange for the driver.” I watched her hurry into the other room as I sat there confounded by how quickly my relaxing plans for the day had just unraveled.
Ten minutes later, we were seated in the back of the Maruti Suzuki with Sahil behind the wheel, the poor guy wiping drops of sweat from his forehead and nodding repeatedly as he tried to keep up with my mother’s complicated instructions: “We want to go to Santacruz West, but drop us off near the Tirupati Shopping Center across from Sai Baba so we can browse through all of the shops along the street . . .”
I leaned my head against the window. The last time I had gone dress shopping with my mother was my high school graduation, and that excursion had ended in tears. Not happy ones. I had a feeling this was going to be a long day.
“We should look for a nice lehenga choli or a stylish sari for you, Leila. Something fashionable that all the young girls are wearing these days,” my mother babbled excitedly. “And no more of these dark, gloomy colors. We should get you something light and bright. By the way, how did things go with Asad last night? He seems like a very nice boy, no?”
Only my mother could expertly maneuver an innocent conversation about outfits to a loaded question about rishtas in the same breath. She didn’t even use an indicator before she swerved. I was blindsided.
“It went okay, I guess.” I shrugged.
“He is a good boy, Leila.” She patted my knee. “I really hope that you will give him a chance.”
“I did, Ammi,” I said, my tone slightly aggravated. “In case you forgot, I spent a good deal of time talking to him last night.” Or rather listening to him talk about himself, I thought, but held my tongue.
“That is very good, Leila. The more the two of you talk, the better. And the good news is, you will see him again at the reception tomorrow. It will give you time to get to know each other even more.”
“Great,” I said with as much forced enthusiasm as I could muster. My mother smiled weakly and then looked out the window. After a few moments, she cleared her throat.
“You know, Leila, sometimes I wonder if things would be different if you had grown up here.” She hesitated for a minute. “I just look at all these girls—even younger than you—and they are all happily married and settled. I just wish that for you too.”
I remained silent.
“I just want you to be happy, Leila.” She turned to me with tired eyes.
“But I am happy, Ammi.” I tried again to reassure her as convincingly as I could.
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said with a sigh. I hated how she always made me feel so guilty. I wanted to be happy too, but how could I tell her that my happiness was not defined in the same way hers was? She was convinced that my getting married would bring me happiness, but truth be told, these last few months had been utterly miserable for me. In retrospect, I realized I had been much happier before this process started—before she had gotten involved and tried to “help” me.
“It’s very difficult, beti,” she continued. “You don’t understand how hard it is when everybody keeps asking me why you are still unmarried. What am I supposed to say?”
“Why is it anybody else’s business?” I blurted angrily. “I mean, who cares if I’m not married! Why does everyone keep bringing it up? They should be more concerned about Meena’s marriage, not what’s going on in my life!” I slumped back against the seat, my heart raging inside my chest.
“Because that is not how it works, Leila,” my mother replied calmly. “Beti, once you pass a certain age, people start wondering . . .” She trailed off.
“Wondering what?”
“Wondering if something . . . is wrong.” She looked at me. “I just don’t want people to think I’ve failed as your mother.” Her face looked so small and fatigued.
“I’m trying, Ammi. I am. I don’t know what else you want me to do.”
“Just try harder, Leila. Please, do it for me and your father. That is all we ask.”
I looked away, fuming. Why was it so hard for my mother to see that I had been trying? That I was still trying? My reason for marrying was not the same as hers. Or my f
ather’s. Or the same as Meena’s. I was still trying my best to find a way to please them and satisfy their expectations; however, nothing I did, it seemed, would ever be enough. Somehow, my mother never missed an opportunity to remind me of what a disappointment I was. Or how I was causing her to fail. Only she could find a way to somehow make this about her. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the hot tears pushing against my lids. We hadn’t even started shopping yet, and it was like high school graduation all over again. At least some things never changed.
Sari Not Sorry
SEASONS. The slanting red letters in front of the store summoned us from across the street.
“There.” My mother pointed. “That is where we must go.” I slung my messenger bag across my shoulders and quickly followed her into the busy street—trying not to get leveled by a rickshaw. As we neared the entrance, I stopped to admire the breathtaking window displaying dozens of mannequins dressed in the most beautiful Indian outfits I had ever seen. Every dress looked like it had just stepped out of a scene from Bajirao Mastani.
“Come, Leila.” My mother pulled me inside. “Those are all bridal dresses. They will be of no use for you. You need something more suitable.”
“Right,” I muttered, wondering if there was a specific selection of dresses for unmarried spinsters that she would be more approving of. As we stepped through the heavy glass doors, we were greeted by the same level of magnificence on the interior—rows and rows of racks filled with vibrant, heavily embroidered silks and chiffons. There were floor-to-ceiling compartments brimming with glittery saris, and tall showcases along the back walls full of accessories and shoes to match any dress in the store. For a brief moment, I forgot all about my mother and drew in a deep breath. It was every girl’s Bollywood dream.
A prissy-faced young saleswoman stepped out from behind one of the counters and walked toward my mother. “Hello, madam, how can I help you?” she said in a heavily affected British accent. She was dressed in a slim black pantsuit and her hair was wound tightly in a topknot, lending a bewildered expression to her heavily made-up face.
“Yes, my daughter is looking for a wedding outfit to wear.”
“Your wedding, miss?” The saleswoman turned toward me.
“No, no, no,” my mother interjected before I could respond. “She is just a guest, not the bride.”
“I see,” the saleswoman replied haughtily, looking me over with pity.
“You know what, I’ll just take a look around myself.” I quickly turned away as my mother continued yammering to the saleswoman about the different styles she felt were “appropriate” for my body type.
I moved to the back corner of the shop, making sure I was clearly out of sight. Once I felt safely invisible again, I began looking through the racks, pulling out anything that caught my eye. There was a gorgeous burgundy lehenga choli with gold and ruby crystals scattered throughout the tulle bottom; I picked out a sleeveless salwar kameez with an elegant high neck, floral designs, and small silver buttons lined delicately down the back; I spotted a navy blue anarkali with a long-sleeved form-fitting bodice covered in golden sequins. I kept pulling and piling dresses over my left arm until it felt like it would collapse under the weight. If I was ever to have a Bollywood moment, it was happening right then—that is, until I turned the corner and bumped straight into my mother. Both her arms were also hidden beneath multiple layers of dresses, as were those of the judgmental saleswoman, who was trailing closely behind her.
“Leila, beti, I have found all these beautiful dresses for you. Why don’t you go in the dressing room and start trying them on,” she said, shoving her pile onto mine. “Oh, and don’t bother trying on some of these darker dresses,” she said pulling out the burgundy lehenga choli, navy anarkali, and about half of the other dresses I had selected. “I can already tell these colors won’t look good against your skin tone.”
I groaned and clumsily staggered into the dressing room, dropping the pile of outfits onto the small leather ottoman. Outside, I could hear my mother ask the saleswoman if she was married, and the disappointed “I see” that followed when the woman replied in the affirmative. Great, I thought miserably. One more person to whom my mother can compare me.
For the next forty-five minutes, I squeezed and sucked my body into every single dress from my mother’s selected pile as she waited eagerly by the dressing room door to shower me with a slew of criticisms about why none of them were right.
“No, no, no. This one looked much better on the hanger.”
“Leila, can you try making your hips smaller?”
“It’s a pretty dress, but just not on you.”
“Does this come in a color that doesn’t make you look so dark?”
“Why are your shoulders so broad? You must get that from your father.”
At one point, she turned to the saleswoman and asked her if she had any dresses to make my breasts look more “shapely.” As the two of them wandered back into the store to find another round of options for me, I pulled out the final dress tucked beneath the others—it was one of my picks: a beautiful white sari with dazzling crystal accents along the border, an elegant high-necked blouse, and a teardrop back covered in sheer netting. I carefully draped the silky fabric across my body and stepped out to the dressing area to get a better look at myself in the floor-length mirrors. My heart skipped a beat as I glanced at my reflection.
“Hey, salaams,” said a familiar voice behind me. My heart jumped again and I quickly turned around to see Hisham carrying a stack of dresses so high that only the top of his forehead was visible. “Your mom wanted me to drop these off to you,” he said, his voice muffled behind the fabrics.
I quickly grabbed the dresses from his hands and dropped them on the bench outside my dressing room door. “Wh—what are you doing here?” I asked, blushing nervously as I redraped the pallu to make sure everything was properly cinched and concealed. The butterflies in my stomach fluttered as flashbacks from last night flooded my mind. This is so unexpected. I didn’t think I would see him again until Meena’s reception.
“I came here with my—” Hisham paused midsentence. “Wow,” he exhaled, his expression quickly shifting. I looked down, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.
My face flushed as I spun back toward the mirror. “I’m not sure if the fit is right . . . Do you think it might be too much?” I tilted my head, trying to look at it from all angles. As much as I loved the sari, I knew my mother would find a million things wrong with it, which was causing me to question my judgment.
“No, not at all,” he stammered. “It looks beautiful,” he added, looking at me through the mirror. Our eyes locked briefly in the reflection and he smiled shyly.
“Leila, look who I ran into!” My mother’s voice pierced through the dressing room as she walked in with the saleswoman and a fashionably dressed aunty carrying large shopping bags in each hand. “This is Shabana aunty—Haroon and Hisham’s mother!” she exclaimed.
“As’salaamu Alaikum, beti.” Shabana aunty leaned in and kissed me on both cheeks. “I was just here picking up some items, and what a pleasant surprise to find you both here! Your mother tells me you are shopping for a dress for the reception?” I nodded, glancing quickly toward Hisham, who was now leaning against the wall, his face lowered while he looked into his phone screen.
“What a beautiful sari! Wah!” Shabana aunty turned toward my mother. “What I would give to be young and thin again!” she remarked wistfully, while my mother smiled in agreement.
“Yes, yes,” my mother concurred. “Leila can pull off almost any dress with that tiny figure of hers!”
“Masha’Allah!”
I bit my tongue and tried not to roll my eyes. Tiny figure? That wasn’t the tune she had been singing for the past forty-five minutes.
“So, have we selected a dress then?” The saleswoman motioned toward me as I glanced in the mirror one last time. I carefully watched my mother’s expression, waiting for her reply.
/> “I think it’s just lovely on you, Leila!” Shabana aunty bobbled her head. “Nida, what do you think?” My mother looked from her to me, with a thin, forced smile plastered across her face. I could tell it was killing her to not be able to say what she really thought.
“I think if Leila likes it, she should get it,” my mother finally said through clenched teeth.
“I like it,” I stated without hesitation.
Hisham looked up from his phone and gave me a lopsided smirk.
“Okay,” my mother said, still smiling awkwardly. She turned toward the saleswoman. “We will select this one.”
“Very well, madam.”
“But first we must agree on a reasonable price,” my mother said, leading the saleswoman toward the registers. “I could buy the whole store for what is written on the tag . . .”
“I’m going to change.” I grinned at Hisham as he and his mother exited the dressing area.
When I finally rejoined them, my mother had already completed the negotiations and was sliding her credit card into the machine. By the look on her face, I could tell she was pleased with the outcome—which was great since I knew she wasn’t so thrilled about the outfit. I handed the sari to the saleswoman, and while we waited for her to wrap it up, my mother and Shabana aunty began talking about the wedding.
“These preparations are so tiring, Nida! The reception is tomorrow and there are still so many things left to do!”
“I can only imagine!” My mother shook her head sympathetically. “It’s good you have Hisham here to help you.”
“Yes, he has been so very helpful,” Shabana aunty said, shoving all her shopping bags into his arms. “I don’t know what I would do without him!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “You know how it is here, Nida. Everything has to be just so.”
“You probably can’t wait for it to be over!”
“Oh, yes. We have already decided for Hisham’s wedding, we will not go this extravagant.”