The Marriage Clock

by Zara Raheem

“No, no. Of course not. The expectations are much higher for the first child’s wedding.”

  The saleswoman handed us our bag, and the four of us exited the store, walking onto the bustling sidewalk outside. Shabana aunty and my mother continued chattering away while Hisham and I trailed a few steps behind.

  “Looks like they’re already planning your wedding, huh?” I gave Hisham a playful nudge. He shot me an embarrassed look and shrugged. I laughed.

  “And it is much more work for a daughter! All the clothes and the jewelry.” Shabana aunty shook her head. “Ya Allah. I don’t envy your position, Nida.”

  “Trust me, I would happily shop for jewelry and clothes if it meant my daughter was getting married.” My mother glowered disappointingly in my direction.

  “It will happen in its own time, Nida.”

  “That’s the problem. With Leila, I’m afraid that time will never come!”

  I could feel my face burning.

  When we finally reached the corner, Shabana aunty turned toward Hisham. “Beta, will you pick up the sweets from the shop, and I will wait for you here?” she asked, fanning herself in the afternoon sun. “I am feeling very tired all of a sudden.”

  “Come, Shabana, let us take you home,” my mother offered, pointing to Sahil’s car parked across the street. “You should take some rest. We will give you a ride back.”

  “No, no.” Shabana aunty waved her hand. “There is so much left to do. I will just take a break for a few minutes.”

  “Aunty is right, Ammi. You should go back.” Hisham placed the bags in her hand. “Just let me know what still needs to be done, and I can take care of it while you go home and rest.”

  My mother looked at Hisham with a satisfied smile. She loved when others agreed with her.

  “Beta, there are three different sweets shops you must go to, and a long list of others. How will you manage alone?”

  “Leila will accompany him.” My mother pushed me forward. “If there is anything Leila knows, it is her way around a sweets shop.”

  I looked down at the ground, wishing a sinkhole would magically appear and swallow me whole.

  Shabana aunty hesitated, but after a few moments finally acquiesced. “Okay, I will come with you, Nida,” she said, nodding. My mother grabbed her arm and we watched the two of them cross the busy intersection and climb into Sahil’s parked Suzuki as he tried to fit all their shopping bags into the small trunk. The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance.

  * * *

  “Shall we?” Hisham said, motioning his arm forward. I followed his lead, still feeling deflated from my morning with my mother.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled, my mood reflecting the dark gray clouds forming overhead.

  “Wedding pressures getting to you?” he said half-jokingly.

  “Why is everyone so obsessed with marriage?! And by everyone, I mean my mother.”

  “That’s every mother, Leila.”

  “It’s like she turns every conversation into a discussion about why I’m not married. I can’t catch a break!”

  “If it helps, I can tell you, we’ve all been there.”

  “Yeah, but at least you don’t have the same pressures that us women have,” I replied testily. While all South Asian mothers badgered their children about marriage at some point, it was a known fact that they were always less judgmental toward their sons. No one would bat an eye if a South Asian man chose not to marry until his mid- to late thirties. Women, on the other hand, were expected to bear children, so they couldn’t be afforded the same leniencies. The younger a South Asian woman married, the more desirable she was in the eyes of her husband and her in-laws. Therefore, even though Hisham was trying to relate, I couldn’t help but feel that the pressures faced by Indian men were minuscule compared to their female counterparts.

  “That’s not true. At least you live in America. You probably don’t have it nearly as bad as we do here.”

  “It’s even harder in America!” I cried. “We’re the minority population. Imagine how difficult it is to find a good Muslim, who is of a similar ethnicity, whom you like, who likes you back, who meets all the criteria on your list, and whom your parents approve of. Here, all you have to do is walk outside, and you’re met with a million options. We don’t have it quite as easy as you think.”

  Hisham cocked his head. “So if there are so many options here, why haven’t you found someone yet? I mean, all you have to do is walk outside, right?” He wiggled his brows playfully. “What about him?” he said, pointing to a turbaned man on the street tugging along a wooden cart filled with boxes. “Or him?” He pointed to a young man wearing tiny shorts and a tank top on a scooter.

  “You know what I mean,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Oh, look at that one!” He directed my attention to a stocky, middle-aged uncle spewing chewed-up gutka onto the curb, leaving behind a reddish-brown stain.

  “Gross.” I turned away, disgusted.

  Hisham continued pointing out every ridiculous “prospect” he could find for three blocks until my sullenness subsided and I finally cracked a smile.

  “Okay, I get your point. You can stop now.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “So where is this sweets shop, anyw—”

  A giant drop of water suddenly plopped onto my forehead and I peered upward at the grayish-white sky. Hisham glanced in my direction, amused, as I wiped it away.

  “What?” I snapped, flicking the moisture from my fingers toward him. Just then, sprinkles of wetness hit us both on the backs of our necks. As light scattered drops painted the sidewalk a darker shade, we looked overhead and watched as the billowy clouds suddenly broke and a flurry of rain showered down upon us. I squealed and lifted my hands over my head as Hisham quickly pulled me across the street into the small mithai shop at the corner.

  We rushed through the small glass doors, setting a tiny bell jingling as we entered. My cotton tunic had soaked all the way through; I pulled on the fabric but it clung stubbornly to my skin. Hisham stepped in beside me and shook his head, spraying droplets of rainwater in every direction. “Hey!” I protested, holding my hands up as a shield. He laughed.

  Inside, the familiar scent of ghee and coconut filled my senses. Every wall was lined with glass cases, and behind them, heaps of laddus—in every color and variety—lay on beautiful silver trays. I turned toward Hisham.

  “This is just like a dream I once had!” I remarked incredulously. He looked at me with a huge smile across his face.

  “You’re not the only one who knows her way around a sweets shop.” He pointed toward the cases. “Shall we give some of these a try?”

  “I really shouldn’t . . .” I hesitated, staring at the beautiful globes of sugar beckoning me from behind the glass.

  “Meena and Haroon deserve the best. We should personally make sure they get it.” His eyes twinkled.

  “I suppose if it’s for Meena and Haroon—”

  “Consider this a familial sacrifice.” Hisham grinned, gesturing to the uncle behind the counter.

  For the next half hour, we waded into the waters of laddu paradise as we tried boondi laddus and coconut ones. We tried some with almonds and others covered in pistachios. We ate laddus made with pure ghee and some made with brown sugar. Hisham knew all the good ones to try, and not once did I feel him judging me for my massive appetite for sweets. By the time we were finished, we had selected more than two dozen boxes for Meena and Haroon’s reception party.

  As the uncle carefully wrapped our selections in beautiful red boxes decorated with gold foil, Hisham went outside to hail a taxi. I gazed through the shop window at the rain, watching all the people running along the side of the street. Some were wearing dhotis, long yards of fabric that were tied baggily to form pants, and brown leather chappals. The women wore rain-soaked kameezes and carried newspapers, flour bags, or whatever they could find to cover their heads. The vendors were bringing in baskets of fruits and spices they had laid
out earlier in the day, while cascades of water gushed forcefully from the flimsy roofs of their street-side shops. I couldn’t believe how quickly the weather had shifted.

  “Here you are,” the uncle said, breaking up my thoughts. I thanked him, grabbing the boxes, and ran outside to where Hisham was waiting with a cab. I jumped into the back seat as he held the door open for me and placed the sweets carefully on my lap.

  Hisham climbed in beside me and leaned forward to give the driver directions to the next stop. As the car pulled out slowly into the crowded streets, Hisham scooted back, wringing out the edge of his rain-soaked T-shirt. “So, I’m guessing you’ve never experienced monsoon season before?”

  I shook my head. The rain was coming down heavier now, and the sound reverberated through the small car as the water pounded steadily against the roof.

  “Do you have rain like this back home?”

  “Not really,” I said, thinking back to the always sunny, moderate climate of Southern California. “It usually only rains a few times a year, and even then”—I glanced out my window at the deep pools forming along the street—“it’s never like this.”

  “This is my favorite season of the year.” Hisham grinned and interlocked his hands behind his head. He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. “It brings back so many fun memories, you know?”

  I returned my gaze to the window. There was something so romantic about the pitter-patter of rain as it drummed against the glass. I could no longer make out what was happening on the other side. The steady rain had created a heavy sheet that blocked all visibility beyond a few inches. I leaned my head against the cold glass and felt my eyelids descending. My mind wandered to scenes from old Bollywood movies where two young lovers danced among tall trees in a forest during a rainstorm. I imagined myself lifting the pallu of my sari over my head to shield me from the rain as the hero grabbed me by my waist, wrapping his strong arms around me and pulling me close. Fully drenched in our love for one another, we peered into each other’s eyes—those soft, brown eyes, that chestnut-colored skin, that smile that melted me with the flash of a single dimple . . .

  “Leila!”

  I jolted awake from my daydream.

  “Leila, wait here.” Hisham opened the door and stepped outside. “I’ll just run in and grab the sweets,” he shouted, then dashed across the flooded streets into the well-lit bakery on the other side. With the rain slightly abated, I watched through the windows as Hisham walked inside and peered at the displays. As he leaned against the counter, the outline of his jaw curved gracefully down his neck, showing off the twining cords of muscle that shaped his strong, chiseled arms and firm, broad chest. His wet T-shirt clung to his biceps as he casually ran his fingers through his damp hair and gave the saleswoman a dimpled smile. I looked away, blushing.

  A few minutes later, I heard a knock at the window and leaned across the seat, unlocking the door.

  “Another few shops.” He sat down, placing the bags near his feet. “I sure hope we can finish everything in this weather,” he said, sneezing.

  “Me too,” I said, handing him a tissue from my purse.

  For the next hour, Hisham and I took turns braving the storm as we ran into different shops, checking off every stop on his mother’s list. We were soaking wet, freezing cold, and sneezing like banshees, but he wanted to keep going until we had everything we needed, and I wanted to savor every moment of time spent with him. “Where to now?” I asked, toweling off my hair with a scarf I had in my purse.

  “Now we get lunch.”

  I looked outside at the torrential downpour.

  “Is there a drive-through option?” I scrunched up my nose.

  “Not this time, but trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

  * * *

  We zigzagged through side alleys and small streets until the taxi finally stopped in front of a narrow structure wedged in between a bank and a shoe store.

  “Here?” I said, pointing to the white sign hanging over the front door that read CANTEEN in handwritten black letters.

  “Yup,” Hisham said, opening his door as I scooted out the other side. We grabbed all of our shopping bags and waddled up a narrow flight of stairs into a cramped dining hall on the second floor. Tables and chairs lined the peeling light blue walls, and a nineteen-inch television set was mounted in the corner playing slightly fuzzy videos of classic Bollywood songs. The kitchen was blocked off by a beaded curtain, and the smell of coriander hung thick in the air.

  “Aaye, aaye,” said a craggy-faced uncle with tufts of orange-white hair sprouting around his balding, mottled scalp. He grabbed a notepad and led us to one of the many empty tables.

  “This is the place you were talking about?” I sat down, dropping the bags on the floor and glancing at the chutney-stained menu in front of me.

  “We don’t need these,” Hisham said, stacking the menus at the edge of the table. “We will take two orders of keema pau, ek kabab platter, ek samosa platter, ek order of chicken tengri, a plate of rumali rotis, and two rolls of mutton bhuna gosht.” The uncle nodded, quickly writing everything on his notepad. “And could you please bring us some extra lemon pieces with the bhuna gosht?”

  “Is that all?” I asked, teasingly.

  “Oh, and we’ll also take two special faloodas.” Hisham turned toward me and grinned.

  “What makes you so sure I’m going to like everything you ordered?” I asked as the uncle walked away. “What if I wanted something else?”

  “Leila,” he said with a serious look on his face, “you are about to experience the best street food in all of Mumbai. This is going to be a life-changing experience for you. A culinary journey of the senses, so to speak. The only question you should be asking is, ‘Am I ready?’”

  I leaned in and stared directly into his eyes. “Oh, I’m ready,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. Normally, I would have been turned off by the idea of someone ordering for me without asking for my input, but I was attracted to Hisham’s confidence. He had proven he knew his way around the laddu shop; I trusted this experience would be no different.

  “I knew I liked you,” Hisham said, breaking into a grin.

  I blushed and looked away.

  On the television screen, a song was playing that I hadn’t heard in years: “Tip Tip Barsa Pani,” from Mohra. The heroine, played by Raveena Tandon, looked sizzling as she danced through a rainstorm in a bright yellow sari while the hero, played by Akshay Kumar, chased behind her. As the two clung to each other in a passionate embrace, I couldn’t help but think how strangely similar it was to my daydream earlier. I wondered if it was a sign.

  “I used to have such a crush on Raveena Tandon. Especially in this song,” Hisham said, his eyes fixated on the screen. “I must’ve watched this movie about a hundred times.”

  “Me too. But Akshay Kumar was the object of my crush.”

  “Oy hoy, a Bollywood fan? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  “Guilty as charged.” I put up my hands.

  “Speaking of crushes, I heard that Asad really took a liking to you. Any chance the two of you might reenact this song?” He wiggled his brows.

  “Stop it.” I threw my napkin across the table at him.

  “Imagine how thrilled your ammi would be.”

  “My ammi would be happy with anyone at this point.” I rolled my eyes, laughing.

  Just then the waiter, a young boy wearing a Gap T-shirt with brown trousers that ended four inches above his ankles, emerged from behind the curtain carrying two drinks on a plastic tray.

  “What is this?” I asked, staring at the delightful concoctions as he set them down in front of us. They were tall glasses of pinkish ambrosia, each topped with a generous scoop of pista kulfi decadently covered in chopped almonds, coconut, cardamom pods, and strands of fragrant saffron.

  “This is the moment your life changes forever,” Hisham said. “Go on, have a sip.”

  I leaned forward, taking a mouthful of the sweet, refreshing, ro
se-flavored syrup coupled with velvety ice cream, silky vermicelli noodles, slithery black basil seeds, and crunchy almonds. It was psychedelic.

  “Oh my goodness.” I closed my eyes, letting the cool liquid run down my throat as it filled my mouth with the most delicious tastes.

  “And that was just the falooda. Wait until you try the rest,” Hisham said as the waiter returned, balancing multiple trays of mouthwatering kababs, rolls, samosas, barbecued chicken, and everything else on the order. I took Hisham’s lead and dived right in as he explained each item to me. The flavor combinations exploded in my mouth as we devoured plate after plate—each tastier than the next.

  “So, what exactly are you looking for? If you don’t mind my asking,” Hisham said as he squeezed fresh lemon juice onto his bhuna gosht.

  “If you had asked me this question about three months ago, I would have had a very specific answer for you. I might have even provided you with . . . a list.” Hisham lifted his eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

  “And now?” he said.

  I shrugged and looked up at the screen. As I bit down on a samosa, my mind drifted toward the list. It was the first time I had thought about it since I had been in India. Back home, it was what I relied on to measure my feelings for someone—the point of reference for all my past relationships. But I hadn’t needed it to measure my feelings for Hisham. I liked him. From the moment I first met him, there was no doubt in my mind.

  “So when was the last time you had an Akshay Kumar–worthy crush on someone?”

  Right now; at this very moment. I looked into Hisham’s eyes. “I don’t know, I guess it wasn’t too long ago,” I replied.

  “Really?” Hisham said, his body inching forward. “Tell me, what was he like?”

  Sweet, smart, charmingly handsome. Great sense of humor with an unbelievable taste in food. Can cheer me up—even after a morning spent with my mother—and knows the ins and outs of Indian wedding ceremonies like no one I’ve ever known.

  I wanted to tell Hisham all these things. About the butterflies I felt each time he was around; how even though I had only just met him, I could already feel myself falling for him . . . But instead, I told him about Zain. How we met. How our mothers had ambushed us with a date. I told him about our night at the jazz club. The feelings I had for him and how he had ghosted me. I told him everything as he listened intently to every single word.