by Zara Raheem
“You know,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “that was also an important year for one more reason.”
“Oh?” My mother leaned forward. “And what reason is that?”
“That was the last year you ever baked me an American dessert,” my father replied, his eyes twinkling.
I shook my head and laughed.
“Well, maybe that is because you are no longer a skinny man!” My mother clucked her tongue as my father puffed out his belly and made a sad face.
“If I am fat, it is only because of all the fatty foods you’ve been feeding me for the past thirty years.” He winked at me.
“Oh, really? And will you eat a salad if I make it for you? No, it is you who likes all these oily foods!”
As my parents continued blaming each other for their poor dietary habits, I couldn’t help but smile at their relationship. They bickered nonstop, they hardly ever agreed on anything, but they were more in love with each other after thirty years than any other couple I knew. Despite all the disappointments I’d faced these past three months, a part of me still remained hopeful that I would one day find the kind of love they had . . .
I cleared my throat. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I needed to tell my parents that I hadn’t met their deadline. There was no point in waiting until the evening when I could just break the news to them now.
“Um, can I talk to you both about something?” I interrupted their banter. My parents stopped and turned toward me.
“Yes, Leila. What is it? Are you sick?” my mother asked, suddenly concerned.
“No, it’s about something I’ve been meaning to tell you both—”
Briiiing.
“One second, Leila.” My mother held up a finger. “Let me just get this.” She picked up the phone, and a few seconds in, I could already tell that it was not good news.
“What do you mean the flowers haven’t arrived? The party is tonight!” she cried, handing the phone over to my father and rubbing her head.
“Hello? Yes. Okay. Okay. Okay. I will let her know.” My father calmly hung up as my mother and I stared at him.
“Leila, the florist is sending you new arrangements in your email. Will you check the pictures and let her know which one we want?”
“Sure,” I said, feeling a bit frazzled. I still wanted to talk to them, but I wasn’t sure if they’d be able to handle more upsetting news.
“Can you believe they haven’t arrived yet?” My mother turned toward my father. “I must call the decorator and make sure everything else is set for tonight.”
I could sense a degree of panic in her voice.
“Will you go through the guest list and confirm the final numbers with the caterer?” My father nodded and quickly got to his feet.
“Can I just tell you guys something real quick . . . ?”
“Not now, Leila. We will discuss later. Go check the pictures and email the florist. She is waiting for your message.”
“But . . . but—” I stammered helplessly as my parents cleared the table in a hurry. Within minutes, they had gone into the other room and the kitchen was empty as I sat there alone. What now? I thought. I should tell them before the party, but when? I shuffled back to my room.
What if I wrote them an email? I pondered half-seriously as I opened my laptop, searching through the inbox. As I scrolled through the messages, my cell phone vibrated. It was Tania.
HEY! What’s up? Ready for tonight?
Ugh. I responded.
Lol . . . party problems or personal?
Both.
Can I help?
Maybe. The florist was supposed to send me new pictures for centerpieces, but I don’t see her email in my inbox.
Weird. Have you checked the junk folder?
Let me look. I clicked on JUNK and waited for the messages to download. There it was, at the very top: Floral Arrangements, it read in the subject line.
Got it! You’re a lifesaver! I texted her as the emails continued to download. All of a sudden, one by one, the messages appeared as I sat there dumbfounded. Dozens of unread emails staring back at me from behind the screen. With trembling hands, I grabbed my phone and dialed Tania’s number, waiting impatiently for the sound of her voice.
“You’ll never believe what’s in my junk folder,” I said when she finally picked up. “How soon can you get over here?”
Prayers Answered
“His phone bricked . . . Lost all his contacts . . . Got your email from your school website and has been trying to get in touch with you ever since . . . I just . . . I just don’t believe it,” Tania kept muttering under her breath as she read through each email. “We all just assumed he wasn’t interested.”
“You said he ghosted me!”
“I know, I know,” Tania said, shaking her head. “All the signs pointed towards it being a classic case of ghosting. But really, he zombied you instead!”
“Zombied? Wh-what does that even mean?!”
“It means he came back from the dead. Popped up out of nowhere. He resurrected your relationship—”
“Okay, okay,” I interrupted, feeling a headache coming on. I stared at the screen, rubbing my temples. A month ago, this was exactly what I had wished would happen. That Zain would come back into my life. That I would finally receive an explanation for why he had vanished. That he would whisk me away from a life of arrangement, so we could live out the ending to our Bollywood fairy tale. But now that the answer to all my prayers was staring me in the face, I didn’t feel the elation that I once thought I would.
“So what do I do now?” I asked, facing Tania. “Do I seem like a total jerk for not responding all this time? Should I message him to explain? Or should I just let it . . . dissolve?”
“I don’t know.” Tania bit her bottom lip. “I mean, this has never happened before. At least not to anyone I know.” She knitted her brows in deep thought. “We need to really consider what this means.”
I nodded, scrolling through all the messages once more.
“What if he’s at the party tonight?” Tania asked. I hadn’t even thought about that possibility. I knew my parents had invited Yasmeen aunty, so the idea of Zain coming was not entirely impossible.
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll just have to wait and—” I stopped, suddenly distracted by the name on the screen. “Tania, there’s also a message in here from you,” I said as I clicked on the email to open it up.
“Yeah . . .” Tania shifted nervously, watching as my eyes quickly scanned the screen. “I sent that from my cousin’s phone. But I wouldn’t worry about that right now—”
“What is this?” I said, looking at her.
“It’s . . . it’s nothing. I was going to tell you—”
“You and Zeeshan broke up?” I exclaimed.
“Yeah . . .”
“When? Why? Oh my God, why didn’t you say something?”
“It happened while you were in India.” She sighed heavily. “Look, Leila, I shouldn’t have sent that email. I don’t want to bother you with my stuff because I know you have a lot on your plate right now—”
“Tania . . .” I suddenly felt incredibly guilty. I had been so self-absorbed, so consumed by my own failures that I hadn’t even noticed that my best friend had just gotten her heart broken.
“Why would you think that would be a bother to me?” I said with a pained look on my face. I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a hug. “Tell me everything. What happened?”
Through muffled tears, Tania told me the whole story. How the day before she was supposed to meet Zeeshan’s parents, she had decided to share everything about her past with him. Her previous marriage, the fact that her parents had arranged it without any input from her, her inevitable divorce: she put it all out there for him. At first, he seemed understanding—even comforting, reassuring her that things like that happen and it wasn’t her fault. But the next day, when he was supposed to pick her up to drive her to his parents’ house for lunch, he nev
er showed up. She had left him dozens of texts and voice mails, but she got nothing but silence from his end. Three days later, he finally called her back and told her that his parents could never accept a girl who had already been married—regardless of the circumstances—and even though he still cared for her, he couldn’t go against his parents’ wishes.
“I sent you the email because I needed to tell someone,” she said softly.
“So none of the other girls know?”
She shook her head.
“Oh, Tania!” My voice cracked as I thought back to when I saw her at Liv’s house. How selflessly she had comforted me and offered words of solace. No one would’ve guessed that there had been two broken hearts in the room that day.
As I watched her wipe her eyes with the corner of her blouse, I thought about how different her situation had turned out from my parents’. My parents were fortunate to have found love within their arranged marriage, but Tania was left with nothing more than a painful scar from her past. She would forever bear the blame for a choice that wasn’t even hers. It didn’t seem fair.
“Listen, Leila,” Tania finally said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and I’ve come to the conclusion that we, as South Asian women, are constantly having to prove our worth. We are constantly having to prove that we are good enough. And for who? Our parents? Our future husbands? Our potential in-laws? The entire South Asian community? No matter how hard we try to please others, we are always going to be judged because of our past, our age, our marital status, our career, or whatever. You know better than anyone that it’s a double standard that only applies to women. I say we put an end to it.” She grabbed my hands. “I should’ve said something to you the other day, but I’m going to say it now. This is no longer about them, Leila. Your parents, Zain, Hisham, every goddamn rishta aunty. This is about you and what you want. It’s about doing what is right for you in this moment, regardless of what anyone else expects of you.”
I let her words sink in. She was right. Even Annie was right. I had spent so much time focusing on everyone else’s expectations that I had lost sight of what I truly wanted. I buried my face in her shoulder as we hugged. “Thank you,” I whispered into her ear. She gave me a squeeze. “But what about you?” I leaned back to look at her tear-streaked face.
“What about me?” She shrugged. “Zeeshan might not have chosen me. But I choose me. I’m going to be just fine.” She smiled. My beautiful, resilient, incredibly brave, and wise-beyond-her-years friend just gave me the last push of courage I so desperately needed, and for that I was grateful.
* * *
After Tania left, I sat there staring at the laptop, a million thoughts rushing through my mind. I thought back to what Hisham had said about not having a choice. About all of us eventually doing what our parents wanted. He was wrong. Ending up with who our parents wanted us to was the easy option, but it prevented us from acknowledging how we truly felt . . . from going after what we really wanted. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a cop-out. Like nothing more than a lame excuse. I still believed in love before marriage, but I suddenly realized that it wasn’t romantic love I was lacking. It was self-love.
I looked over Zain’s emails, reading the messages again and again. This wasn’t about my parents. This wasn’t even about the deadline anymore. This was about me. And I couldn’t choose something simply because it was my only option. That wasn’t choosing. That was settling. And I loved myself enough to know I was worth more than that.
For the first time in a long time, I knew exactly what I needed to do. I placed my fingers over the keyboard and started typing.
Dear Zain,
First off, I’d like to apologize for not getting back to you sooner. Your emails were placed in my junk folder, and I am just discovering them now. A lot has changed since the last time we saw each other, and I think it’s only fair to let you know what’s been on my mind . . .
Final Toast
The banquet hall at Shalimar Restaurant was teeming with guests. Despite all the last-minute changes, it was a relief to see everything finally come together. All throughout the restaurant I had displayed blown-up photographs of my parents over the past thirty years. There were images of the two of them on their wedding day—my mother in a beautiful red sari and my father in a dark gray suit with thick, neatly parted hair and a mustache that even Tom Selleck would be envious of. There was a photograph of my mother eight months pregnant, with my father’s arm around her shoulders. They were both grinning widely into the camera, excited and hopeful for the future that lay ahead. There were pictures from various family vacations like the Grand Canyon and Disneyland, and most recently, a photo of the three of us at my twenty-sixth birthday dinner, the night this whole journey began for me.
As I made my way around the hall, I took my time greeting all the aunties and uncles who had known my parents over the years. Some of them I had seen frequently at our home or various events; others I hadn’t seen in years. I smiled and nodded as they inquired about my job, my trip to India, and of course my marital status. I had grown so accustomed to these rounds of questioning that they didn’t even faze me anymore. From the corner of my eye, I noticed my girlfriends hanging out near the buffet table. I politely excused myself and headed in their direction.
“Leila! You look beautiful!” Hannah, Liv, and Tania showered me with compliments as I gave them each a hug.
I was wearing a dress that Meena had gifted me the night before her reception: a powder-blue lehenga choli with ivory and gold embellishments. My hair was curled into long, loose waves, and I had placed a delicate gold tikka across the center part.
“Have you talked to your parents?” Tania asked.
“Not yet.” I bit my lip.
Between the flower snafu, Zain’s unforeseen return, and my earlier talk with Tania, I hadn’t found time to inform my parents about the outcome of their deadline. After ruminating on everything I had endured over these past three months—the frustration, the hopelessness, the love, the heartbreak—there was only one choice that felt right in my heart; however, I had no way of predicting what their reactions would be when I finally told them. All I knew was that when I had crossed off the last X on my calendar that afternoon, I’d felt a sense of relief rather than dread, along with an overwhelming confidence about my final decision.
“Salaam, beti! How are you doing?”
I turned around to see Yasmeen aunty holding a small plate of appetizers in her right hand. She leaned in and gave me a warm kiss on both cheeks. “What a lovely party you have thrown together for your parents, Leila! May Allah bless us all with such kind and loving children, Masha’Allah.” She squeezed my hand.
“How have you been, aunty?” I asked, shifting uncomfortably.
“Very good, beti.”
“And how is Zain?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. Although my mind had already been made up, the possibility of seeing Zain at my parents’ party, especially after the email I had sent refusing his offer to “see where things could go,” was slightly nerve-racking. I held my breath as I waited for her response.
“Alhamdulillah! He’s been so busy getting everything prepared for his L.A. office opening. But he will be back for another visit in just a few weeks!”
I exhaled a sigh of relief.
“I must let your mother know when Zain comes, so the four of us can get together once again, insha’Allah.”
I nodded and forced a small smile. Although I felt somewhat guilty about giving her false hope, I reminded myself that I was doing the right thing. I politely excused myself just as the buffet lines cleared and made my way toward my parents’ table near the center of the stage.
During dinner, several friends and close acquaintances of my parents took turns saying a few words. Everyone agreed that thirty years of marriage was an extraordinary feat, an accomplishment worth celebrating. As each speaker lauded my parents with praises and countless blessings for the years to come, I
felt proud. My parents were happy. They were still in love after thirty years of marriage. They had found the thing that people spend their entire lives searching for.
From inside my purse, I pulled out a single notecard. Wiping my sweaty palms on a napkin, I glanced at the speech I had prepared four days ago for this very event. So much had changed between then and now. As I quickly skimmed over the words, I realized there was still so much I wanted to say. To express. But how?
When Bushra aunty and Mohammed uncle finished the final words of their speech, I took a deep breath and stood up. My legs felt like jelly as I walked toward them. I prayed my knees would not buckle underneath me. There were collective murmurs among the audience as my parents’ only child took the microphone.
With the notecard clasped tightly in hand, I cleared my throat.
“As’salaamu Alaikum, everyone,” I said, my voice slightly cracking. “Thank you all so much for coming tonight to celebrate my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary.”
Everyone applauded enthusiastically. I drew in a deep breath.
“My parents have always been the embodiment of what a successful marriage looks like,” I read from my card. “They have taught me so much over the years about love, hard work, and compromise through their example. And I hope that I can one day follow in their footsteps . . .” My voice trailed off.
I looked out at all the familiar faces—a roomful of aunties and uncles smiling back at me, their expressions brimming with expectation. There were the Rehmans and the Dhakkars from that very first awkward dinner date. There was Seema aunty, the matchmaker, placing a sweet gulab jamun into her mouth, and Yasmeen aunty with her husband giving me a wave of encouragement. There were my father’s cricket buddies and my mother’s friends from her monthly halaqa classes at the mosque—they all stared at me, waiting expectantly to hear what I had to say.
I glanced down at the notecard with trembling hands and pounding heart. Tania’s words echoed through my mind: This is no longer about them, Leila . . . This is about you and what you want. It’s about doing what is right for you.