Mehendi Tides

by Siobhan Malany

  “Shall we go shopping?” Aunty Samina asked, clasping her hands together. “We have a wedding to prepare for! Kate, you will find shopping in the city to be an adventure. We will find you wonderful silk and jewels to wear that will make you feel like a princess!” She let out a boisterous laugh that displayed a wide space between her front teeth.

  SHOPPING WAS THE authentic experience in India. Hyderabad enjoyed many of the fashions of Bombay, with less congestion of the capital city. The women and girls visited bustling bazaars, fashion houses, and secluded jewelry dealers in the quest for materials for the wedding ceremonies to take place in Karachi in the weeks following. The women purchased cloth for salwar kameezes, silk for saris and lehengas, and georgette for the flowing dupattas that embraced every Muslim woman’s outfit.

  Kate adjusted, as much as one could adjust, to the heat and stares of India and accompanied Nasreen, Laila, Nanima, Aunty Samina, and Yasmine to the shopping areas of Hyderabad. Kate enjoyed Yasmine’s calm, sophisticated demeanor and Aunty Samina’s animated, joyful style.

  Aunty Samina did not like to drive her lime green Fiat to the city, so instead they hired three-wheeled motorized “bubble cars” as Kate called them because of the cars’ spoon-like shape. As they sped along the thoroughfare over the railroad tracks, the curtain of the bubble car flapped in the wind. Kate glimpsed the changing scenery beyond the blurry faces of pedestrians and bikers. The car motored over the Afzalgunj Bridge. Water buffalo roamed in the muck under the bridge at the shallow edge of the Sagar River that separates Hyderabad from its twin city, Secunderabad.

  After much weaving and circling roundabouts, they reached the heart of Hyderabad. They dodged rickshaws, motorbikes, and bull-drawn trailers, and halted for gaudy buses with gold trim and tassels. In the middle of it all, the women jumped from the bubble car and hurried to the sidewalk, clasping their saris around their legs to avoid tripping in their rush to safety.

  Nasreen and Kate trailed after the older women in a beeline for the shops. Kate struggled to read all the signs—vertical, horizontal, some swinging, others flashing. People bumped her or stepped around and stared.

  She hustled, keeping the women in view, following the white of Nanima’s sari. Suddenly, she jumped to the side to avoid tripping over a man who sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, a green turban wrapped around his head. A pair of worn sandals, two mangoes, and a small pouch sat in front of him. Strands of beads hung underneath his grayed beard. Kate could barely see his dark eyes peering out from under the turban and dreads of gray hair.

  Suddenly, a beggar child on a cart grabbed her pant leg. She stopped and three more children blocked her way, hands out and faces starving.

  With a swift tug, Nasreen pulled her through a narrow doorway.

  “Don’t stop walking,” she warned.

  Kate recovered from the stumble and reoriented herself; the street sounds became a numb buzz in her ears. The interior of the shop came into view revealing glorious colors of fabric. The older women were already surrounded by flowing waves of silk and chiffon as the shop owners spun bolt after bolt in a fly-fishing motion. Each bolt of material streamed in a wave of illuminated elegance. Aunty Samina rubbed the material between her fingers critically, then moved onto the next sample and the next as fast as the men could unroll the bolts.

  Kate was drawn to the most lustrous emerald-colored material. She tugged the neatly folded piece from a stack. Gold embroidery adorned the edges.

  “You like?” the man asked as he began unfolding each piece, displaying them along his arm, over his shoulder, and down the other arm until he was shrouded in shimmering cloth.

  Nanima was by her side and gently took the piece Kate admired, handed it to the merchant, and motioned the other pieces aside. The man threw the unwanted cloth in a heap. He wrapped the chosen piece, including a square of sheer georgette of matching green for the dupatta, and handed Kate her purchase with a slow, respective nod.

  “That’s beautiful,” remarked Yasmine. “The color will look great on you.”

  “Thanks,” Kate said, proud of her first purchase.

  After the fabric shop, Nanima led them to a gift shop several blocks away and across a side street, a line of beggars following. They stopped at the corner to buy guava fruit from two men squatting on the curb. The man split open one, sprinkled salt and chili powder over its pink center, and offered it to Kate. The spiced-candied taste burst in her mouth.

  The tattered sign above the gift shop door read in English, “Sheela’s Brass Shop.”

  Kate milled among the open shelves of all things brass. There were plates, vases, and bowls, each with its own unique design. She chose a large brass vase with blooms the color of peacock feathers encircling the middle, and two smaller vessels, one silver with a fluted top and one copper with gold etchings. From the wall hangings, she carefully removed two gilded plates with embossed iconic pictures of the Taj Mahal and the Salar Jung Museum. Lastly, she chose a solid brass cat to place on her dresser at home.

  Nanima again shooed her aside and bargained with the shop owners until they surrendered, frustration and disappointment filling their eyes. They began to wrap the pieces one by one in brown paper.

  After a few more shops, faring better at maneuvering through the crowds, Kate followed the women and ducked into a small stand with a large Pepsi advertisement on the yellowed, stained wall. Aunty Samina ordered drinks and fried snacks, and the seven of them squeezed together on the bench and fanned themselves with napkins that hardly did anything but help Kate imagine that she were cooler.

  Kate hugged her shopping bag and futilely tried not to let her sweaty hips and shoulders press against Nanima on one side and Aunty Samina on the other. Despite her discomfort, Kate was thankful to rest her hot, swollen feet. The stall was a haven after the crowds of the streets, the stares, the eager vendors and persistent beggars. She sipped the orange cola.

  “Don’t drink directly from a bottle, ever,” Aunty Samina warned. “Always drink from a straw.”

  Stepping out of the snack stall, Nasreen, Kate, and Yasmine discovered a display of patterned textiles hanging around the outside of a parked truck trailer. The truck vendor eagerly showcased the skirts as the girls approached.

  “The one with the elephant motif!” Kate exclaimed.

  “Ooh, the blue one there is pretty.” Nasreen pointed over the seller’s head at the one hanging at the very top corner.

  “The yellow one is my favorite,” Yasmine added.

  The cloth seller grabbed the blue one off the hanger and tried desperately to keep pace with the girls’ oppositely pointing fingers and changing expressions. The rejects lay in a growing heap.

  Pedestrians and bicyclists detoured into the streets to get around the truck. A crowd of spectators curious about the girls haggling over swatches of silk in the back of a truck created a bottleneck along the roadside. This was the case in India; one shift in space caused a chain reaction in the dense movement of people and vehicles.

  “Make a decision! You are making a scene,” pleaded Laila. “Chelo!”

  “Okay, okay,” Nasreen said, turning to Kate. “It’s enough. They will make beautiful skirts for school,” she added and paid the gleeful truck-shop man and left him to restack the rejects.

  The sari shop was the last stop for the day. Kate was starting to drift off to sleep, sinking into the back of the bubble car as they sped through the side streets so narrow that pedestrians pressed themselves against the walls as they passed. Even the stench of the cattle carts, roaring buses, and beeping Nissan cars did not keep her head from falling forward.

  Aunty Samina nudged her awake as they came to a halt in a busy shopping district. Kate followed Aunty Samina through an opening to the “Saify Stores.” The door was off a narrow street so dense with shops and signs that had Kate not kept her eyes glued to Aunty Samina’s long braid, she may have been forever lost to the city.

  The moment Nanima and Aunty Samina stepped inside the s
ari shop, the store men scrambled to their feet to assist her.

  Salaam. Nod. Salaam. Nod. Salaam. Nod.

  “My family has been coming to this shop for decades,” Nasreen explained to Kate as they watched the dance of respect the men gave to the elder women. The owner was a small man, very animated in his joy to show his patrons his collections of cloth. He led them upstairs to a private unfurnished room and motioned with a sweeping bow for them to take a seat on the floor. As soon as they arranged themselves, the store men appeared with a steeping teakettle and teacups.

  Nanima cocked her head side to side as she spoke to the owner in Urdu.

  “Ah, yes. Yes, of course,” the cloth store owner responded, clasping his hands together in enthusiasm as if a large production were about to begin.

  The man swung open a large cabinet with a fervency to reveal an impressive assemblage of silk pieces neatly folded and stacked in an array of compartments. One by one the store helpers snapped the pieces open with wild elegance. The silk rippled in a shimmering wave, hovered midair, and then slowly floated down to rest on the women’s laps. As soon as Kate saw a piece she admired, it was buried by the next wave of silk and so on until the women were nearly drowned in fabric.

  “Bas!” snapped Nanima, signaling it was enough.

  As quickly as the men flung out the silk, they swooped the pieces through the air like retracting spinnaker sails and meticulously folded each again and placed them back in the cabinet.

  Nanima spoke again to the owner in Urdu. He motioned to his helpers and suddenly seven-foot-long extensions of sari material rolled out across the wood floor. This material was heavy with gold embroidery. Nanima placed the end of a richly red and navy colored silk sari across Kate’s shoulder. Filigrees of threadwork created a thick border of intertwining long-stemmed flowers and leaves that hung across Kate’s chest like a royal sash.

  “It’s beautiful, but a sari? I don’t know how to wear a sari,” Kate fretted.

  “Not to worry,” Yasmine declared. “We are experts.”

  Nanima smiled, her eyes creasing nearly shut and her silver-rimmed glasses riding up her nose. Kate caressed the embroidery and imagined herself wrapped in its graceful embrace. The shop owner looked from Nanima to Kate.

  “This is the one then! Excellent choice!” The sari was folded to perfection, and the storeowner placed it into Kate’s open palms with a formal bow.

  On the way back to Banjara Hills, the driver pulled over at a stall on the side of the road. “Ghani & Sons Tailors” read the sign above the one-window booth.

  Aunty Samina greeted the shop owner with a hearty smile and handed over the bundle of textiles from the day’s shopping spree.

  There was just enough space in the shop for two worktables. Hunched over antique-looking sewing machines, the two tailors worked intently, the machines’ needles bobbing furiously as the workers pushed the material through the machine at such speed that any mistake in rhythm could prove disasterous.

  Aunty Samina requested the design and style of each tunic and salwar. The owner was a small man who stood not much taller than the ledge of the booth. He listened intently and eyed each woman long enough to guess their dimensions but not too long as to be inappropriate.

  Nanima held up the emerald piece Kate had chosen from the first shop. She moved her hands over the applique and then over Kate’s neckline and across her chest describing with few words what should be done. The owner scribbled on his writing pad, rocked his head side to side, and placed a notch on the cloth, a little reminder, like string around a finger.

  IN THE FOYER of the Banjara Hills home later that same day, Nanima waved her arms above Kate’s head in a swirling motion and kissed her gently on her head.

  “It’s a custom when a girl buys her first sari,” Yasmine had explained to Kate earlier as the car rattled among the potholes on the drive back to Nanima’s house, preparing her for what she was about to experience.

  Laila and Aunty Samina continued the ritual. Kate’s skin warmed to the touch of each kiss. Her head became light and her body swayed from heat and exhaustion and the emotion of this feminine moment she had not experienced since her mother was alive. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched the plastic bag that contained the coming-of-age sari and matching crimson choli and petticoat.

  “You are a woman now,” Nasreen whispered so only she could hear. “Let’s hope they don’t marry you off while you are here.”

  Kate’s eyes opened wide in shock.

  Chapter 6

  A Sacrifice

  Chicago 1998

  The click of a door woke Kate the morning after the Eid festival. She figured it was Mustafa leaving for work. Even on Sunday, Nasreen said he provided technical support for the computer company he worked for.

  The house remained silent. Nasreen was probably still asleep, having happily played hostess until the early morning.

  As she lay in the dimple of the comforter and pillow shams, she retraced the encounter with Tariq the night before. He had thought about her during his travels. How often did he think about her now? It felt as if no time had passed since they were teenagers, and yet so much time had passed that they both kept a cautious distance.

  There wasn’t an opportunity to ask him all the things she wondered about over the past years. Had he read her letters? Why hadn’t he responded? But still, he had asked for her phone number. Would he call her? Why did he want to talk now? He was heading back to New York today, then Hyderabad after graduation or some other country to roam about. Aunty Zehba was arranging his marriage back in India, so if he didn’t call her, she would survive. There was really no point in meeting anyway.

  She stared at the ceiling, the questions floating around her head.

  Reluctantly, she rose and dressed in the same clothes she had worn last night. She started down the stairs but stopped when she heard whispering coming from the foyer. Kate crouched down on the stairwell landing to peer through the railing. All she could see was Nasreen’s pretty pedicured feet.

  “You will do whatever you want, Nasreen,” Mustafa said harshly.

  “Keep your voice down! Kate is still sleeping,” Nasreen hissed. “I don’t want her to hear us arguing.”

  “Why do you even ask what I think?” Mustafa lowered his voice but the harshness remained. “Somedays I wonder if you care at all. I can see the resentment in your eyes. Why, Nasreen?”

  “That is not true. I do care.”

  “Is it because we can’t have children of our own? Is it because I married you, and you wanted someone else? Is there someone else, Nasreen?”

  Kate could visualize the desperation that must exist in Mustafa’s eyes. She had never seen him upset or frustrated by anything. He was uncomplicated, gullible at times, and had a relaxed view of the world, as if everything at some point would work itself out.

  Last night, Kate noticed that each time Nasreen and Mustafa passed each other among their guests, they smiled cordially at one another, respectfully, a soft glance and simple touch. Nasreen and Mustafa seemed comfortable enough as a couple of nearly eight years. Perhaps this was a normal disagreement between husband and wife. Kate knew she should return to her room, give them privacy, but she continued to listen from her place on the stairs.

  “There is no one else,” Nasreen said steadily.

  “Why do you cry out at night? I try to comfort you, but you push me away.

  You always push me away.”

  “They are just bad dreams.”

  “So many bad dreams? You can tell me, Nasreen. I will understand. I have never judged you.”

  What did he mean he had never judged her? Did he know about Anees? Kate questioned. That was a decade ago. Her face contorted listening to the pain in Mustafa’s voice.

  “You are my best friend, Nasreen, and I love you. But I can’t go on like this. I have always been honest with you, but there is so much you are not telling me. I see it in your eyes, and it makes me feel like I don’t know you at
all. I can’t bring a child into our lives like this,” he justified. “I can’t.”

  Kate held her intruding breath.

  The door creaked and shut swiftly as Mustafa exited.

  Kate dodged back to the hallway and tripped over the top step. She landed with a thump on the upper landing, her heart pounding against her chest. In between the railings, she spied the top of Nasreen’s head appear from the foyer and disappear as she walked in the direction of the kitchen.

  Kate stood up and hovered in the hallway shadows a few moments longer to regain her composure before coming down the stairs and making an appearance.

  “Good morning,” Kate said as she stood at the kitchen entrance.

  “Oh!” Nasreen spun around, a coffee craft in hand.

  She clutched her chest and breathed deeply.

  “You startled me. I thought you were still asleep. How long have you been up?” Nasreen asked nervously.

  “Not long. I heard the door shut.”

  Nasreen turned to face the sink and filled the craft with water.

  “Uh, yeah. Mustafa had to go into work for a bit.”

  “Are your in-laws here?”

  “No, out shopping. Macy’s is having a sale.” Nasreen looked over her shoulder at Kate and rolled her eyes. “My mother-in-law loves to shop.”

  Kate said nothing, still disturbed by the argument she overheard in the foyer. Why was Nasreen crying at night? Kate was reminded of the time when Nasreen learned Anees was getting engaged and thought she might have been pregnant. She had cried nonstop for weeks even long after she knew she wasn’t pregnant.

  Nasreen continued making the coffee, scooping grounds from the large tin into the filter.

  “What do you want for breakfast?”

  “The coffee is fine. I ate enough last night to last the week. Besides, I have to get going. I have to go into the lab for a bit today,” Kate mumbled.

  “You don’t sound too excited. Maybe you need a day off,” Nasreen suggested.

  Kate thought about a day off as she glanced out the French doors at the barren maple trees waiting for spring.