Kate and Nasreen took a seat on the couch, balanced the apple pie on their laps, and began to flip through Raji’s album.
Raji looked at Krishna standing in the center of the studio and recognized Krishna was wearing her sweater.
“Think about applying, Krish.”
“I’ll think about it.” Krishna smiled for the first time that evening.
THE NEXT EVENING, Kate hurried toward the hotel elevator, as much as she could hurry wearing a sari. She was late meeting Nasreen at Mona’s niece’s wedding. A man in a sports coat braced the door open for her.
“Thank you. Three please,” she said, hopping into the elevator.
With her left hand, Kate held the loose end of the sari at her shoulder and gathered the material at her hip with the right hand. It had taken her longer to get ready than she anticipated, and her sari had loosened from the walk through the parking garage and hotel lobby. The material didn’t feel tight enough around her, not like when Aunty Samina and Nanima had helped her dress for the wedding in Pakistan.
The elevator beeped and opened. Kate jumped out immediately scanning the mezzanine for Nasreen.
“Kate! Over here.” Nasreen waved from the entrance to the ballroom. “Finally, you’re here.”
“Sorry. I’m a little late,” she said breathlessly. “Which is ironic, right? That an American is late to a Pakistani wedding?” she snickered as she let Nasreen hug her, her own hands still holding the sari.
Nasreen stepped back and eyed her suspiciously.
“Why are you clutching yourself?” she asked.
“This sari isn’t tight enough. I must not have remembered how to wrap it right.”
“Did you pin it to the petticoat? That always helps if you can’t pleat it tight enough.”
“Petticoat?” Kate asked, confused.
It was only a moment before the girls looked at each other with widened eyes.
“Oh, gosh! I forgot the petticoat!” Kate exclaimed, horrified.
Nasreen was already doubled over holding her stomach as if in pain, laughing without sound. A few moments later, she came up for breath, her face red.
“You don’t have a…you didn’t wear a…”
She covered her mouth to keep from bursting. The tears started to flow.
“Nasreen! I need your help,” Kate cried urgently.
This only made Nasreen convulse into another fit of hysteria. A young Indian couple strolled past them into the ballroom and looked at them oddly.
Kate smiled and shrugged her shoulders as if to say she had no idea why her friend was acting this way.
“It’s not that funny!” She stomped her foot as soon as the couple was out of range.
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Nasreen wiped her eyes and tried to regain her breath. “Oh gosh.” She pressed her hand to her chest to steady its heaving. “I haven’t laughed that hard for…for so long. Thank you.”
“Glad it was so amusing. Now what do I do? I’m unraveling here.”
Nasreen fell forward in laughter again.
“Pretty soon, I will be standing here in my…”
“Okay. Okay.” Nasreen held up her hand in surrender. “Umm. Let me see. Wait here.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll be right back. Just hold yourself together. Literally,” she giggled as she hustled into the ballroom.
Kate paced the mezzanine nonchalantly. Nasreen returned shortly, clutching something under her arm.
“C’mon. To the bathroom. I borrowed a petticoat. Someone always carries an extra.”
Kate jogged alongside. “What did you say to explain?”
“That yours ripped. Don’t worry.”
Once inside the bathroom, Kate let go of her sari and immediately the material fell to her feet like a simple sheet. She jumped over the mound of material and into the stall, closing the door.
“Hand me the petticoat.”
“Just a minute,” Nasreen responded as she gathered the silk sari off the bathroom floor as quickly and neatly as she could.
As soon as Kate put on the petticoat, she stepped out of the stall.
“Okay. Hold up your arms.”
Kate followed directions. Nasreen expertly wrapped the sari tightly around her, pleating it as she went.
“Here, grab a pin from my purse.”
With her arms still raised, Kate felt around for a pin. There wasn’t one.
“It should hold without the pin,” Nasreen assured. “Hopefully.”
An older woman wearing an elegant green and silver sari, her hair tightly wound and pinned in a bun, entered the bathroom.
“Pardon us,” Nasreen reassured. “Technical difficulties.”
“Oh. It happens to the best of us,” the woman said, grinning. “It’s a beautiful sari. And you have the most wonderful red hair.”
“Thank you,” Kate sighed deeply, finally starting to relax.
Ten minutes later, Nasreen and Kate strolled like young princesses into the ballroom just as they had ten years ago at Rahim’s wedding.
More than four hundred guests filled the ballroom decorated in Pakistani wedding style with the nuptial platforms draped with streams of crepe georgette and roses. The room danced as couples moved among the white-clothed tables with large flower centerpieces made of tiger lilies and burgundy roses. The women’s saris twirled in exotic colors, their jewelry collectively brightened the dimly lit ballroom, and their bracelets chimed as loud as their voices did in earnest conversations.
Confident that the sari would remain wound to her body, Kate followed Nasreen around the room after an American dinner of picante chicken, asparagus with almond sauce, and rice. Nasreen mingled with friends and acquaintances with natural ease despite the many questions acquiring after her absent husband. Apparently news of Nasreen and Mustafa’s temporary separation had snaked its way through the community. Nasreen simply replied that Mustafa was traveling for work, which was true. Her parents were watching the twins. Mani and Sabreena were both growing strong, she told them all with a confident smile.
Nasreen and Kate congratulated Mona’s niece, the bride, after the nuptials.
“Marriage is an experience,” the bride’s mother, Mona’s sister-in-law, lectured.
“An experience?” the young bride laughed. “Sounds so romantic.”
“Marriage is hard work. You have to be mentally prepared for that. You have to make sacrifices for your family. Wouldn’t you say, Nasreen?”
“Absolutely! You have to communicate a lot, listen to your spouse, and sometimes you just have to take a time-out and trust marriage works out,” Nasreen remarked. “Congratulations again,” she said and walked away.
“The nerve!” Nasreen huffed as soon as Kate was beside her.
“I get so many people, who barely know me, tell me how to be the proper wife and mother. Doesn’t every couple have rocky times? Don’t tell me about sacrifices! Nobody knows what I have been through.”
“You rescued Mani and Sabreena from an orphanage in Islamabad. One parent or two, the twins have more than they would ever hope to have,” Kate said sincerely.
Nasreen smiled faintly. “Mustafa and I started marriage counseling.”
“Really?” Kate’s interest sparked.
“Honestly, it did scare me when he said he couldn’t do ‘this’ meaning this marriage and parenting…with me. I don’t want to lose him. We had our first session. I survived,” Nasreen confessed. “We agreed to be open and honest.”
“It’s a start,” Kate encouraged.
Nasreen shook her head, remembering she was at a wedding; no place for talking therapy.
“Mona!” Nasreen yelled across the dance floor.
Mona waved for them to join her dancing. She seemed to be enjoying the evening, however hard it was to watch her young niece wed when she was still clinging to the hope of marriage. But Kate learned that Mona had moved out of her parents’ house and bought a new car.
Suddenly, music filled the b
allroom. The bride’s closest friends stepped onto the dance floor to loud cheers from guests. With their hands behind their backs, they rolled their shoulders as the classic Pakistani music flowed through the hall. The guests clapped, encouraging the women to dance. In synchronicity, the girls waved their hips rhythmically side to side in traditional spirit. As the music reached a crescendo of cymbals, the girls crossed their wrists together high over their heads and snapped their hands to the cymbal’s tenor. They hopped from foot to foot and spun low to the ground.
Once the South Asian-style dance was over and the bride and groom danced together, the floor opened in a fusion of Pakistani sounds, American rap, and pop hits. Several of the girls flipped off their heels at the edge of the dance floor and danced.
Kate and Nasreen danced late into the evening until the guests thinned. They plopped down in the chairs to rest, perspiring and breathing steadily.
“I haven’t stayed out and danced like this in forever,” Kate remarked with enthusiasm.
“I certainly have not been out since I arrived back home with the twins.”
“Look, my sari stayed together.” Kate opened her arms to display the dress still in good form.
“I need that petticoat back.”
They both laughed.
“Are you going to call Krishna tonight?” Kate asked.
“I told her I would.”
Kate watched the guests move about on the dance floor.
“What do you think about…about Krishna and Raji together?” Kate asked.
“I’m not sure what to think. Krishna and I have been best friends since we were toddlers.”
“I remember Krishna made the odd comment back in January when we sat in the French café,” Kate recalled. “She said she wanted to freeze her eggs. I had no idea what she meant, really,” Kate stated. “I wonder how long she has wanted to tell us but felt she couldn’t. I was just thinking about it.”
“It takes guts to tell us,” Nasreen said.
“I really like Raji,” Kate continued. “She is so…joyful. I feel like it’s an effort sometimes to feel joyful.”
“You will be fine. You will get through this slump,” Nasreen assured. She watched the bridal party dance to The Beatles song “Twist and Shout.”
“I did the genetic testing,” Kate blurted.
Nasreen turned her full attention to Kate. “And…?”
“I didn’t inherit the mutations my mother had.”
“Told you!”
“Now I just need to graduate!”
“And fall in love,” Nasreen poked.
“Like I did in India,” Kate whispered, looking down at her lap at the red and golden paisleys in her sari. “I wore this sari at the wedding in Pakistan,” she said softly. “And I danced with Tariq for not more than a moment under a canopy of moonlit trees. He kissed me on the lips for the first time, the only time. I never told you that.”
Nasreen’s expression turned serious as she listened to Kate reminisce.
“Seeing Tariq at your house at Eid brought back memories. So many memories. Krishna said I won’t admit how I feel. She’s right. I still feel the same about him now as I did then.”
Suddenly Nasreen clasped her hand over her mouth.
“What?” Kate exclaimed, flabbergasted
“I didn’t know,” she choked. “I didn’t know how much…”
“What? You’re covering your mouth. I can’t understand,” Kate said, alarmed.
“I didn’t send your letters,” Nasreen blurted. “Then he wrote to you. To me. To give to you.”
Kate was stunned.
“I thought the relationship was an impossibility,” Nasreen defended. “I didn’t want you to get hurt,” she tried to explain.
“You never sent my letters to him?” Kate’s voice filled with anger. “You didn’t want to hurt me? Nasreen, I was heartbroken! You never approved! You never approved of the thought of me with him!”
“I’m sorry, Kate!” Nasreen cried. She grabbed a cocktail napkin with names of the bride and groom scripted in golden lettering and wiped her nose.
“What gives you the right to decide love?” Kate yelled.
Some of the guests turned to stare.
“I’ll call him.” Nasreen sounded desperate. “I will explain.”
“No!” Kate snapped. “You’ve done enough!”
“Kate! Wait!”
Kate fled to the door, grasping the sari that loosened from her waist and billowed behind her like a silken red tide as she ran through the hotel lobby. The bellman hurried to open the door for her as she and the fury of material flew out the door.
She sped from the hotel to her apartment. She was thinking of the box Tariq had given her. He said to open the box later but why? The box was empty.
Kate ran up the stairs of the complex, the sari dragging behind. Her heart was pounding as she fiddled with the key in the lock and flung open the front door. She knocked into the doorway of her bedroom and let go of the material, as much as was still clutched in her hand. The sari twirled around her as it descended to the floor and lay in a shimmery ribbon, extending from the front door through the living room and into the bedroom.
Standing in her undergarments shivering, Kate found her jacket and pulled the pocket inside out. Nothing. She tried the other pocket. A rose-colored strip of paper floated to the floor. It had fallen out of the silk-lined box Tariq had given her and must have been under the cocktail napkin. She read the note:
To the girl with mehendi hair,
The one who captured my heart.
Chapter 22
Returning Home
Karachi 1987
The unlined salwar irritated her skin. The outfit—brown with gold leaves outlined with tinsel and tassels that felt like wire netting against her forearms—had been handpicked by Aunty Zehba. There were eighteen women wearing the same glittery saris and eight girls dressed in purple, red, and brown salwars with matching leaf motif.
It was the making of a bad Bollywood chorus line, Kate thought, as she watched Aunty Zehba’s uncomely fashion designs on the other girls as they clustered together among the banquet tables, gossiping about the wedding night. Rahim and Haseena sat on the platform, but this time together as a married couple, liberated from the ceremonial garments, abdicated of jinn, and impregnated with blessings for a fertile marriage.
Tonight was the walima and the last of the wedding celebrations. It was also Anees and Rayah’s official engagement. The couple sat beside Rahim and Haseena looking like centerpieces, subdued and bored.
Kate stood alone at the edge of the lawn absorbing the scene that, five weeks ago, seemed so foreign but now was commonplace. She was fatigued beyond her own comprehension. So many parties—parties for the newlyweds and fiancés, parties for relatives returning from other places or departing for faraway cities, and parties for small achievements—Kate sometimes did not remember what or for whom they were celebrating.
So many evenings prior, Kate and Nasreen escaped Aunty Zehba’s watchful eye; sometimes Mumanijan distracted her with idle talk. The girls joined the cousins for cold drinks and ice cream on the terrace of one of the hotels. When they returned home, they gossiped and played cards until early morning, then fell asleep scattered on the floor, the boys in one room and the girls in another to sleep for a few hours before they were awakened by the heel of a chappal as family stepped over them and assembled for prayer.
But things were changing between Kate and Nasreen. This morning, Nasreen was up early for prayer, and Kate wondered if she had even gone to bed. She observed Nasreen meander through the day quietly, lost in thought.
Kate asked Nasreen if she wanted to sit on the terrace, have a soda at the nearby hotel, or buy fruit from the merchant who passed by the house leading a camel-drawn cart full of ripe fruit bursting in the sun.
Nasreen declined Kate’s invitations and instead read a book under the fan. Kate amused herself by playing with a trained monkey that appeared in the
street tethered to his master by a rope around his neck. The monkey sported a sparkled gold hat with a red and green pom-pom, wore large green sunglasses, and posed cross-legged on a can for photos. The charming animal grabbed Kate’s hand, played dead, held a rifle, and danced to the chimes of his master, attracting gleeful smiles and a handful of rupees from his audience.
“Those poor monkeys are slaves,” Nasreen said when Kate came inside and the master and his monkey continued down the road to entertain other patrons.
“What is wrong, Nasreen?” Kate asked. “Is it Anees? The engagement ceremony tonight?”
Nasreen shrugged. “No. I’m over it,” she said flatly.
“Well, Faiz seems to really like you.”
“Faiz is very immature. We are leaving for home soon.” Nasreen’s tone sounded more of a warning rather than a statement. “You should cut things off with Tariq,” she said. “No reason to drag things out. You will only be hurt.”
Nasreen’s words still stung in Kate’s chest as she watched family and friends congratulate Rahim and Haseena and Anees and Rayah. It seemed to Kate that Nasreen embraced the freedoms of America when it came to social relationships and dating but was quick to criticize her male cousins for straying away from religious doctrine. Kate watched Nasreen approach Anees and Rayah. She wore a headscarf, and if Kate hadn’t known which of Aunty Zehba’s tinsel and tassel colored salwar kameez Nasreen wore, then Kate may not have recognized her in the fading light.
Kate gazed down at her mehendi-painted feet. The dye appeared mud-brown against her pale skin, the same mud-brown color as her leaf cutout salwar. She and Nasreen had the mehendi designs reapplied, telling the girl to make the dye even darker so it would last until after they had returned home. The girl never looked up as she applied thick threads in swirls and lattice patterns to Kate’s hands, squeezing the cone filled with green mehendi paste with artful speed; every few strokes she pinched off the excess dye at the tip of the cone and resumed work without pause. Her fingers were permanently yellowed from her trade. Hours later the stain finally dried a dark red-brown, and Kate brushed off the excess dried dye in large chunks into the wastebasket. The tattooed designs extended past her wrist onto her forearm in a V-shape pattern with three dots and a quick swirl. She rubbed one palm over the ingrained pigment on the other arm. It would take forever for the dye to fade, she thought. What would her dad think? Would he find it strange?
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