The Marriage Clock

by Zara Raheem

  “Indian weddings are so intense,” Tania remarked.

  “How long do the ceremonies last?” Liv asked.

  “At minimum, three days. First you have the mehendi, then the nikkah, followed by a wedding reception,” Tania explained. “And then the valima . . .”

  I had refrained from asking my mother any questions about Meena’s wedding because, frankly, I didn’t care enough to know. But based on Bollywood movies and albums I had seen of my own parents’ wedding and the handful of Indian weddings I had been forced to attend growing up, Tania was accurate in her assessment.

  “Are you going to wear a sari?”

  “Is there going to be dancing?”

  “Will the groom ride up on an elephant?”

  “Are you going to get your henna done?”

  “Do you think there will be a lot of single guys at the wedding?”

  “Liv, there’s always a lot of single guys at weddings.”

  As Liv and Tania continued their discussion, my mind floated back to that morning, when I’d announced to my mother that I would accompany her on the trip. She’d wrapped me in her arms and held me in a tight embrace.

  “We can take notes for your own wedding someday,” she’d whispered in my ear. My father, who was seated across from me at the kitchen table, tilted his head and flashed me a hopeful smile.

  Thinking back on it now, my thoughts lingered on her last word. Someday. A part of me still hoped for that someday. A part of me wondered when that day would come, and another part questioned if it would come at all. But I knew in order for someday to be a possibility, I needed to get out of Los Angeles, away from this vicious cycle I had been trapped in. Perhaps going to India would not just appease my parents, but would also help me gain some perspective. Maybe India—a place that felt so familiar yet distant at the same time—would give me the clarity I desperately craved and the someday I so hopelessly desired.

  Motherland

  Sixteen hours. For the past sixteen hours, I had been wedged in between my mother and a wiry, bearded Caucasian man who was wearing open-toed sandals, a bright orange bandanna, and a tie-dyed T-shirt with the word NAMASTE written across the chest. As soon as I saw him place a yoga mat in the overhead compartment, I knew right then it was going to be a long flight. Luckily for me, Mr. Yogi passed out fairly quickly, after only forty minutes of mind-numbing conversation about his “spiritual journey of self-discovery.” While he dreamed blissfully about his Eat, Pray, Love fantasies on my left, my mother was reclined comfortably on the other side of me, snoring like a chainsaw.

  The plane was dark, and the majority of the passengers were fast asleep. Although I was utterly exhausted—given that I had been awake for almost twenty-four hours—my mind would not turn off. I was going to India.

  I wondered what it would feel like to finally set foot in my parents’ homeland. For the first time in my life—that I could remember—I was going to be in a country where everyone looked like me. Where my long black hair, dark features, and wheat-colored skin were not considered “exotic” but just normal. A place where Bollywood romances were born, and the supply of South Asian men was abundant.

  I shifted in my seat, pressing the small circular button attached to the armrest—the only thing separating me from Mr. Yogi to my left. I closed my eyes as the emotional twang of violins and keyboards sounded through the cheap plastic headphones. The classic film Veer-Zaara was playing on the small screen, and for the next three hours, I was entirely immersed in the melodramatic story of two star-crossed lovers separated by the politics of post-Partition. When the movie reached its final scene, when Veer and Zaara finally see each other again after twenty-two years apart, I could feel the waterworks coming.

  Up ahead, the flight attendant was making her way down the aisle checking in on all the passengers who were still awake. Oh, man, pull yourself together, Leila! I told myself. You’ve seen this movie a hundred times. No one cries at such a cliché ending. But as the on-screen couple walked toward each other in slow motion with scenes from their past fading in and out and the sweet voice of Lata Mangeshkar singing “Tere Liye” in the background—I couldn’t control myself. I started blubbering like a baby.

  “Are you okay, miss?” The flight attendant appeared suddenly with a concerned look.

  “Yes,” I said, quickly switching the channel to a Family Guy episode. “There’s just something in my eye,” I lied, giving her a teary smile.

  I waited until she moved on to the next passenger before turning off the screen. I leaned against the seat, still moved by the love shown in the movie. Veer and Zaara’s relationship was able to endure the most challenging of obstacles—political conflict, false imprisonment, even old age—but their love still managed to find its way. Yet my relationship with Zain had fizzled out over an unanswered text. I sighed.

  I had started out in this process with such certainty that I would find a husband within the allotted time. I had convinced myself that all I had to do was find Mr. Perfect and the rest would be easy. How greatly I had been mistaken. I thought I had found him in Zain. But finding him wasn’t enough; it wasn’t my guaranteed ticket to a happily ever after. If it were, we would be in each other’s arms at this very moment as the lyrics of “Tere Liye” played in the background. Maybe Zain wasn’t as perfect as I thought . . .

  As drowsiness suddenly began to descend upon me, my thoughts drifted back to the movie. Zaara never expected to fall in love with Veer. He was Indian. She was Pakistani. He was the total opposite of everything she thought she wanted. She was already engaged to someone else. But, despite their circumstances, they ended up together. After twenty-two years. They trusted love to take its course. The same way my parents did . . .

  * * *

  I wasn’t sure for how long I had dozed off, but when I opened my eyes next, all the lights in the cabin were turned on and the seat belt logo above my head was lit.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our descent, please make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and all carry-on luggage is stowed in the overhead bins or underneath the seat in front of you.”

  Mr. Yogi was fully awake and chomping down on a snack he pulled out from his fair-trade hemp bag. It appeared to be a seaweed and tuna sandwich. You have got to be kidding me, I thought, scrunching my face.

  As he chattered away about “activating his chakra,” I leaned over my mother—who was still fast asleep—and lifted the white plastic screen from the tiny window to the right, careful not to wake her. As my eyes adjusted to the bright rays of sunlight, I looked out over the dissipating clouds below. I could make out the immense skyline lying beneath a thick layer of gray smog. My heart skipped a beat. So this is Mumbai, my parents’ homeland. The City of Dreams. The epicenter of Bollywood. The setting of the most iconic love stories to ever grace the screen. I looked once more at the nearing landscape below and felt the rapid pounding of my heart as the plane continued to drop in altitude. My mother finally stirred awake.

  “Are we already here?” she asked groggily, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Yeah, twenty-one hours, two layovers, and eight thousand miles across the world, and we’re “already” here. I nodded and leaned back.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure your seat backs and trays are in their full upright position. Cabin crew, please take your seats for landing.” I closed my eyes as we prepared for touchdown.

  “Can you believe we’re finally here!” Mr. Yogi turned toward me excitedly. “Namaste, India!” he shouted just as the wheels hit the ground with a rocking jolt. I gave him a small smile and held my breath, trying not to inhale the foul stench of tuna wafting in my direction. We had arrived in the motherland. I guess there was no turning back now.

  Family Reunion

  Bright lights. Loud voices. Hordes of unfamiliar faces passed by as I timidly pushed my way through the crowded entrance of the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport. Shielding my eyes with the back of my hand, I glanced apprehensively a
cross the sea of people. Then I saw them. All of them. It was hard to miss them as they were all standing together, smiling and waving their arms furiously. My mother’s sister, Jamila aunty; her family; and extended relatives had all shown up at the airport to receive us. Within seconds, I was surrounded by aunties and uncles and cousins—most of whom I had never met before in my life but looked vaguely familiar from the photographs mailed to us over the years. There was lots of pinching and hugging and exclamations of masha’Allah! The younger children were huddled around our luggage, talking excitedly as they tried to guess what presents we had brought from Amreeka. Aside from a small bag of Hershey’s chocolates, I wasn’t sure how thrilled they would be with our offerings: bulk-sized bags of almonds and pistachios and pounds of cheese blocks my mother had insisted we pack.

  As we waited for the rest of our suitcases to make their way around the revolving carousel, I glanced around wondering which of the faces belonged to Meena. Meena, the girl who had beaten me at every turn in life. The daughter my mother had always wanted. The Regina George of my existence.

  “Where’s Meena?” I finally asked Ahmed—who I had deciphered was Meena’s younger brother from the bits of conversation occurring around me. The wiry patch of facial hair growing at the bottom of his chin allowed me to deduce he must’ve been about sixteen years old.

  “She’s at home,” he said, quickly taking the large suitcase from my mother’s hand as she waited for the next round. Sixteen-year-old boys in America were not nearly as well-mannered, and I could tell she was impressed by his chivalry and respect.

  “She is thrilled you and aunty have come all this way for the wedding.” He turned to me and grinned. “She’s really looking forward to meeting you, Leila!” I returned the smile, not quite sure how to respond.

  Once we finally got the last of our bags, I followed my mother and the rest of the clan as we exited the airport. The moment we stepped outside, I instantly felt like all of my senses were being assaulted at once. My parents had always described the crowds and chaos of Mumbai, but it was something else to actually experience it. The cars and motorbikes whizzed past us on the busy streets ahead. Rickshaw drivers shouted across the concrete barriers, urging us to take a ride, salivating greedily at the prospect of ripping off foreigners. I squinted and tried not to make eye contact with the swarms of drivers fighting for our attention. I was modestly dressed in jeans and a track jacket, but I still felt slightly self-conscious. All of the women in the family—young and old—were dressed in dark-colored abayas and long-sleeved salwar kameezes. As a single stream of perspiration dripped down my back, I wondered how they were all not melting in their layered attire. I looked over at my mother, who was wiping her face with the edge of her dupatta, and I was glad I wasn’t the only one experiencing hot flashes.

  The air was sticky, and the smells of smoke, sweat, and exhaust fumes permeated our noses as we made our way toward the side parking lot, where we were introduced to Sahil, the family driver. He was standing in front of a red four-door Maruti Suzuki with a metal basket attached to the roof, smoking a cigarette—which he immediately tossed to the ground when he saw us approaching. As I watched him hoist my and my mother’s belongings into the basket, I could not help but wonder if the weight of our suitcases was equivalent to that of the entire car.

  The other family members motioned toward the rickshaw drivers, and within seconds, there were three drivers lined up in front of us. “Kahan ja rahe ho?” the drivers asked, and the aunties noisily rattled off the directions. Despite their conservative dress, the female relatives were the ones who seemed to take charge, while the male relatives just waited around. Ahmed took the front seat of the Maruti, while Jamila aunty squeezed into the back seat with me and my mother. Feeling the tires sink into the asphalt as I sat down next to the window, I nervously clutched the small messenger bag in my lap and said a quick prayer as we slowly edged our way onto the road, the three brightly colored rickshaws following closely behind us.

  The drive to my mother’s family home was nauseating. The car kept weaving in and out of lanes. Cars were honking, people were shouting. I couldn’t figure out why they even had lanes on the roads when clearly no one bothered to stay in them. I gripped the side handlebar on the door, knuckles white, and glanced over at my mother to see if she was aware of all the traffic rules being violated by the second. But she was fully preoccupied with Jamila aunty as the two of them talked loudly and excitedly over the noise of the busy streets around us. The two sisters were only a few years apart and strikingly similar in terms of facial features, talking styles, and personality. My mother and Jamila aunty had remained close over the years; they had written letters back in the day, which eventually turned into emails, and they spoke regularly on the phone, keeping each other posted on the recent goings-on in their lives—hence the constant Meena updates. Finally together for the first time in over two decades, they were completely unfazed by the commotion around us, focusing solely on each other, making up for lost time.

  As Sahil squeezed past a truck and a motorcycle with an entire family on it—a turbaned man in the front, a sari-clad woman seated behind him holding an infant, and two small children wedged in between—I clenched my eyes shut, praying we would not claim one of the small children as a casualty. My bad driving skills back home were a joke compared to these drivers. I kept my eyes shut and continued reciting a prayer. I came to the conclusion that a drive through Mumbai was all it took to make someone religious.

  Suddenly the Maruti jerked to an abrupt stop. I opened my eyes, silently hoping that we had safely reached our destination without any mangled children, but much to my disappointment, we instead found ourselves in the middle of heavy gridlock. “What is happening, Sahil?” Jamila aunty leaned forward and asked from the back seat.

  “I don’t know, madam. Let me take a look.” Sahil opened the driver’s-side door and stood up on the edge of the seat, peering over the rows of honking cars in front of us. He shaded his eyes with the back of his arm. After a few moments, he sat back in the car, wiping the sweat from his brow, and calmly said, “It is a cow, madam. It has stopped in the middle of the road.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said without reaction.

  “Did he just say a cow?” I asked, looking over at my mother.

  My mother nodded. “Yes, Leila, a cow.” Her tone was so matter-of-fact that I actually felt ridiculous for attempting to push for any more information. A cow had stopped traffic. Of course. This was India. This made perfect sense.

  “So how long will it be?” Jamila aunty asked impatiently.

  “Hopefully not long, madam. We are just waiting for it to cross.”

  As she leaned back in the seat, she and my mother continued chatting away. “Oh, Jamila! How I’ve missed this place! Isn’t this just wonderful, Leila?” my mother asked, turning toward me, her face beaming with pride.

  I smiled as Ahmed glanced back at me.

  “Ahmed, why don’t you go out and guide the cow,” Jamila aunty finally urged.

  “Ammi. Can’t we just wait for the cow to move on its own?” he asked. But his mother simply raised her eyebrow, and Ahmed quickly got out and shut the door behind him. We waited for him. With the car turned off now, little beads of sweat had formed on all of our faces, but I seemed to be the only one bothered by the heat. Well, me and Sahil, who I noticed kept wiping his face with the handkerchief he carried in his back pocket.

  “Ammi.” I nudged my mother, licking the sweat from my top lip. “Ammi, I’m dying.” I nudged her again.

  “Oh, Leila, you are not dying.” My mother laughed, shaking her head. “These Americans have so little tolerance for discomfort,” she said to Jamila aunty. We had been in India for less than an hour and all of a sudden I was the American, the outsider. Since when was a hundred degrees slightly uncomfortable? I slouched back in my seat; the heat, the cows, my mother—the combination of it all was almost unbearable.

  Sahil turned the car on for a moment t
o lower all the windows, and I placed my head against the seat, hoping that Ahmed would find a way to get the cow to the other side of the street soon. From behind shut eyes, I could hear little voices amid all the honking. I looked out the open window and saw three barefoot children running up to each car asking for change, but most of the passengers shooed them away. Their soiled faces and torn clothes gnawed at my curiosity. I had never seen children in such poor condition before—aside from the ones in the Save the Children commercials back home.

  Suddenly, the little girl came running up to my window. I looked over at my mother, but she and Jamila aunty were so immersed in their conversation that they didn’t even take notice. I lifted my head from the seat and quickly opened my messenger bag. I finally pulled out some crumpled dollar bills and two Tootsie Rolls and placed them in the little girl’s palms. She smiled a crooked smile, kissed the top of my hand, and went running toward the other two kids, probably her siblings.

  In that time, Ahmed finally returned and informed us that the cow had safely made it across. I breathed a sigh of relief as the engine roared to life and a gust of hot air blew from the vents above. While traffic continued to pick up pace slowly, I sat in the back seat staring at the top of my hand where the little girl had kissed it.

  Meena

  After we’d been stuck in the car for over an hour, Sahil finally stopped in front of a tall stuccoed building. “We have arrived,” he announced as he put the car into park. I got out, stretching my cramped legs, and looked up. There were floors of windows along the exterior of the building and yards of colorful fabric were flowing from clotheslines hanging along the open-air balconies. Sahil, Ahmed, and the uncles took turns unloading our luggage from the basket above, while the younger cousins chased each other in the courtyard. As the aunties paid the rickshaw drivers, Jamila aunty led my mother and me toward the main entrance of the building.