by Zara Raheem
“This place looks so different from how I remember,” my mother said, touching the newly painted exterior as we stepped inside. This was the home my mother had grown up in—where she and Jamila aunty held carom competitions and flew brightly colored handmade kites from the terrace. It was the home where my father first saw my mother; the place he picked her up from before they departed for America. It had been more than twenty-five years since my mother had last seen her childhood home, and she looked around curiously, taking in all the details. Jamila aunty explained how the building had been renovated a few years back, but the one thing they left untouched was the rickety old elevator.
“Ah, yes, this I remember.” My mother laughed as she pulled back the crisscrossed door of rusted iron and stepped inside.
“Remember that time me, you, and Vishali from the third floor got stuck in here?” she said to Jamila aunty, laughing. There was a giant gap between the elevator and the lobby floor where I was standing, and staring into it reminded me of a deep black abyss. Seeing all the levers and ropes exposed above the wooden box made me very nervous.
“We refused to ride this thing for months afterwards!” Jamila aunty replied, shaking her head and stepping inside. “Come, Leila.” She motioned me in. “There’s just enough room for you without risking another jam, insha’Allah.” She and my mother laughed.
I warily stepped over the gap and stood next to my mother, holding my breath as the entire box swayed gently. My mother pulled the door closed and pressed the wooden button, smiling nostalgically. I pushed the hair back from my sweaty forehead and swatted away mosquitoes. With no air-conditioning and barely enough room for the three of us to stand vertically, I tried not to think about the probability of an elevator jam.
We made our way to the top floor and walked down the narrow corridor to a flat at the end of the hall. I could hear lots of shuffling and movement on the other side, and as soon as we buzzed the bell, the door swung open to another frenzy of hugs and introductions. I tried my best to hang in the back. I wasn’t sure how much more pinching and squeezing my face could handle.
For the next ten minutes, we were introduced to potas and potis, bhaiyas and bhabhis, chachas and chachis. Even the padosis from every floor in the building had come by to greet us. I stood there amid a sea of people, smiling as politely as I could, trying to respond to their questions in broken Urdu.
“Arey, we all speak English here!” one of the chachas teased as I stumbled over my words, and the whole room broke into laughter. I flushed a deep red.
“Oh, and this here is Meena,” Jamila aunty interrupted, pulling forward the arm of a thin, fresh-faced girl and bringing her forward.
“As’salaamu Alaikum, aunty,” Meena said shyly, looking at my mother. She had fair skin, long black hair that was loosely braided to the side, and slight dimples that deepened as she smiled. She was wearing a bright pink salwar kameez and her dupatta was wrapped lightly around her head. I crammed my hands into the pockets of my track jacket. Of course she’s prettier than her photographs, I thought miserably. I shrank back toward the door.
“Walaikum As’salaam.” My mother pulled her close and kissed her on both cheeks. “And Mubarak, beti!” Meena blushed and smiled. “We are so happy we could be here to attend your shaadi!”
“I’m so glad you came all this way, aunty,” Meena said, her voice soft and gentle. She looked around quietly. “And where is Leila?”
My mother glanced back and spotted me a few feet behind her, still swatting at the mosquitoes. She took my hand and pulled me to the front. “Here she is.”
“Hi,” I said, lifting my hand in a small, awkward wave. I had my hair matted in a messy bun, beads of perspiration across my forehead, and a tangled messenger bag wrapped around my waist—for every ounce of grace that was Meena, I was an ounce of hot mess. If I had known we would be meeting half of Mumbai upon our arrival, I would’ve dressed up more.
“Hi!” Meena replied, a hint of excitement rising in her voice.
“Meena, beti, let’s get Leila and her mother something to eat,” Jamila aunty suggested. “They’ve had a very long flight, and they must be very hungry!”
Within seconds, Meena and a gaggle of aunties began buzzing around as they cleared the dining table and disappeared into the kitchen to prepare dinner for all the guests. My mother made herself busy by helping out wherever she could, and the sound of chatter filled every corner of the flat. All the men in the family sat in the drawing room cheering loudly at a cricket game while the women could be heard laughing and talking in the kitchen. I wasn’t used to such distinctly separated spaces for men and women. Being deficient both domestically and socially in a room full of strangers made me uncomfortable to enter either space, so I lingered around awkwardly trying not to get in the way.
I found a secluded seat on the window ledge between the living and dining rooms—away from all the noise—and tried to make myself invisible. Every now and then, an aunty would appear from the kitchen and offer me spicy pakoras, warm, flaky samosas, or steaming masala chai. I accepted all of it, eating quietly as I observed the commotion around me from a distance. Each time Meena would come out with a tray of something to place on the dining table, she would glance over at me and smile. I looked away, busying myself with my plates of food so I wouldn’t have to converse with her, but I could still feel her watching me. What is her problem? I wondered, wiping my hands on my jeans. Hasn’t she ever seen an American girl eat before?
Once all the food was set out, the uncles filled their plates before heading back into the living room while the aunties gathered around the dining table. The conversations darted back and forth between the food and stories from years ago, before my mother married. Since my mother was the only one in her family to move abroad, there was a lot of curiosity surrounding her life in Amreeka and all the things they had heard over the years.
I heard you can find Shan masala at the local grocery stores, is this true, Nida? Is it true that women also attend the masjid for Jummah namaz? Do they really teach sex education to children in elementary school?
My mother lived for this sort of attention, and she had no problem exaggerating mundane experiences—like discovering halal lamb at Costco or streaming her favorite Hindi serials on Netflix—for their entertainment.
“So when are you planning on getting Leila married?” one of the aunties asked after my mother finished a story about the “staggering rate of teenage pregnancy.” It was only a matter of time before the discussion shifted toward my unmarried status. And unfortunately for me, everyone had an opinion.
“Nida,” Fawiza aunty said, turning toward my mother, “Leila is much too old to not be settled already. You know, marriage is half her deen!”
And here we go again.
“That is what I keep telling her, but she won’t listen.” My mother shook her head, scowling in my direction.
“Leila, it is time for you to get married,” Jamila aunty called out to me matter-of-factly. “I know many young boys who would be a good match if you are interested.” I sipped my chai silently. My marriage clock was ticking on Indian time now, and Indian time was even more aggressive than I was used to.
“You know Masoud’s boy?” Shazia aunty said to my mother. “He just returned from completing his studies in London.”
“What about putting an ad in the Indian Express? You know, something simple like ‘Seeking an alliance for educated, fair, U.S.-born daughter.’” Jamila aunty looked at me and smiled. “Don’t mention her age and just watch. Leila will be the hot commodity!” She snapped her fingers. I looked away, trying to mask my humiliation.
“Yes, the Haider family down the hall found their daughter a very nice boy in the matrimonial section, even though she was nearly twenty-five,” Asima aunty said in hushed tones.
Suddenly Rashid uncle entered the dining room, clearing his throat loudly. All the women went quiet. He looked around sternly at each of the faces around the table, and then slowly t
urned to me. I gulped.
“What about Bilal? You know the Abdallas’ boy? He’s a CPA accountant,” he finally said, bobbling his head.
“Very good suggestion!” Jamila aunty chimed in. “He would be an excellent match for Leila.”
Was this seriously what my life had come to?
“He’s a very nice boy, but his hair is slightly thinning,” Rashid uncle said, reaching across the table for more pakoras.
That’s his pitch? Thank goodness Rashid uncle is a physician and not a salesman.
As the conversations about my marriage continued, I stared out the window, feeling helpless. Meena, watching carefully from the table, slowly got up and took a seat on the ledge next to me. Below, people rode past on bicycles. A group of boys were playing with an old soccer ball in the front courtyard. A pani puri vendor had set up a cart across the street and was doling out plates of the tasty snack to customers walking by. Meena looked at me and smiled. “So how do you like it here?” she finally asked.
As I heard my mother break into a monologue of all the prospects she had found for me and how I had refused each one, I rolled my eyes. “The only thing anyone cares about is whether I ate and when I’m getting married. So I guess it’s not much different from home,” I replied. Meena smiled and turned back toward the window.
“So, what is America like?”
“It’s okay, I guess.”
“Is it really as clean as it looks in the movies?”
“I suppose it’s cleaner than here.”
“California must be so glamorous,” she said wistfully. “Have you visited Hollywood?”
“Yeah, it’s like a twenty-minute drive from my house.”
I refrained from telling her that Hollywood was full of homeless people and crackheads. I also left out the details of how unglamorous my life back home was. She was getting married. Perfect, pretty Meena. The only thing I had was her unrealistic fantasy of America.
“Would you like something more to eat, Leila?” Jamila aunty suddenly called out. I shook my head, looking at all the empty small plates stacked on the ledge next to me. If I don’t start pacing myself, I’ll be grossly obese by the end of the week, I thought, glancing down at my belly. And I knew that my mother would be the first to remind me that overweight and single did not make a good combination.
“I’m actually feeling a bit tired. Would it be all right if I lie down for a bit?”
“Of course, beti. Meena will take you. You two will be sharing a room.”
Great.
I followed Meena down the hallway to the other side of the flat, the chatter from the front rooms becoming fainter. At the end of the hall, she flipped on the switch, and as the fluorescent lights flickered, a small bedroom came into view. The walls were painted in faux Venetian plaster, and there was a large bed in the center of the room with a luxurious gauze canopy and hand-embroidered throw pillows. Two mahogany armoires stood elegantly at the top corners of the bed. The room looked straight out of a Pier 1 catalog—but authentic. It was vastly different from the traditionally bland decor in the other rooms.
“Whoa,” I muttered, unable to hide my awe. “Your room is beautiful,” I said, touching the tiny wooden ornaments lined across the shelves.
“Thank you,” Meena replied, taking a seat on the bed.
I gazed up at the elaborately painted ceiling. “I’m surprised you went into engineering instead of design. You clearly missed your calling,” I said, enviously wondering if there was anything she couldn’t do.
“My parents preferred engineering,” she said quietly.
I continued looking around the room, stepping past a row of large shopping bags to take a glimpse at the single photograph on the nightstand. It was a framed picture of Meena and a handsome man sitting next to each other on a couch. She was wearing a pale pink lehenga choli, and he was wearing a white kurta suit. They were smiling into the camera as he placed a ring on her finger.
“So this must be the lucky guy.” I pointed to the photo.
She nodded, blushing, as she leaned against the headboard.
In the few hours I had known her, Meena had only asked questions about me. She had yet to say anything about her wedding. Not that it mattered, but it was so unlike American brides. When my friend Harper got engaged her senior year of college, she talked about her upcoming nuptials ad nauseam. And although that was almost five years ago, she continued to post wedding photos online even to this day. While I still didn’t really care much for Meena or her wedding, a part of me was eager to know more about the handsome man in the photograph. Where did they meet? What was he like? Was he as perfect as she was?
“How did you and your fiancé meet?” I finally asked, plopping down on the bed.
“Our fathers work at the same office.”
“Have you known each other for a while?” I pried curiously.
“We only met three times.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“His father showed him a photograph of me and that’s how it began.” She smiled.
This was oddly reminiscent of my father’s story about his choosing my mother. What is it with Indian people and picking a spouse from a single photograph? Aren’t they aware of Instagram filters and Photoshop and catfishers? Meena must have also been a subscriber to the whole “love after marriage” theory.
“How did you know he was the one after only three meetings?”
“This is a very common saying in America, no? The one.” She held out both hands as she emphasized each word dramatically. She turned to me, her dimples deepening. “Haroon is a nice boy. Both our families approve. That makes him the one.”
It seemed like too simple a criterion to explain such a huge decision. I still couldn’t wrap my mind around it.
“You know, Leila, marriage is different for us Indian girls,” Meena explained. “I’ve never lived away from home or traveled abroad. We don’t have the same privileges as you do in America.”
Privileges? What privileges did I have that she didn’t? In fact, she was much more accomplished in every aspect of her life than I ever could be.
“I always admired you, Leila.”
“Me?” I scrunched my face.
“You are so independent. And confident. I loved hearing all the stories of your life.” She laughed. “I still remember when my mother told me you quit playing tennis. I was on my way to a badminton match, and I remember sitting there thinking you were so brave.”
Brave? That wasn’t exactly the word I remembered being used when I broke the news to my parents. Uncommitted, hasty, and unfocused all popped up, but never brave.
“I wanted to quit badminton for years, but every time I would muster the courage to tell my parents, I would get scared. I always wished I could be more like you.”
Pretty, perfect Meena wanted to be more like me? I couldn’t believe it.
“I’m so happy you’re here, Leila. I always knew we would be friends.”
I gave her a small smile. I wondered if she would feel the same way if she knew of all the unsavory things I had thought about her over the past two decades.
“Haroon is actually a very nice boy. He might not be the boy of my choosing, but I am excited to marry him.” She looked at me with her large brown eyes. “In just a few days, I will be moving out of my father’s house!” Her voice rose with excitement. “I will finally live my own life, not just a life that is pleasing to my parents.”
I nodded, suddenly feeling extremely guilty. I had spent so much time disliking Meena because of how perfect her life seemed, but I understood now that it was her parents’ life, not her own. I thought about my four years away at college; my spring break getaways and spontaneous road trips with my girlfriends. I thought about my job, how I was able to choose a career of my liking even though my parents would have preferred that I finish law school. I thought about how marriage was a choice for me—something I desired, but in no way my only option. I had never considered any of these things to be pr
ivileges; I just took them for granted. But I suddenly realized that not everyone was so fortunate to be given these same choices.
“You know, Hollywood is not really that glamorous,” I said, turning toward her.
“What?”
“Hollywood. It’s pretty grimy, in fact. Not at all like what you see in the movies.” Meena gave me a look of surprise. “And even on the rare occasion that you run into a celebrity, it’s not always what you imagine. One time, I was at the Grove, and I saw Mario Lopez doing a live interview—”
“Mario Lopez?”
“You know, A. C. Slater? Saved by the Bell?”
Meena stared at me blankly.
“He’s just this guy who used to be famous in the nineties but is not so relevant anymore. Anyways, he’s known for being this super handsome actor who never ages, but in real life, he was wearing about two tons of makeup on his face, so of course he looked young!”
“Makeup? Even the men?” Meena covered her mouth and giggled. I broke into a grin.
“And let me tell you about this one time I had this run-in with this homeless woman, but it turned out to be Jared Leto . . .”
* * *
That night as I lay in bed next to Meena, I thought about everything she had shared with me. For her, marriage was a ticket to freedom. A chance at independence—something that was not accessible to her as a single woman. What was the purpose of marriage for me? My father married because it offered him a companion, someone who would care for him in a foreign land where he had no one else. My mother married because it gave her the opportunity to live abroad, a destiny not given to anyone else in her family. What will a husband offer to me? Besides simply appeasing my parents or living out a Bollywood fantasy, how will marriage enhance my life in a way that being single can’t? I had independence, opportunities, companionship, people who cared for me. Yet I had focused all my energy these last few months on finding a spouse. As I lay there enclosed beneath a cocoon of mosquito netting, I found myself questioning what my ultimate purpose was. Was it marriage itself? Or was there something greater?
