by Zara Raheem
“Shall we take a look?” I whispered to Meena. She nodded, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Both of us watched with bated breath as I scraped a tiny section beneath Meena’s wrist with my fingernail. The dried, hardened paste flaked off, leaving dark red stains across the skin beneath.
“Ohh, it’s beautiful!” we exclaimed at the same time.
“Waah.” The aunty smiled and tilted her head. “It looks like the new couple will be very happy, insha’Allah.”
“Insha’Allah,” I repeated, grinning widely.
“Okay, one final touch.” The aunty picked up a fresh cone. “What is the groom’s name?”
Meena’s cheeks flushed a deep red. “Haroon,” she said quietly.
“What is that for?” I asked, watching curiously as the aunty drew out each letter of Haroon’s name within the different motifs on Meena’s arm.
“This is a game for the newlyweds.” The aunty smiled as she finished up the final N, which she squeezed in between the mango-shaped design near Meena’s wrist. “The groom searches for each letter of his name in the designs drawn on his new bride on the night of their wedding.” She gently lifted Meena’s chin and looked into her blushing face. “And the bride is not allowed to give any clues as he searches, even if it takes him all night!”
“Oh, how scandalous!” I blurted, and the three of us broke into giggles.
As I watched Meena’s face redden, my mind drifted back to my father’s theory about love after marriage. This was how it all started. These were two strangers who had never kissed, hugged, held hands, or even been alone in the same room together, yet this small game would force them to shed their inhibitions and share their first intimate moments. It was crazy. But as I looked into Meena’s excited face, I couldn’t help but smile. Underneath all the craziness, there was an innocence and sweetness to this first physical interaction that even I couldn’t deny.
An Unexpected Hero
“The groom’s party has arrived!” Jamila aunty shouted over the music. I held my breath as the entire room erupted in cheers.
A small crowd gathered near the doors. While everyone tried to catch a glimpse of the groom, I was hoping to catch sight of someone else. From atop the shoulders of his entourage, Haroon entered ceremoniously through the garlanded entrance smiling and waving nervously as each guest stepped aside to create a path. His grin widened when he locked eyes with Meena waiting for him on the stage. She dropped her eyes to her hands and smiled shyly.
Haroon was wearing a golden brocade sherwani with silver embellishments around the collar, and traditional khussas on his feet. His dupatta was draped across his shoulders with one side looped casually around his neck. Behind him was Hisham, looking dashing in a white cotton kameez with his face freshly shaven and his hair slicked back.
My heart skipped a beat.
As the procession danced their way to the stage, Haroon’s entourage lowered him to the ground so he could make his way up the platform. He walked onto the stage and sat down next to Meena just as the cameras started flashing. Guests slowly began taking turns coming up to the stage to give their blessings to the blushing bride and groom while live performers entertained the crowd with the singing of nasheeds and traditional songs. Excitement buzzed throughout the room.
I stood on my tiptoes trying to catch another glimpse of Hisham. However, I quickly lost sight of him as the sea of new guests swallowed him up. Did he see me? Will he try to say hello? I walked past the buffet tables continuing to scan the room but instead caught sight of myself in the mirror hanging above one of the serving stations. I gasped.
“Crap!” I muttered as I frantically dabbed drops of sweat from my face. My T-zone was glistening from the humidity in the room, and my tight curls had loosened, hanging flatly down my shoulders like limp noodles. I dipped my hair forward and scrunched out the waves in a desperate attempt to revive them. Then I pulled out a tube of lipstick from my small clutch and applied it generously. I was determined to make a better impression than the one I had made this morning. As I blotted my lips on a piece of tissue paper, I suddenly felt someone grab my arm and pull me into the adjacent hallway.
“Leila! Where have you been?”
It was my mother.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I had been intentionally avoiding her all night.
“I have been looking everywhere for you! Come. Jaldi. I have someone I want you to meet.” She hurriedly led me toward the kitchen, where a short, stout, mustachioed man who looked to be in his early thirties awaited us. He was smiling eagerly at me. “Leila, this is Asad.” My mother beamed. “He is a friend of Haroon’s. I just met Asad’s mother, Zainab aunty, and she is lovely!” Asad looked at me approvingly.
“Can I see you in the hallway for a second?” I hissed into my mother’s ear. She gave me a quizzical look, but I walked out quickly and waited until she appeared a minute later.
“Ya Allah, Leila! What is it?” she asked, impatiently. “Asad is waiting for you. He will think you are being rude!”
“Ammi,” I said, trying to steady my frustration. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I just thought I would introduce you to Asad. He is a very nice—”
“Ammi!” I interrupted her. “We are supposed to be celebrating Meena and Haroon! Not looking for a spouse for me!”
“Leila,” my mother said, an expression of calm washing over her face. “Beti, this is what weddings are for!” She smiled at me piteously, as if I had failed to understand something so obvious. “Weddings are the best place to meet a spouse. Did you know that Fatimah aunty, the heavyset one with the brightly colored fingernails, pointed you out to Ruksana aunty, the lady who is wearing high heels with the stylish hijab . . . high heels . . . can you imagine such high heels on a woman her age?” She clucked her tongue judgmentally. “Anyways, Ruksana aunty found Jamila aunty and Jamila aunty is the one who told me that Asad was asking about you. So, Jamila aunty introduced me to Asad’s mother, Zainab aunty, and it was she who personally asked me to conduct an intro between you two!”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to make sense of all her words.
She patted my arm. “Leila, any girl in your position would be lucky to catch the eye of a handsome boy like Asad.” I rolled my eyes. “If we are diligent,” she continued, ignoring my disinterest, “your engagement will be pakka by the end of the week, insha’Allah!” She bobbled her head.
She was crazy if she thought I would agree to an engagement with Mr. Mustache in there. “Ammi, I’m not interes—”
“Just talk to him, beti.” She pushed me toward the kitchen. “At least give him a chance!”
I sighed, hanging my head in defeat. “One conversation and that’s it. I’m serious,” I said firmly. She nodded quickly and led me back in. Asad was anxiously pressing his hands together and pacing back and forth.
“Hi.”
“Oh, hello.” He shoved his hand forward and smiled so widely that his mustache curled up at the corners. I lightly placed my hand into his, and he shook it vigorously. “So, I hear your good name is Leila?”
I scrunched my brows. “What did you hear my bad name was?”
My mother coughed loudly and gave me a look. Asad pulled out a chair at the small table and motioned toward it. “Shall we?”
I sat down as he took a seat across from me, his eyes piercing through me intently from the other side of the table. I cleared my throat and looked away. My mother quickly excused herself and stepped outside, leaving the two of us staring at each other awkwardly.
“So I hear you are Meena’s cousin?”
I nodded.
“I suppose good looks run in the family.” He winked. I pressed my lips together and forced a small smile.
“And how do you know the groom?” I asked.
“Oh, Haroon and I go way back to our college days.”
“So you must know his brother as well?”
“Hisham? Oh, yes.” He nodded. “
The three of us were excellent friends.” I suddenly perked up. Finally, a conversation I was interested in.
“What was Hisham like in college? Did he play any sports?”
“I . . . I’m not sure. But I used to play some squash back in the day. I have very strong arms, you see.” He pulled up his sleeve and flexed his forearm.
“Was he a good student?” I ignored him, trying not to focus on the veins popping out from his elbows. “Do you know what he studied?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure. But I was a top student in computer science.” He gave me a self-satisfied grin.
“Cool. So, um, would you say Hisham was popular? Did he have a lot of friends?”
“I suppose?”
I sighed. Is he going to give me any information at all? I leaned back in my chair, feeling impatient.
“Haroon, Hisham, and I used to do a lot of masti back in the day,” he continued. “We were like the three . . .” He snapped his fingers, trying to recall the end of his sentence.
“Stooges?”
“Musketeers!” He pointed his finger at me and laughed. “Sense of humor; I like it!”
I grimaced.
“So, your cousin and my college friend . . . quite the coincidence, no?”
“I guess . . .”
“Rishtas can form from anywhere, Leila. I just want you to know that when it comes to marriage, I am very open-minded.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, glancing at my watch, trying to figure out how we could speed this thing along. If he wasn’t going to give me any details about Hisham, I was ready to get back to the party.
“You will come to find that I am looking for a very equal relationship.”
Come to find? This is a one-conversation deal. The only thing I need to find is a way out of here.
“I will allow my wife to work; I do not expect her to be a housewife. Unless, of course, that is what she wants.”
“Really? You’ll allow her that?”
“Yes. I will also permit her to dress how she likes. I am not too conservative, you see.”
Giving a grown woman permission to dress herself. How liberal! I thought.
“She will also be granted leave to visit with her friends and family as she likes. I think it is important for her to have a social life.” He pulled the tip of his mustache and twirled it upward.
“How generous of you to grant her these things.”
“I am not like most Indian men, Leila,” he went on, not catching my tone. “In fact, I am very Westernized. I like English movies and songs. I don’t even eat very spicy foods.”
“That’s a shame, because I love spicy foods.”
“Oh, me too,” he quickly changed his tune. “I am willing to adjust my tastes to whatever my wife likes.”
How agreeable.
As Asad carried on about how atypical he was, I was reminded of all the qualities that turned me off about conservatively traditional men. Men like Asad were oblivious to their sexist, controlling, and chauvinistic tendencies. They touted their open-mindedness with contradictory statements of “permissions” and “allowances.” Needless to say, I was not impressed.
As much as I wanted to leave, my mother kept popping in every five minutes pretending to “look for something” and walking out with a pleased smile. I couldn’t believe this was how my night was going to end. I propped my elbow on the table, leaned my head against the inside of my hand, and wondered what Hisham was doing at this very moment. Was he busy with the festivities? Was he looking for me too? What if he was talking to someone else? I needed to get back out there.
“Listen,” I finally interrupted, just as Asad began describing his favorite scene from the movie Titanic in excruciating detail. “As much as I’ve enjoyed—”
The door suddenly swung open, and I swallowed the rest of my sentence, expecting it to be my mother again. However, when I glanced up, it was Hisham.
“Hey,” he said, stopping in his tracks, looking at the two of us. “Do you two . . . know each other?”
Asad smiled and twirled his mustache. “Hey, dood,” he said in such a heavy accent that my body automatically recoiled. “We are getting to know each other.” He gave Hisham an obnoxious wink.
Hisham stared at us for a few silent moments as I stared at the floor. This was hardly the second impression I was hoping for. Hisham poured himself a cup of chai from the carafe and walked back toward the door. As he held the cup in his left hand, he lifted his free hand to his eye, giving us a quick salute. He then pushed his shoulder against the door and disappeared just as Asad launched into another “fascinating” tidbit about himself.
I exhaled slowly and slouched into my chair, staring at the clock. What was I supposed to do now? Should I go after him? Try to talk to him? Even kismet couldn’t help me recover from this. So much for fate.
Suddenly Hisham poked his head back in. “Oh, by the way, Leila, your mother is looking for you.”
This night officially blew. My mother had just been in the kitchen no less than five minutes ago. Whatever she wanted now could not be good. “Okay.” I quickly excused myself while my head reeled with frustration. I’ve already wasted thirty minutes of my time talking to Asad. And now the one guy I want to talk to is under the impression that Mr. Mustache and I are an item. And to top it all off, my mother is looking for me. As I dragged my feet into the hallway, preparing myself for the worst, Hisham quickly jerked my arm and pulled me into the dining room.
“Is my mother in here?” I asked, looking around, panicked.
“No. I just . . .” Hisham’s eyes flickered playfully. “I just had a feeling you were in need of some help.” I knitted my brows, my brain still working to catch up with what he was saying.
“Wait, so my mother’s not looking for me?” I asked, a little disoriented, as I was still expecting her to jump out from one of the corners.
“You’re welcome?” He smiled. It finally dawned on me that he had just saved me. I leaned against the wall, letting out a deep sigh, and grinned.
“My hero.”
He laughed.
“No, really, between this and what happened this morning, you deserve some sort of badge.”
“If it helps, what happened this morning was not a first for me.” He shrugged.
“By the way, that, in there.” I pointed toward the kitchen. “My mom totally cornered me into that conversation. It’s actually pretty embarrassing—”
“No need to explain,” he cut me off. “We’re at an Indian wedding. It’s expected.”
“So I hear.”
“Besides, I’m sure Asad isn’t the only one chasing after you tonight.”
I blushed.
“I mean . . . um . . .” he stammered nervously. “What I mean is there are a lot of rishta aunties circling around. You should beware.”
I laughed, feeling the heat rise in my face. “Rishta aunties are pretty bad, but they’re not the only aunties to avoid at these types of functions.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, there are also the career-focused aunties. The ones who ask you a million questions about your studies and profession. ‘What do you mean you studied English? Aren’t you from America?’” I mimicked.
Hisham laughed.
“And the judgmental aunties. The ones who have an opinion about everything, from the food, to the decor, to the appropriateness of your outfit! And don’t forget the lay-it-on-thick aunties. The ones constantly bragging about their kids. ‘My daughter just won the Nobel Prize AND got engaged in the same week!’”
“Those are the worst!” Hisham shook his head. “What about the pushers? The ones who aggressively force you to eat even after you tell them you’re full?”
“Those aunties I don’t mind so much,” I teased.
Hisham grinned. “You’re right. There are far more evil aunties to worry about.”
“So anyways, what do we do about—” I rolled up the corners of my imaginary mustache.
“Oh, Asad? He’ll be
fine. He’s probably YouTubing scenes from Titanic on his phone right now.”
I covered my mouth, giggling.
“Now that you’re free, though—” He grabbed my hand. “Come, you have to see this,” he said, leading me toward the living room. We pushed our way through the crowd until we secured a spot near the front of the stage. We watched, along with the other guests, as Haroon’s mother dipped her hands into a clay pot and rubbed yellow haldi all over Meena’s face and neck. Next, Jamila aunty dipped her hand into the pot and rubbed the yellow paste over Haroon’s face, neck, hands, and feet.
Although I had witnessed this part of the haldi ceremony at previous weddings, this was the first time I felt inclined to know more about the deeper significance behind the tradition. “What is the purpose of using turmeric?” I asked Hisham.
“It’s meant to ward off the evil eye and leave the bride and groom glowing on their wedding day,” Hisham whispered into my ear. I smiled as Meena and Haroon glanced shyly at one another and carefully placed a garland around each other’s neck.
“And the garlands?”
“It’s a symbol of their intention to marry one another.”
We watched as Ahmed, Meena’s brother, joined his mother onstage, followed by all the other cousins and siblings in the family. Members from Haroon’s family also went up. Meena and Haroon took turns applying the yellow paste on each of their relatives, one by one—with Jamila aunty occasionally checking Meena’s mehendi beneath the clear plastic glove she wore as protection.
I spotted my mother standing on the other side of the room, looking directly at me. She kept motioning her head to the stage, trying to communicate with me. From where I was standing, it looked like she was either telling me to go onstage . . . or she had developed a strange crick in her neck. I pretended not to see her.
“What’s happening now?” I asked as a crowd began forming around the couple.
“Oh, it’s just a silly custom,” Hisham said. “Supposedly, whoever gets touched by the sacred paste will soon find a good, attractive partner. At least that’s what the tradition says.”
