Mehendi Tides

by Siobhan Malany

  “Twins are born small anyways,” Nasreen explained. “The twins were born in the orphanage a little underdeveloped. But…”

  “Oh, he is beautiful with his round eyes,” Shabana interrupted, poking Mani’s belly. “You will grow to be big and healthy, won’t you? Yes, you will.”

  Mani showed his soft gums in a broad, gleeful smile.

  Sabreena drooled and watched the women with wide, curious eyes.

  “I love little Sabreena’s heart-shaped lips,” chimed Mona as she brushed away the drool sliding down the baby’s chin.

  Kate placed the gift bag she had brought full of diapers—a practical gift—against the wall.

  “I need a glass of water,” Kate said as she walked toward the kitchen.

  Krishna was at the stove making sauce for the samosas. She looked up as Kate entered the kitchen.

  “Krishna! I have been meaning to call you,” Kate said.

  “You have?” Krishna dropped the spoon in the sauce. “I thought a lot about what you said when you came over that day I was printing in the basement bathroom. You know, about telling my mother’s story as an immigrant to America.”

  “Really?”

  “Her story is unique. So I thought maybe through my photography, I could trace my mother’s path to America. Tell her story.”

  Nasreen rushed into the kitchen, waving her hands. “The samosas are in the oven! I forgot!” She flung open the oven door.

  “Anyway,” Krishna said, ignoring the samosa emergency, “I enrolled in Columbia College’s photojournalism program!”

  “You did?” Kate was flabbergasted.

  Nasreen dropped the tray of hot samosas on the stovetop.

  “Awesome!” Nasreen exclaimed, hearing the news for the first time as well.

  “Yes, really. I did.” Krishna smiled. “I’ll try it for a semester or two. I am going to look for an apartment near campus and stay with my dad on weekends. I hired a housekeeper to help him out.”

  With a nervous laugh, Krishna pushed her glasses up higher on her nose.

  “Well, I am switching out of my advisor’s lab,” Kate announced.

  “What?” Krishna looked concerned.

  “I didn’t quit the program. I am just changing groups.”

  “Oh, good.” Krishna patted her chest. “I’m glad you didn’t quit.”

  “I talked to the chair of the department. Told him what I wanted.”

  “Good for you!” Nasreen said, impressed, arranging the samosas on a platter.

  “Guess we are both starting new paths,” Krishna said, grinning.

  Mustafa bounded down the stairs and appeared in the kitchen, a briefcase in hand. He greeted and kissed both girls on the cheek. Shadows hung under his eyes and dark stubble spotted his jawline.

  “Our Nasreen is back!” Mustafa said. “Your friends worried about you,” he told Nasreen.

  “It is good to be home,” Nasreen responded unemotionally.

  “I’m sorry I bugged you so much,” Kate apologized to Mustafa.

  “No need to apologize. I missed her too.” He looked at his wife longingly.

  “The babies are beautiful,” Krishna added. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. They both have perfect lungs too,” Mustafa complained. “Especially Sabreena. She cried most of the night. Poor Nasreen, I don’t think she got much sleep. I wasn’t much help, I’m afraid.”

  “I guess it’s just a matter of getting into a routine,” Kate said.

  “Well, I’ve got to meet some clients.”

  “You’re leaving?” Nasreen said, disappointed, as she held the plate of samosas.

  “I’ll be quick,” he responded tensely. “I’ll let you girls mingle.”

  He grabbed his overcoat from the hall closet and left through the door to the garage.

  “I guess it’s hard for him to work from home,” Nasreen remarked, annoyed. “He seems so eager to leave.”

  “It will take time to bond,” Kate said.

  “I think he feels a bit misplaced. I have been inseparable from the twins since they were a few weeks old. Mustafa has to spend time with them. Get to know his son and daughter.”

  Nasreen shifted the tray in her hands.

  “I have to put this hot plate down. The heat is seeping right through the oven mitt and burning my hand!” she said as she hurried into the other room to join the others.

  The samosas were savory with spiced lamb laced with fresh ginger. They smelled to Kate like the street stalls in India where the grease popped and crackled as she walked past the sweating cooks frying samosas on the open grills, the burnt smell, smoke rising in their faces.

  “You made these?” Kate asked, her mouth full of the piping hot pastry.

  “Of course not,” Nasreen responded cheekily. “A woman at the mosque made them for me. I just heated them.”

  Mani started to cry, overstimulated by the constant caressing and smiling faces. The women tried to soothe him, but he clamped his eyes shut and waved his tight tiny fists in a growing rage. Shabana picked him up and bounced him in her arms. He squirmed and howled even louder. Sabreena followed her twin’s cue and squealed.

  “I think they are hungry,” Shabana announced above his cries.

  “Oh my, yes!” Nasreen glanced at her watch. “It’s past feeding time!”

  She hurried to make two bottles of formula. Her breasts didn’t swell with milk at the sound of her adopted babies’ cry. She missed the cue. She shook the bottles furiously to dissolve the powder. Shabana held Mani and took one of the bottles. The baby’s mouth found the nipple, and he sucked ravenously. Mona passed Sabreena into her mother’s outstretched arms.

  Except for the babies’ gurgling and swallowing, the room fell silent. All eyes watched Nasreen, now seated in the high-back yellow chair by the stone-mantel fireplace, feeding her daughter, the baby’s eyes locking with hers. She may have dreamt of several of her own children, but now the two little miracles from an orphanage in Islamabad was enough. Soon, Sabreena’s eyes fluttered like the wings of a butterfly and she fell asleep.

  “I’m going to put her in her crib,” Nasreen whispered. “Help me off this chair. Mani will be awake for hours still.”

  Mona placed a hand on Nasreen’s back and pushed her up and out of the chair.

  “We’ll come with you,” Kate whispered and she and Krishna followed Nasreen up the stairs.

  Kate felt the tension as she climbed the same set of stairs she had descended nearly seven months earlier to eavesdrop on Mustafa and Nasreen in the foyer.

  “I haven’t had time to put anything away,” Nasreen whispered over her shoulder.

  Kate realized this was true when they entered the babies’ room. Clothes and toys lay scattered on the floor of the nursery. Pictures of bears, puppies, and bunnies adorned the outfits, all intended to make the babies’ bellies irresistible to squeeze and poke. Some had matching bibs, miniature socks, and plush shoes. Others were paired with little mittens and hats and knitted sweaters with sayings like “superstar” and “daddy’s girl.”

  Nasreen set Sabreena lightly in the white-painted crib that looked gently used with cracked paint along the hinges. She brushed her cheek before raising the side of the crib and locking it into place.

  “Shabana gave me the crib,” she said. “When the twins get bigger, I will have to buy another one. My mom had an extra dresser. I’m going to paint it white to match the crib, eventually,” she added. “And Mustafa bought the changing table.”

  Kate and Krishna nodded, acknowledging and glancing around the room. The windows were curtainless, and the walls were beige except for a section with brush strokes in various shades of sample paint color of lavender to light indigo.

  “I didn’t know if this would work out. You know, adopting a baby,” Nasreen said shrugging, keeping an eye on her sleeping daughter. “So I avoided buying things or getting a nursery together and painting the walls. I just couldn’t,” she sighed heavily. “Then suddenly I was
on a plane to Pakistan, and there was no time. And now there are two! Maybe I am crazy. How will I handle two?”

  “You are not crazy,” Krishna said. “I think it is amazing what you are doing.”

  “Enjoy your time,” Kate added. “You don’t have to go to work now so just enjoy.”

  “I will be busy,” Nasreen added. “I need to get some curtains too. The sun makes the room too bright in the afternoons.”

  “I’m sure it will look beautiful.”

  Nasreen nodded and put a finger to her lips as the baby rustled in her crib, letting out a short whine.

  “We are glad you are home,” Krishna said.

  “And you have beautiful twins that owe you their little lives,” Kate whispered. “It’s a new start for all of you.”

  Chapter 18

  Parade of Trays

  Karachi 1987

  The red-painted wooden trays were arranged in two long rows on the floor. Each crepe paper-lined tray contained a complete fashion ensemble from dupatta to toe rings. Nasreen’s aunts stepped carefully between the rows, adding the final accents: small perfumed sachets bound with mint-green ribbon.

  Aunty Samina, Hari, Max, Yasmine, and Azra had finally arrived in Karachi and so had Aunty Zehba and the brothers Rahim, Anees, and Tariq. All the family had arrived for the nightly celebrations that would last over a span of two weeks marking the union of Rahim and Haseena. Mumanijan flowed through the rooms, dressed in shimmer and glitter, full of joy at the sounds of voices, laughter, and music that filled the two-story home. Haseena, the bride, was now in seclusion awaiting the main wedding ceremony, the nikah, to take place in five days.

  Tonight, Rahim would not be present as they paraded to the bride’s home with the trays of gifts. Kate sat at the edge of the room, tying the last of the sachets that the aunties had filled with dried rose petals, leaves, and fennel seeds. The three-year-old daughter of Nasreen’s youngest uncle played with the netted pouches and scrap ribbon. She pleaded for her mother to place the ribbon in her hair. Nasreen’s aunt paused from the preparations to tie a bow at the end of the child’s braid and then focused intently on last-minute stitches to the zari of Haseena’s wedding dupatta, draped across her legs, shining in waves of red and gold crystal stones.

  When the final sachets were tied, Kate scooped up the sweet-smelling potpourri pouches and placed one in each tray, admiring the fashions fit for a woman of high society.

  The first tray displayed an illustrious blue and silver salwar kameez neatly folded. Kate imagined the bride slipping into the garment and sliding her dainty arms through the sparkling bracelets placed by the sleeve of the tunic just above the matching blue satin purse decorated entirely with silver rhinestones. She imagined her pulling the kameez trousers over her slim hips and placing her petite feet into the half-heeled silver pumps.

  Aunty Zehba must have been watching her, as she called out to Kate to put the sachets in the center of the tray near the bodice of the dresses, not at the far corners. Kate abided. Stepping to the next tray, she placed another packet near the bosom of a deep fuchsia sari with golden threads throughout, elegant for an evening out. The sheer dupatta lay across the silk material as if it had been blown by a breeze and come to rest. Peeking from under the lower edge of the sari was the petticoat in a lighter shade of pink. Kate ran her finger along the golden embroidery trim at the neckline and there pinned at the shoulder of the choli was a sachet filled with accented jewelry.

  Kate’s favorite tray held a bright yellow salwar kameez, an airy outfit for a casual day complete with coordinated sequined strap sandals, designer sunglasses, and a shiny striped tote. The delightful ensemble spoke of a woman, fun and sophisticated. Kate touched the bold earring and necklace set resting atop the creamy yellow dupatta and let the thin metal ornaments dangle through her fingers.

  The outfits collectively danced in the light of the room. Where would Haseena wear such fashions? It was, by all accounts, an elaborate array of attire for a seventeen-year-old. Would Haseena stroll along a shop-lined street, the trendy tote slung across one shoulder, the yellow tunic flowing above her manicured toes showcased by the pretty sandals; or would she find herself instead harbored inside Rahim’s small apartment by the University of Chicago, too fearful to venture outside alone in a country so foriegn? Kate thought, just as she had traded her jeans and tennis shoes for a cotton salwar and sandals only a few days after arriving in India, Haseena would shed the coordinated dress and purse for a pair of jeans and a backpack. The gleaming gowns would hang in the dark at the back of the closet.

  Kate’s mind drifted to several nights earlier when she and Nasreen were guests at Haseena’s mayoon ceremony which marked Haseena’s transition to a bride in waiting, relinquished of all chores and daughterly duties. The girls observed from a distance as Haseena and her family sat on a decorated platform alight with gold embroidered red and purple cushions while a procession of family and friends looped strands of yellow marigolds and red roses around their necks. Sweet jasmine hung in Haseena’s hair, and oil soaked into the roots of her henna-highlighted strands. Her skin glowed yellowish with the paste of turmeric and sandalwood, oozing out bad jinn.

  The group moved in a circle to the drumbeat, clapping and chanting as the elders patted the yellow ubton cream into Haseena’s cheeks and forehead. It was the night that Nasreen met Faiz, Haseena’s cousin. He stared at her from across the room with his deep-set rebellious eyes. His hair was parted and long and he had a thin mustache. As he watched Nasreen, the drums resounded rapidly; in rhythm, the girls danced, slithering their shoulders and arms like cobras moving to a whistling pipe. Faster they moved, slapping their feet to the ground, lifting the spirit jinn to diffuse away.

  The drums softened. The women pulled their dupattas over their hair and sang to the prophet. As the verse echoed through the room, the uncles spritzed the crowd with rose water. Kate was unsure of whether to cover her hair or not. She let her dupatta slide to the base of her head, her copper strands visible, then lowered her gaze to the mehendi-tattooed feet of the wedding party and pretended to pray.

  In the days to follow, Haseena’s body would be decorated with mehendi, then layered with wedding fabrics and jewelry from her ankles to the tikka that hung from her forehead. She would exist between a daughter and a wife, the nascent bride, moving back and forth like the tide across the sands before she was carried away to her husband’s family.

  “You should get ready,” Aunty Zehba said abruptly, waving her arms, waking Kate out of her daydreaming and motioning her along.

  The aunties began wrapping the trays in cellophane for the trip to Haseena’s family’s house.

  Kate bounded up the stairs to find Nasreen grooming at the mirror, softly brushing her bottom eyelid with the edge of her nail. Each night Nasreen seemed to apply a thicker line around her eyes, making them richer, blacker.

  Their room had become a dressing lounge for the cousins. Hair rollers and makeup were strewn across the small vanity that ten or more cousins huddled around every night fighting for a space at the mirror. Dresses and shoes were scattered everywhere. Nasreen’s cousin Arwah was braiding one sister’s hair, and the other sister was rummaging through the closet. Yasmine bounced the little three-year-old cousin in her arms. The child pulled at the ribbon her mother had so meticulously tied around the end of her braid and squirmed in Yasmine’s embrace.

  Kate felt that they waited only for the nights, sleeping most of the day, and rising to prepare for the next engagement. Each night the parties carried on later and later into the evenings, the drum pounding grew stronger, and the chanting of playful insults and jests flung between families grew louder.

  “Kate, I brought my blue churidar kameez for you,” Yasmine said in her delicate British English as she peeked in the room before opening the door wide, lest she smash someone behind the door.

  “Wow,” Kate marveled.

  She picked up the iridescent dark blue dress. It was heavier than she imagi
ned it to be. The material gleamed in fabulous colors. Thick crisscross borders of metallic thread and tassels outlined the Persian embellished neckline, sleeves, and the bottom edge of the dress. The dress reminded Kate of the metallic silver buses with yellow panels that screeched through Hyderabad’s city center with passengers hanging for life from thick twisted rope that dangled in loops around the open windows.

  “The trousers are here as well.” Yasmine lifted the kameez to show the satin pants that did not look much wider than her ankles.

  “They are supposed to fit very tight and gather at the ankles. Try it on.”

  Kate looked over at Nasreen, who had paused from applying mascara and shifted her attention to the dress.

  “Tonight is the mehendi. It is a very colorful, lively night,” she said. “The most fun evening! Believe me, you will fit right in wearing that.”

  Yasmine nodded in agreement.

  It took the girls nearly three hours to get ready for the mehendi. Kate was ready first, wearing the churidar kameez Yasmine had picked for her. She watched the aunties meticulously wrap Nasreen, Yasmine, and Arwah in their khara dupattas, six yards of glittering material. The dupattas were tucked into the backside of their churidars. One end slid over their left shoulder and hung down the front and the other spread across the front of their tunics, looped again over the left shoulder, and tucked inside the right elbow. The free end swooped over their forearm.

  Arwah’s sisters looked young and fresh in matching vanilla-colored dupattas with yellow patterning and a border of pure silver motifs. Arwah’s was lime with silver. Yasmine wore a mustard tunic and navy khara dupatta with silver embroidery and zardozi work. Nasreen’s dupatta was the color and softness of babies’ pinked feet and trimmed with gold latticework. She sported solid pink churidar pants underneath.

  Both Nasreen and Yasmine completed their ensembles with a seven-strand satlada of pearls set with rows of rubies and a kanphool earring pair supported by a strand of pearls clasped in their hair. The younger cousins wore a modest set of jewelry suitable for their adolescent years.