by Farah Heron
Shaila Aunty turned to look at Reena. “He gave me a great deal on the sari I wore to my Eid party. Remember, my yellow georgette? It’s all about building relationships.”
The kebob place was in the same plaza as the sari shop—in a newish, suburban strip mall that catered mostly to the Indian population living in Markham. It still felt strange to Reena to see sari shops and Indian grocers in the suburbs, but the diaspora was all over the greater Toronto area these days, not just in the city.
And the shop was good. Over paper plates of spicy kebobs, tender-crisp vegetable samosas, and steaming cups of rich masala chai, they chatted about color schemes and menus for Saira’s wedding.
“You’re not going to serve this heathy food, are you?” Mum asked. “Ashraf’s family will run screaming if you give them tandoori tofu and kale pakoras.”
“Tandoori tofu sounds disgusting,” Reena said, “but kale pakoras…” She thought about it. “If you added rice flour to the batter, they’d be really crisp.”
Saira smiled. “We’re thinking we’ll have some organic, healthier options, but we’ll do the greasy Indian stuff, too. I mean, this is a wedding. When I meet caterers, you’re coming, Reena.”
“Reena, beti, you have to teach Marley to cook better,” Shaila Aunty said.
Mum nodded. “I taught both my girls to cook. Reena’s biryani is even better than mine. Not her khichro, though.”
Reena wasn’t about to let that go. “Mum, you use a mix for khichro! At least mine’s from scratch.”
Shaila laughed and patted Marley’s hand. “See! If you don’t make biryani, you’ll never get married. Although”—she smiled—“maybe you will marry a girl, and she’ll know how to cook,” Shaila Aunty said.
Mum laughed. “Can you imagine double the bridal clothes? The expense!”
“Mum.” Marley rolled her eyes and took her hand out from under her mother’s, “I’m not getting married. No one is getting married but Saira.”
“Yes, beti, don’t remind me,” Mum said.
Reena chuckled, dipping a samosa into the ambli chutney.
“You don’t want two weddings at once, though,” Shaila Aunty said.
“No, of course not.” Mum grabbed Shaila Aunty’s hand. “Remember how upset Mummy was when you and Amin wanted to get married a month after my wedding? Such drama.”
Shaila laughed. “She accused me of being pregnant!”
Marley frowned. “Ew.”
Reena agreed. She’d rather not think about her aunties engaging in premarital sex.
“You were so lovey-dovey,” Mum said. “Everyone thought it was a love match.”
Reena frowned. “It wasn’t a love match?”
Shaila Aunty smiled while putting another samosa on her plate. “I was so smitten with him, but technically, we were introduced by the matchmaker in the Jamatkhana.”
“I really didn’t like that woman,” Mum said, stirring her tea. “She used to pinch my stomach and tell me to stop eating mandazi.”
Reena knew that her mother and father’s match had been arranged, too, but she didn’t really have a lot of details. Her parents weren’t exactly the sitting-around-the-dining-table-telling-stories-of-when-they-met kind of parents.
“I don’t get how you both agreed to arranged marriages,” Marley said. Reena was glad she said what Reena was thinking.
Shaila Aunty smiled. “It was normal, then. We were young, and our parents were trying to look out for our happiness.” Shaila laughed. “Remember my wedding, Bhabhi? I had a fit because I couldn’t get a custom wedding salwar kameez on time in Dar es Salaam. You took me to that shop in Nairobi, the one that did yours in ten days.”
“Why’d you need your wedding dress in ten days, Mum?” Saira asked.
“We were engaged for only three weeks. It was the only appointment we could get for the Nikah, and we needed to be married for the visa to come to Canada,” Mum explained.
“Also,” Shaila Aunty added, laughing, “Aziz was afraid you would change your mind and go with that other boy who wanted to marry you.”
Saira looked impressed. “Mum, you had two guys wanting to marry you?”
“Your mother was very popular with the boys then.” Shaila Aunty chuckled.
Reena looked at her mother, one eyebrow raised.
Mum snorted. “I was never going to marry Salim. My parents didn’t like him, so I didn’t like him.”
Reena dropped her kebob. “Holy Shit! Salim Shah!”
“Reena, language!”
“Salim Shah wanted to marry you, but you picked Dad! This explains everything!” Her father’s rivalry with the man now made sense.
Mum just shrugged. “I trusted my parents’ judgment. And it was the right choice, we’ve been very prosperous.”
What could she say to that? From everything she’d heard about Salim Shah, Mum’s parents were probably right. She understood Mum’s subtext, though—that Reena should trust her parents’ judgment. But if they didn’t really know her, how could they pick someone for her?
But maybe they didn’t know her because she didn’t let them. And, besides, she did fall in love with a man they chose for her. She had fallen so hard that she could barely think (or walk) straight today. They saw something in Nadim despite knowing so little about his past. Maybe they knew her better than she thought.
She should give them more credit for that.
But in the end, she was still losing him because of them. If she had met Nadim in any other circumstance, none of their issues would have existed. She closed her eyes, pushing past the tears she felt forming. She needed to change the subject.
“You didn’t marry him only because your parents wanted you to, did you? How could you know that would work?” Marley asked.
Mum smiled an unfamiliar smile. “You don’t. You take a leap of faith. It’s not hard, you know. You just need to find someone who makes you chai when you are tired, and who rubs your feet when they are sore instead of insisting you are wearing the wrong shoes.”
Mum made it seem so simple. And perfectly appropriate, considering Nadim’s little fetish.
“Now enough of this talk about marriages,” Mum said. “Let’s get to what’s important: weddings.”
* * *
As they walked toward the sari shop, Shaila Aunty clasped her hands together. “They fly in new stock from India every week. Only the latest designs. I asked the manager to put aside the best from this week’s shipment for us to look at.”
It was a huge shop, but instinctively, Reena went off on her own. Mum and Shaila Aunty seemed to be in some sort of contest for who knew the most about the newest styles coming out of India. And Marley, having more fashion sense in her pinky finger than the rest of them combined, acted as an age-appropriate advocate for Saira.
As Reena wandered toward the jewelry section of the store, she felt her phone vibrate with a text.
Nadim: Results were posted—congratulations. We made it to the finals.
Reena smiled as she texted him back.
Reena: Congratulations to you, too. We were a great team, weren’t we?
Nadim: We were perfect. The offer still stands. I’ll figure out a way to stay a little longer if you want to do this.
She looked up from her phone at the jewel-toned bangles and glimmering necklaces surrounding her. Her family in the distance, discussing color schemes and the benefits of georgette over silk.
Even if they won the whole thing, then what? He’d still leave after. And she’d still have to lie—to her family, to her friends, and to the FoodTV people. She’d still be pretending and avoiding the truth.
Reena: I don’t want to lie anymore. I am sorry I put you in that position at all.
Nadim: I get it. I’m not sorry, though. I had a blast.
Reena: I did too.
The three little dots appeared on her screen again for a few seconds, and then a final text.
Nadim: No pressure. I’m packing and running errands for the next few
days, but I would open my door if you knocked on it on Sunday.
Reena closed her eyes. Should she? She could have one more day.
Reena: I’ll knock.
Reena put her phone away and looked closely at the jewelry in the display case. Like so many other little Indian girls, she’d always been drawn to the bright, colorful costume jewelry in velvet boxes. A wave of nostalgia washed over her as she remembered being in so many similar stores all over the world. It didn’t matter where she was: here in the suburbs or in the city. In London, Vancouver, or even in Dar es Salaam, Indian stores permeated with the scent of incense, sequins, and silk gave her that familiar feeling of shared culture. Home. Reena loved being Indian. Loved the food, the glittery clothes, and today, she even loved the deep-seated traditions. Like sari shopping with aunties.
Resisting her parents’ interference for so long all felt, in a way, like resisting her culture. Family meant everything to them, and parents were expected to look out for their children long after they weren’t children anymore. She was an individual, but an individual who was part of a family.
But there had to be a middle ground—a way to make the traditions work for her instead of stifling her.
As she approached the counter, a silvery chain in a black box caught her eye. It was an odd shape—a large bracelet with dangling bells on it and a big center medallion with a long chain hanging off it ending with a ring. The whole thing looked huge, like it had been designed for a basketball player’s hands.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the woman behind the counter said.
“It’s gorgeous. Huge, though. Would never fit my wrist.”
The woman laughed. “It’s an anklet, dear. For your foot. This one is a bridal one. But we have less ornate ones as well. Can I show you?”
“Bridal?” Reena asked.
“Yes. It’s designed to be worn with a wedding lehenga. Aren’t you here with a bridal party? I believe we pulled some lehengas in the bride’s size.”
Reena couldn’t be sure exactly what came over her at that moment, but it appeared her mouth had been disconnected from her logical brain.
But maybe this wasn’t the time for logic. Maybe it was time for Reena to take her own leap of faith. “Yes, but could you show me some in my size?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Considering her unemployment and her decision to change careers, Reena should not have spent over three hundred dollars on a turquoise and pink lehenga with matching costume jewelry, but she wasn’t in any state to second-guess anything right now. This unhinged plan of hers was risky, but the money spent would be worth it if it worked.
She managed to hide the outfit from her family, who were too preoccupied by the discussion of whether orange or red looked better on Saira to notice Reena trying it on. When they saw her wrapped garment bag, Reena told them it was for Amira, who had no Indian stores nearby and who’d asked her to pick something up for her.
After Saira dropped Reena and Marley off at their apartment building, Reena said goodbye to her cousin and went straight to her bedroom and hung the lehenga in her closet, lightly fingering the subtle embroidery in ethereal silver and gold threads. It was so beautiful. The kind of outfit memories were made in.
Finally, she took a deep cleansing breath and took off her jeans and socks. She dug around her summer clothes to find a long, Indian-print skirt and white T-shirt. She took her hair out of its ponytail and added a bit of antifrizz serum to make sure her curls looked their best. Finally, she dabbed a bit of fragrance to her neck. She carefully removed the silver anklets from the black velvet box and fastened them to her feet, clipping the rings to her second toes. She wished she had time for a pedicure but needed to do this now before she lost her nerve, and her chance.
She closed her eyes, said a silent prayer for strength, and retrieved a single item from her dresser before leaving her apartment barefoot.
Reena knocked on Nadim’s door, her heart pounding in her chest. She clutched the item in her hand, leaving it slippery from sweat on her palm. He left the door chain attached again when he opened and peeked out the four-inch gap in the door.
“Reena, it’s you. Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine. Perfect.”
“Then…I thought we agreed not to draw this out…say our goodbyes on Sunday.”
“I know. But I have something for you. Sit near the door, but don’t open the chain.”
“Okay…” Of course he was confused, but he did it anyway. She stepped in front of the opening in the door and could see him sitting cross-legged with a perplexed expression. “What are you up to?” he asked.
It was a bit of a squeeze, but she maneuvered one jeweled foot onto his lap.
She clearly heard him gasp, and she couldn’t help but giggle. The lightest touch trailed on her foot as his fingers outlined the chain running from her toe to her ankle. And, of course, that made her giggle more. Maybe this was a bad idea—someone with a foot fetish really shouldn’t be with someone so ticklish.
“This is for me?” he asked, reverently.
“Yes. You like?”
“I love it.” He chuckled, fingering the chain again. “This is beautiful.”
“There’s more.” She squeezed her foot off his lap and back into the hallway. “Open the door.”
Immediately after the door opened, he fell back down to the ground to look at both her feet this time. Running his fingers over the little bells around her ankles, hearing the soft jangling sound as they hit each other. She shivered as she closed the door behind her.
He looked up at her, eyes wide. “Are you trying to torture me?”
She laughed as she lowered herself to the ground as well, sitting in front of him, knees bent, both her feet in his cross-legged lap. He gripped her ankles before running his hands up under her skirt and over her smooth calves, and then back down to the anklets.
He looked into her eyes. “You’re beautiful.”
“I…” Her voice shook. She closed her eyes a second and then tried to smile. This was hard. Harder than she expected.
“I…” she started again. “You’ll probably think I’m nuts, but I just want to put this out there. Whatever you say is fine—we’ll still be friends—but I had to ask you before you leave…” She clenched her fist around the ring in her hand. “Nadim. Will you marry me?”
He stared at her for several seconds, his expression betraying shock, but nothing else. His hands around her ankles tightened. “Marry you?”
She smiled. “Yes. I know it’s sudden and ridiculous, but hear me out. We can run to Niagara Falls to one of those twenty-four-hour wedding places before you leave. Then I can sponsor you to come back to Canada as my family. It may take a bit, and we’d have to prove to immigration that this relationship is real, but we have those FoodTV videos as proof. And if the immigration doesn’t work or if you don’t want to live here, I’ll come there, wherever you are. London, Dar es Salaam, it doesn’t matter.” Her voice cracked. “Maybe this isn’t about standing on our own feet to defy our families, but instead choosing the family we want. And I want you to be my family. I’m on my way to falling in love with you. I have your thirty-dollar ring…” Her voice trailed off, losing steam as she showed him the swirling emotions in her eyes.
What she said wasn’t entirely true, she wasn’t on her way to falling in love, but had already been swept in a tidal wave so strong she thought she’d drown. She had no doubt she loved him enough to survive oceans of separation and an uphill fight to be together.
But would he be willing to take this leap of faith, too? Not because his father ordered it, or her father encouraged it, but because he wanted to be with her forever? She watched his face, seeing no expression. He was silent.
This was a mistake. He didn’t want her. Mortified, Reena looked down, feeling her eyes well up. She squeezed them shut.
His hand suddenly left her ankle to gently open the fingers on her right hand, exposing the thirty-dollar cubic z
irconia ring he’d bought her. He took it from her hand and smiled. Then, ever so slowly, he placed it on the ring finger of her left hand.
“Yes,” he whispered, still holding her hand. “I will marry you. Yes, to all of it. Niagara Falls, you sponsoring me to come back. Living here, or there, wherever. I am not on my way to falling in love with you. I am already there. And I want you to be my family, forever.”
“Yes?”
He nodded. “Yes. I love you, Reena.” And he pulled her by the arms onto his lap completely and kissed her like no one had kissed her ever before.
She finally pulled away, needing a break, even a tiny one, from the intensity. “Are you sure?” she whispered.
He took her hand in his and kissed the finger that held the ring. He smiled—a wide, incandescent smile that she could look at every day of her life.
He nodded. “Absolutely sure. This…you…are my home. But…” He grinned, pulling her even closer. “I should come clean, there is one more thing you don’t know.” He kissed the ring on her finger again. “This cost me more than thirty dollars.”
Reena’s eyes widened. A diamond this size would be worth thousands. Thousands she didn’t want. She wanted the fake ring to celebrate their real love.
He grinned widely. “It was actually sixty dollars. Plus, I paid extra for the box.”
She laughed, wrapping her hands behind his head and pulling him in. Enough of this talking, she just wanted to kiss.
They should have gotten up off the floor to start planning. They had to figure out how to get a marriage license fast, find a wedding place in Niagara Falls and book it, and call Amira. And Reena had another idea brewing for Sunday, but it would also need a lot of planning and pulling some strings. But instead they just kissed until he finally picked her up off his lap and took her to his bedroom.
And Reena got the reverent, intense, sensual sex she expected. Apparently, that wasn’t for endings, but for beginnings.
* * *
They started planning early the next morning. A quick Google search found a Toronto-based wedding officiant who specialized in elopements in the city, so thankfully they could avoid the drive to Niagara Falls. They’d met in Toronto, and Reena wanted to get married here if possible. After taking the subway downtown to get their license at city hall, they called the officiant and arranged for her to come over late in the evening. License in hand, Reena called Amira.
