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Surprise fills my chest. “It’s okay. You couldn’t get a flight out with me, so you couldn’t have traveled with me. It’s not your fault.”
He opens his mouth to say more, but before he can speak, Ammi’s chipper voice exclaiming “Time for the rasam!” interrupts him. Our parents come to a stop in front of us. Mr. Porter stands off to the side, but Ammi excitedly rests the platter with a pot of haldi and some mithai on the table in front of us.
I glance at Imtiaz out of the corner of my eye, but he hasn’t dropped the concerned look on his face. I clear my throat and gesture to the pot. “Who’s going first?”
Ammi steps forward; as the mother of the bride, she’s the one who’s technically “losing” a daughter. She picks up the spoon, cuts a small piece of a gulab jamun, and then feeds it to me. We pose for a photo, and then she scoops up some of the haldi. She spreads it along my cheeks, and I relax under her touch. The relaxation morphs into a fit of giggles as Hibba Baji goes next, purposefully cutting a huge piece of barfi and stuffing it into my mouth. She grabs my chin and smears the haldi all over my face. I squirm in her grip, but she maintains a firm hold. By the time she lets me go, most of the tension snaking my gut is gone. I look at Imtiaz, who is also covered in haldi. Some of the tension rushes back, but I force it down. I’m going to enjoy this. This is one of my last moments as a single woman, and I’m not going to let it be ruined.
People continue to come up and feed us mithai and put haldi on us. Ammi and Hibba Baji have already covered my face, so other people move on to my neck and my arms—though I’m careful when it comes to my left wrist.
It’s also customary for the bride and groom to apply some haldi to their unmarried family members and friends, so when my cousin Fizza comes up and puts some on Imtiaz and me, I make sure to swipe some on her, as well. I also make sure to use my right hand, so my left wrist is in no danger of the chudiyan slipping. Telling that story about Sarfaraz’s name on my skin once was mortifying enough—especially because it exposed my not-quite-certain feelings about Imtiaz. But still, this is my choice, and I’m going through with it.
I’ve just finished applying haldi to Fizza when Sarfaraz strolls over. His hands are in the pockets of his kameez, and I have a strong feeling his fists are clenched. Still, he offers Imtiaz and I both a happy look when he stops in front of us. “How are you guys enjoying the party?”
I stay silent, but Imtiaz says, “Oh, you know.” He gestures to his turmeric-covered face. “It’s great getting covered in paste.”
“Well, I guess it’s my turn, then.” Sarfaraz steps forward, and because he came pretty much dead last, there aren’t any sweets left to feed me, nor is there much paste left in the pot. He dips his fingers in, scooping the excess paste from the bottom of the pot.
Sarfaraz smirks as he grabs Imtiaz in a headlock and smooshes the haldi paste to his face, smearing it all over his skin. Imtiaz erupts into laughter, and he playfully pushes his brother away. “Come on, man!” he protests. He wipes the yellow paste off his mouth. “You didn’t have to do me dirty like that.”
“What can I say? We have a lot of years to catch up on, little brother,” he jokes.
I watch the two brothers for a moment. When apart, it’s easy to see how I wouldn’t have made the connection that they’re related. But seeing them together, it’s impossible to deny that they’re siblings. Sarfaraz may have a lighter complexion, but they both have the same sturdy square face shape, the same arched brows, the same full lips.
The similarities don’t just end with their physical appearance, either. Their postures are the same; ramrod straight, held-back shoulders, torso turned all the way when facing someone. When they move, it’s in tandem, their bodies clearly not registering all the time they’ve spent away from each other.
While I feel incredibly dumb that I didn’t figure it out before, it’s sweet to watch the two of them together. How long has it been since they were together like this? How long have they felt ghosts in their lives where people they loved should have been?
How do we all just get used to people not being there anymore?
I jolt when Sarfaraz looks over at me, and any trace of laughter leaves his face when his eyes meet mine. It’s my instinct to look away from him, but I force myself to keep his stare and ignore the tension brimming between us.
He gestures to the pot. “May I?”
As I nod wordlessly, Imtiaz smacks Sarfaraz in the stomach and asks, “Why did you ask her permission and not mine?”
“Because she’s your future wife,” Sarfaraz points out. He kneels in front of the pot again. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he scoops the very last bit of haldi onto his fingers. “I can’t exactly touch her like that.”
My mind involuntarily flashes back to our kiss, and a rush of anger blooms under my skin. He certainly had no problem doing that when he kissed me back.
Those thoughts leave my head when he crouches in front of me. He doesn’t even tremble as he lifts a hand to my face. Softly, ever so softly, he grazes my cheekbone with his fingertips. The paste from his fingers blends with the paste already on my face, but his touch burns my skin. I’m grateful there’s so much haldi on me that it covers up my reddening face. He runs his fingers down my cheek, stopping at my chin. Reluctantly, he moves his fingers from my face, then smirks. “There. Now you’re officially a part of the family.”
My stomach sinks. “Thank you,” I say in an uneasy tone.
He gestures to his own face. “Well? Aren’t you two going to put some on me?”
Imtiaz, who has been watching the whole exchange with an unreadable expression, snaps back to attention. “Yeah, of course.” He reaches into the pot for some paste but frowns, pulling his hand out haldi-free. “Huh. I guess we’re out.”
I touch my fingers to my cheek, right where Sarfaraz had spread it on me. The paste easily slides around on my face, and I brighten up. “I have an idea,” I say. I rub some of the haldi onto my own fingers and pull it away with enough to apply to Sarfaraz’s face. “We can reuse this. It’ll save the hassle of making enough haldi for one more person.”
Imtiaz stares at me for a second, but then shrugs. “Sounds like a good idea.”
While Imtiaz wipes some excess haldi off his own face, I face Sarfaraz. With shaky fingers, I touch the spot beside his nose. I run my thumb sideways, spreading the paste across his under eye. My fingers tingle where they touch his skin and the feeling runs up my arm. The intensity in his focus makes me shiver. I stop when I reach the spot under his temple. I continue to stare up at Sarfaraz, the knot in my stomach becoming tighter and tighter.
“Alright, my turn,” Imtiaz declares.
I jolt, quickly pulling away from him. I pretend not to notice the flicker of disappointment on his face as I curl a loose strand of hair over my ear and smile at his brother. And I ignore the strange look Imtiaz is flashing the both of us as I gesture to Sarfaraz. “He’s all yours. Go for it.”
27
