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“You are not cursed,” Hibba Baji insists. “You just act like you are because it’s the only way your brain could make sense of what happened. I dealt with Baba leaving differently because I was a teenager, but you were still a child. You didn’t know how else to cope with the fact that our father left us, so you made up a curse. In fact, you didn’t even start talking about being cursed until after he was gone.”
I look up at Hibba Baji, her words swirling in my head. I desperately rack my brain. The memories of my young childhood are fuzzy, but as I flip through each image in my head, I realize Hibba Baji’s right. I didn’t start considering myself cursed until I was ten years old, when Baba left. I read Murphy’s Law in a book around then, as well, and that’s when I came up with my own laws. That was how my younger self made sense of the world around me, and then as I got older they became habit until it was the only lens I had for the world.
Red rims Hibba Baji’s irises, but the smile that held me together when we were young is still there. “Baba leaving wasn’t your fault. And you were never alone. You always had Ammi and me.”
“You’re right.” I sniffle. “You’re absolutely right. My whole life, I felt like I couldn’t keep any lasting relationships but... I guess I have.”
“You don’t have to take on the world alone, Maya,” Hibba Baji reminds me. “And if you don’t want anybody else right now...if you don’t feel ready for it...all you have to do is say the word. Imtiaz will understand.”
The mention of his name cracks my chest open again. “It’s fine,” I assure her, though I don’t quite believe the words myself. “I’m going to marry Imtiaz, and everything’s going to be fine. Everyone will be happy.”
“Everyone but you.”
I suck in a breath. “That’s something I’ll have to live with.”
With that, I pick up the chudiyan from the vanity and slip them on. They slide on easily, clinking against each other, and perfectly covering Sarfaraz’s name tattooed on my wrist. No one’s going to notice, and I intend on keeping it that way.
I meet Hibba Baji’s eye, and her face falls when she realizes that I’m going to go through with it. She just turns me around, pushing me in front of her so she can pick up the train of my dress and help me out of the room.
28
Maya’s Law #28:
Positive affirmations don’t always work.
There really isn’t much of a difference between the mehendi and the maiyun ceremonies, but because we invited more people to the mehendi, we needed more space than we had at our house. In my uncle’s neighborhood, there’s a large patch of undeveloped land, so we pitched a very large tent there to have the mehendi. It’s the evening now, so the air has begun to cool off. I would have absolutely refused to wear this dress in the heat. Instead, I take the air-conditioned limo over to the location.
As the bride, it’s okay if I’m the last one to arrive. I know Imtiaz left earlier, so he must be sitting on top of the loveseat on the stage. Behind me, Hibba Baji grabs the bottom of my skirt and lifts it up so it’s not dragging on the dirty ground. She gives me a worried look, but I ignore it as I approach the front of the tent.
The music thumping the ground stops, and I hear the emcee, my uncle Tariq, announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, please find your seats! The bride has arrived!”
Ammi places her hand on my shoulder and gives it a delicate squeeze. “This is going to be great!” She pinches my cheek lightly instead of kissing it, which would have ruined my makeup, then loops her arm through mine. Hibba Baji comes around to my other side. She flashes me a worried look, but when I keep my expression firm, she wraps her arm around mine. At the tender look in her eyes, I sniffle.
With my sister and my mother on either side of me, I step through the flaps of the tent.
The decorator we hired was worth her money—the interior of the tent is breathtaking. Gold and purple sashes meet in the middle at the top of the tent, alternating colors. Attached to each end of the sashes are purple and gold lights. The mixture of the two lights casts a dreamlike aura over the whole place. Sofas are arranged in front of the stage with coffee tables in front of them for people to sit and eat, but there are also some regular tables and chairs available. The tablecloths are a deep blue, embroidered with gold swirls along the edges.
Ammi and Hibba Baji escort me over to the stage, where Imtiaz sits regally on top of the white loveseat. He’s dressed in purple shalwar kameez, with a gold vest on top. He smiles as I sit down, and I briefly return it before going back to stoicism. Thank God it’s normal for the bride to look miserable during her wedding in desi culture. I have no idea why, though. It’s her wedding day; shouldn’t she look happy?
Still, for now I’m glad that I don’t have to fake being happy. “How’s everything going for you?” I ask Imtiaz.
“Good,” he answers, though the air between us is awkward.
“You look great,” I compliment, giving him a once-over. “White really suits you.”
“I hope so. It is my future uniform, after all.”
I chuckle. “True.”
An awkward silence lulls between us. “You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, though it’s more of an afterthought, something he’s obligated to say rather than something he might actually believe.
“Thank you,” I reply out of politeness, also because we’re now surrounded by our family.
We sit in silence for a while, posing for pictures every now and then. When Imtiaz’s parents and Sarfaraz come up to the stage to take photos with us, tension coils in the air around us. Mr. Porter quietly glares at Sarfaraz, but Mrs. Porter ushers them both onto the stage so we can take the picture.
A pang of disappointment hits my chest when Sarfaraz chooses to stand behind Imtiaz, but I brush it off. I have no business feeling disappointed by something like that. I just pose for the camera.
Mr. and Mrs. Porter give us both hugs, and Mrs. Porter is teary-eyed as she pulls away. She cups my cheeks, pinching the skin. “I’m so excited for you to be part of our family!” she gushes.
