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Unfortunately, that’s the truth. In Pakistani culture, young women never leave their parents’ house before they’re married. If they do, they’re gossiped about; people say she had an argument with her parents, she was kicked out, or she ran away.
“This whole mentality is a bunch of crap,” I start. “Forget if a woman wants to start her adult life away from her parents but without a husband. Forget if she wants a shred of independence that she isn’t going to get if she continues to live under her parents’ roof. Forget that there’s a reason most people leave their homes at eighteen—the older you get, the more you butt heads with your parents. If you leave your home, but it’s not to move into your husband’s house, then there’s something wrong with you.”
Hibba Baji stares at me. “You’re really that desperate to leave Ammi? After all she did for us?”
Annoyance rises to my face. “Ammi is the reason I didn’t leave home for uni,” I tell her. As much as I hated the “log kya kahenge” mentality, I couldn’t bring any more ridicule to Ammi’s name by doing something that would bring her shame in our community, not after she spent so much of our lives being the butt of every joke because Dad left. “I know she worked herself to the bone so we could have nothing but the best. The least I could do was stay with her as long as I could, but now I want to live my life how I want. Why is that always too much for a brown girl to ask?”
Hibba Baji looks away, and in the ensuing silence, I pick my suitcase up off the bed and set it by the bedroom door. “I texted you my flight information,” I start, changing the subject. “Make sure you send it to Huzaifa Bhai. I don’t want him to be late picking me up.”
“Don’t worry, he’ll be there on time,” she assures me, her tone much lighter now that we’re on a safer topic. “Make sure you’re as early as possible for your flight so you don’t miss it by accident. The last thing we need is the bride late for her own wedding.”
I glare at her. “I’ve never been late to anything!”
Hibba Baji raises a hand. “My thirtieth birthday dinner—” she puts a finger down “—Ammi’s fifty-fourth birthday—” she puts another down “—your own teacher’s college graduation—”
“Okay, okay, fine!” I relent. “But it isn’t my fault. I have bad luck because of my curse.”
Hibba Baji let out a long groan. “Please don’t start with the curse thing.”
“It’s true!” I sit down on the edge of my bed. “Someone put their nazar on me as a kid, and because of that, nothing has ever gone right for me, especially in the relationship department.”
Hibba Baji, who has been trying but failing since we were teens to convince me my curse isn’t real, clicks her tongue. “Then think about this time as the beginning to your fresh start. It looks like your curse is finally going to be broken. You’re getting married, Maya. You’re going to be so happy.”
“I hope so.” I check the time on my phone. “I should go to bed. My flight is at eleven a.m.”
“I should go, too,” Hibba Baji says. “I’ll see you soon, Inshallah. Khuda hafiz!”
“Khuda hafiz.” I hang up. I set my phone beside me, then flop back on the bed. I stare up at the ceiling, thinking about how this is the last time I’ll be in this bed by myself. Tomorrow, everything changes.
“Tomorrow’s going to be a long day,” I mutter to myself. “But at least I’ll be one step closer to being free.”
4
Maya’s Law #4:
When you think you’re lucky, think again.
I stir restlessly, nestling deeper into my bed, wrapping my sheets around my body like a burrito. I struggle with insomnia so even on a good day, I get only three or four hours of good sleep. Last night, though, I guess the exhaustion caught up with me, and I slept uninterrupted for a couple of hours. I stretch my arms out, seeking my phone on the side table. I hold it to my face, and my eyes fly open when the time registers.
9:36 a.m.
I bolt up, throwing my blanket off and trying to jump out of bed at the same time. My feet get tangled in the sheets, and I crash onto my knees. Bursts of pain shoot through my body, but I brush it off as I scramble to stand up.
I don’t have time to take a shower, so I hastily brush my teeth and wash my face before throwing on a simple outfit: a T-shirt and flowy floral-printed pants. Thank God I packed all my stuff last night, because all I have to do is grab my purse and my suitcase. I run down the stairs as I call an Uber on my phone at the same time.
I calm down once I’m in the car. I rest my elbow on the door. Setting my chin on my hand, I let the soothing scent of the mehendi adorning my skin calm me down. Ever since I was a young girl, the earthy, sharp smell of the sweet paste was enough to bring my soul peace, and it’s exactly what I need to keep myself from losing my mind.
My phone buzzes, and I lift it from my lap to see a WhatsApp message from Ammi. It’s a photo of her with Imtiaz’s mother—my future Saas—in front of a huge pile of clothes. Last minute your cousins decided to change their clothes. This is what they’ve picked. Which one do you like?
I survey the colorful stacks of heavy shalwar kameez in plastic wrap. I assume they didn’t open any of them because they plan to return whichever ones they decide not to wear, but the grainy picture makes it hard to see the details. In the end I text back, Whichever ones they like. They have to wear them!
Ok. It’s your wedding photos.
I refrain from an eye roll. Like I said to Hibba Baji, it doesn’t matter to me what my cousins from Pakistan wear. I’m not close with them, having been born and raised in Canada with only a few monthlong trips to Karachi as a child, but I like them enough to let them pick what they want to wear. As long as they stick to the color scheme of green and gold, I don’t care what their designs look like.
Soon enough, the car comes to a stop, and I jump out with a hasty wave to the driver. He eyes the mehendi design that stops above my elbow, but he offers me a salute. I catch a glimpse of the back seat as I shut the door, wincing at the tiny flakes left behind, and mentally add a note to increase his tip. My younger cousin Fizza would have to go over my mehendi again, and I’m already dreading the hours-long process. It was hard enough to sit there the first time, unable to move or eat or go to the bathroom without assistance, while the warmth slowly drained out of my limbs.
I take my suitcase out of the trunk, swing my backpack on, and then dash through the doors. After checking through security and leaving my luggage at baggage claim, I pull out my folder of travel documents and find the one with my gate information. Just as I look down at the papers, a shoulder collides with mine.
