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I swallow the growing bulge in my throat. “Right,” I say. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Don’t be sorry. I should have come to your room in the first place. I should have known that you’d be worried, even scared. Your life is going to change completely.” She kisses my forehead, then rests her chin on my head. “But everything’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”
I lift my arm and place it on her stomach, snuggling closer to her. As I will my body to relax, I can only pray that she’s right. She has to be right.
Because no matter what, I’m getting married tomorrow.
34
Maya’s Law #34:
If you think it’s too late, it is.
I don’t know what non-desi weddings are like—I haven’t been to any—but brown weddings, especially for the bride, tend to be a happy yet somber occasion. Everyone’s thrilled that two people have chosen each other for the rest of their lives and are completing half their deen...until they remember that the girl is leaving her family and her home and everything she’s ever known to start a new life.
It’s why I can sit in the makeup chair and look absolutely miserable.
My makeup artist, Laiba, frets over the heavy bags under my eyes. “What’s happened to your face?”
I stare up at her, a dreary air enveloping me. “I don’t sleep well,” I deadpan.
Ammi flashes me a disapproving glare from her spot on the bed where she’s pulling my jewelry out of a suitcase. “Maya, don’t stress yourself,” she scolds, as if those words are supposed to make me feel less stressed. She smiles at Laiba. “My poor daughter is riddled with nerves. Please, take good care of her.”
Hibba Baji watches the whole exchange with an unconvinced stare. She flashes me a look of concern. When I shake my head, she returns her attention to Iqra, making sure there aren’t any lines in her shalwar kameez before sending her off.
Laiba huffs as she switches brushes. “Well, you’re lucky I’m one of the best. I can take care of this so you’ll look absolutely beautiful on your wedding day.”
I can’t quite believe it. It’s my wedding day.
I expect to feel dread, sadness, maybe even panic, but all I feel is numb. I was numb when I stepped into the shower. I was numb when I dried myself off. I was even numb when I put on my wedding dress. I found it while we were window-shopping, and I fell in love with it instantly. It’s technically a two-piece dress. In the classic Pakistani style, the sandy blouse is long-sleeved, and the hem of the kameez stops above my knees. The skirt is heavy and full and trails behind me. Strips of pearly beads intertwine with lace in a zigzag pattern, and small cream and pink flowers scatter along the skirt.
Gold dusts my eyelids, though Laiba blended it, so it fades outward into black. She sweeps black eyeliner across my lash line, at the top and at the bottom. She dabs the barest brush of blush to my cheekbones, making it look natural instead of painted on. The finishing touch is a swipe of red on my lips, making them look big and bold. She does my hair in poofy curls, gathering the top half at the back of my head and pulling it into a side-part.
Laiba leaves once her work is done, so it’s me, Ammi, and Hibba Baji in the room. I fiddle with the jewelry Ammi brings over to the vanity and sets in front of me. I pull on a pair of red and silver chudiyan. I put on a couple of rings, too, though I make sure to leave my actual ring finger bare. My engagement ring might be with a bunch of pricks who robbed us, but Imtiaz will still need to slide the wedding band around my finger.
Ammi places another choker around my neck, but this one is gold, with a large smooth stone in the middle. She drapes another necklace over my head, gold with silver stones, that stops right in between my breasts. I slide in the jhumkas myself, because putting on earrings is definitely something I can do, but I have her place the tikka on my forehead, making sure it doesn’t slide out of place by pinning it to my hair.
Once it’s secure, the last thing to put on is the veil. It’s the same sandy color as my dress, but it takes both Ammi and Hibba Baji to pin it securely to the back of my hair so it’s not in any danger of falling off. When it’s done, they both take a step back to drink me in.
I tentatively stand. I shyly drop my gaze, not used to so much fanfare or so much attention on me. “How do I look?”
Despite the “you’re doing the wrong thing” look in her eyes earlier, Hibba Baji tears up. “You look beautiful, Maya,” she says. She wraps her arms around me. “I’m so happy for you.”
That makes one of us. I smile because Ammi can still see my face. I pull away from the hug, and when I do, Ammi has tears slipping down her cheeks. “Meri pyaari beti,” she coos. She steps forward and carefully cups my face, making sure she doesn’t smudge my “hundreds of dollars” makeup look. “This is your big, big day.”
Okay, I might not be 100 percent about this decision, but at least it’s worth it to make my mother happy, and to not further ruin her reputation in the eyes of our community. “I know, Ammi.”
“You’re going to have someone to take care of you,” she continues. “My work with you is done.”
My happy face drops. I can see Hibba Baji set her jaw, but that doesn’t stop the groan that rumbles my chest. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me, Ammi,” I grit. “I can take care of myself.” I step back, out of her grip. The warm fluttery feeling I experienced while lying next to her last night slowly seeps out of my body. “I’m not marrying Imtiaz because I need to be taken care of.”
“Jee, jee, of course not,” Ammi pacifies. She reaches out to adjust my veil. “You’re marrying him because you love him.”
Love. I know it’s not something I’ve experienced much romantically in my life, so I thought I would be okay with waiting to see if it would happen to me after I got married. In fact, I used to think that marriage wasn’t only about love—it’s about compatibility, wanting the same things, and being able to make compromises when necessary. It’s about mutual respect and knowing the other person. Love is something that’s an added bonus. It makes the colors around you brighter, it makes the breeze feel better, and it makes the grass smell sweeter. It doesn’t have to be there, but if it is, you’re one of the lucky ones. You’ll know for sure that the person going through the sunflower field with you won’t let go of your hand. And it’s not bad if you decide to wait for love to grow; it’s ultimately up to you as an individual.
But after everything I’ve experienced in the last few weeks, I finally see that I don’t want to wait for love to grow. Even though people keep telling me that I never know what’s going to happen in the future, I think I’ve always known, deep in my bones and with every beat of my heart, that I can never love Imtiaz in the way that I’m supposed to. In the way people write love poems about. In the way people yearn for when they watch rom-coms. And in the way Imtiaz deserves to be loved.
I think about the way he agreed to have the wedding in Pakistan because my family’s here. Most of his family and friends couldn’t make it because it’s expensive to fly to Pakistan, but because he cared more about what I wanted, he agreed to have his wedding here while people he wanted were missing. I think about how whenever we were together at home, he’d be happy to do whatever I wanted because he was having fun if I was having fun. And I think about the fact that despite knowing my intentions to leave for another country for two whole years after getting engaged, he still trusted me enough to let me go because it’s what I wanted—and, quite frankly, what I needed.
