"It's garbage night." I sat across from my father, staring off into space, not blinking or taking note that he was addressing me.
Four more days until my mehndi. And life continued in the most normal way. Someone still had to take out the garbage.
"Everytime I talk to you, it seems you are in another land," my father noted while getting up from the kitchen table to put his dinner dishes away. My brother smirked from his seat while my sister looked from me to my father.
"She is in la-la land. She will be married soon and forget about all of us. I guess I will have to take the garbage out when she leaves," my sister said emphatically.
I reflected on those words. When she leaves. There was such a final tone to it that I wondered how it would actually feel--not to be in my family home, taking out the garbage, talking on the phone with my friends, changing universities and jobs. All for one man. I was sure giving up a whole lot. Would it be worth it in the end?
"She is dreaming about Spain," my brother suspected. "Make sure you go see a bullfight in Madrid.
The honeymoon. We were supposed to leave two days after the wedding reception. The tickets were booked, the itinerary set and the luggage packed. I sat dumbfounded--packing for two departures--one for the trip and the other...for the rest of my life.
"All I know is that its a very delicate time in her life so you two should cherish the last couple of days we are here together as a family and reflect over the years that you have shared as brother and sister." My father looked at all of us, teared up and then left the room. My brother stared at me intently while my sister non-chalantly read the newspaper. I had always been closer to him and I knew he was thinking what I was thinking. He was only 15 when she died and now I was like a mother to him. And he would soon lose me too.
The house was full by the next day with our extended family. Both my aunts prepared the mehndi trays--full of sweets, flowers and the henna (mehndi) that would adorn my hands and feet in a few days. I went to the church to confirm the booking and spoke at length with the pastor, going over the details of what would happen at the mehndi. We had invited over 50 women from our community and my inlaws would be bringing over 50 women from their side.
The pastor was intrigued by the whole ceremony. But what appealed to him more was the concept of the arranged marriage.
"So no dating or courtship before you marry?" he asked.
"No. But we do meet in a chaperoned environment. Its not like I am being forced to marry. At the end of the day, I have the right to refuse," I reassured him. He stood beside me as we looked at the stage in the church basement.
And then out of nowhere, he asked me the question everyone wanted to ask me but did not have the nerve.
"Do you love him?" He looked at me straight in the eye but with a kind smile.If anyone else had asked me this question, I knew I would go on the defensive but with the pastor, I felt at ease. Easy enough to be honest with him, and myself.
"No. But I will learn to love him," I said without thinking. The pastor paused and then took my hand into his.
"You are a very mature girl for your age. I am sure losing your mother so young made you look at the world with different eyes. I wish you happiness in your new life. And I give the same advice as I do with any couple ready to get married--arranged marriage or not. The more you invest in your marriage, the more valuable it becomes. There is no such thing as the perfect marriage--accept all that is good and accept all the flaws. You will be fine." I was waiting for him to say, And don't trash the Church, but he nodded and walked away.
We had to prepare food and drinks in two places. The mehndi was an all-women event and the few men who would bring their wives, mothers, and daughter to this event ended up spending the evening at my house with my father and talking politics over many cups of tea.
When all the decorations and food had been set at the Church that evening, I was whisked into a room and told to change in a yellow outfit with the veil. I was to wear no makeup and pin my hair back. The idea was to look simple and plain on this day because I would be made up and look like a beautiful bride on my wedding day. I sat in the room while my friends and aunts fussed over my clothes and fixed my hair. My fiancee's side had left an hour before and were on their way. Ironically, I did not feel nervous. While my aunts made arrangements in the hall to greet their family, I sat with my friends, joking about the cemetery next door.
"They are going to stop dead in their tracks when they see you!"
"I am sure his mom is dying to get you married."
"Your so pale--its looks like you saw a ghost."
We were laughing so hard that my aunt had to come in several times to scold me about not acting like a lady and being too loud. We would quiet down only to start up again.
"Don't ever stop being fun. I mean, don't get all serious after you marry," one of my friends said in a sombre manner.
"My circumstances may change but I am still me," I said. "If I don't laugh now, I will be crying instead." There was a hush amongst my friends and everyone pondered my words.
"They are here," my aunt exclaimed, running over to me to cover my face with the veil. "Stop smiling and look down. If I see you look up, I will hit you behind the head, do you hear me?" she threatened. I nodded and winked secretly to my friends.
The girls formed a grouping around me. Three on the right and three on the left. A large decorative shawl was hoisted above my head as they walked me into the hall when my inlaws arrived. Dutifully, I kept my head bowed and only feet and shoes as I made my way to the stage. The music was loud with my guests playing the tabla and dholki drums and singing wedding songs.
My mother-in-law approached me and pulled up my veil to kiss me on the forehead. She proceeded to put gold bangles on my hands and shove Pakistani sweets in my mouth. I am pretty sure I consumed five pounds of sweets that night with all the women feeding and lifting my veil to comment on my looks. I listened in silence, growing tired of all the gawking and food shovelling.
Fresh henna was applied to my hands and feet while I watched the girls from my side and his side dance the night away. I was not allowed to get up and dance. I had to sit, the demure bride-to-be: simple, unadorned, chastely looking down and pretending to be innocent. Since I was not used to the cultural expectations, I was told constantly to stop laughing, smiling, looking up or talking to anyone by my elders.
When the night was over and the guests filed out, I threw back my veil and lay back on the sequined pillows, flinging my arm over my face in pure exhaustion.
Tomorrow I would be officially married in my own house. It was time to sign my life away...
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