A large caricature of Mahathir had been cut out. It made the prime minister look like a rogue, with a misshapen nose and dark-rimmed eyes. The taxi inched forward and they heard a roar of voices, shouting in unison.

“Reformasi! Reformasi! Reformasi!”

“Protes lagi,” the taxi driver complained.

“Protests are important,” Marina said emphatically. “We have the right, don’t you know. This is a democracy.”

The taxi driver snorted. “Hmmph. Not until this man goes to jail.” He gestured at the placard.

When the traffic light turned green, the taxi finally moved and they stared in silence at the sea of people who had turned up.

“So many,” Marina muttered.

The roar became a hum, people were straining to listen to a speaker with a loudhailer. Marina rolled the window down. She felt the energy from the crowd, the anger, the surge of hope, the air of optimism.

“Reformasi!” she shouted.

The taxi driver was startled. And he too shouted, “Reformasi!”

They smiled and chatted, barriers broken. The sky had cleared and the sun was starting to peek out.

When she arrived at the house, there were a few cars parked along the road. The security guard waved her in, smiling. Tents had already been set up for the reception, chairs and tables covered in cream-coloured fabric. Bouquets of white roses and tuberoses on tables. Fake chandeliers dangled precariously from the tent tops.

Omar’s mother greeted her, and ushered her into a large bedroom. Del was seated and already dressed in silk sarong and a kebaya top of fine French lace.

Del ran to her. “I feel sick.”

“Aduh, kenapa sayang?”

“Too many people, I can’t do this.”

“It’s just you and Omar, okay? This is your wedding day.”

“Yeah, yeah. I just feel sick. Want to throw up.”

“Throw up then. You’ll feel better.”

Marina walked Del to the bathroom. Del quickly doubled over, heaving. Yellow bile spilled out into the toilet bowl.

“I can’t do this Marina, I can’t do this.”

Marina took some toilet tissue, folded it into two and wiped Del’s mouth gently.

“Come on sayang, let’s make you beautiful.”

I looked like my mother.

My hair was wound tightly into a French twist, covered by a light veil, which fell softly onto my shoulders. The lace kebaya, the white silk sarong with hand-drawn flowers, the beaded satin shoes. Creamy pearl studs and a single pearl pendant. My eyes, smoky. Nude lips. I had never looked like this.

This was a woman who was going to get married. I was that woman.

I was seized with a sudden gust of trepidation. I started hyperventilating. I did not know what to do.

I sat down and looked at my hands. Twirls of red henna wound themselves intricately into a flowery pattern that covered both hands. It had taken hours and hours to draw on and hours more to dry.

Del, are you okay?