“Maybe your search for ‘the one’ brought you to India for a reason,” she said, her eyes gleaming.

“The only reason I’m in India is to celebrate you and your wedding. And speaking of weddings, I have something for you.” I pulled out the small blue box from the nightstand. “Hisham came by to give this to you. It’s from Haroon.”

Meena took the box and gently lifted the top. Inside was a beautiful gold tikka with small diamond accents and a teardrop topaz stone glistening in the center. We both leaned in to take a closer look.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, watching as she lifted out the piece from the box and held it against her forehead. We walked over to the mirror so we could admire it together.

“You know, eight weeks ago, I didn’t even know Haroon. And now I am going to be his wife,” Meena said softly, glancing at my reflection. “Never underestimate kismet, Leila. It is a very powerful thing.”

Mehendi Nights

I smiled politely as I attempted to make my way through a crowd of strangers. Every inch of space in the flat was occupied with guests of both the bride and the groom, and the sheer number of bodies made it difficult to breathe—let alone move—without bumping into someone.

The mehendi ceremony, hosted by the bride’s family, was the first big event to kick off the three-day wedding festivities and was typically followed by a sangeet, nikkah, and reception. In my parents’ generation, mehendi ceremonies would have been attended only by women; however, Meena and Haroon’s families decided to combine the mehendi with the sangeet, making it a joint affair so that everyone could come together in the celebrations and bless the soon-to-be-wed couple.

The elders in the room were seated near the front of the stage, soberly wah-wah-ing to traditional qawwali and ghazal songs, while the youngsters were gathered in gender-segregated groups along the back walls, obsessively grooming themselves while sneaking flirtatious glances at members of the opposite sex.

I glanced around the room, feeling slightly disappointed. We were two hours into the mehendi ceremony, and there was still no sign of Hisham. After my talk with Meena earlier, I’d started thinking about what she had said about kismet. Maybe there was such a thing as fate. Or chance encounters. It happened for Meena and Haroon. It happened for my parents. Maybe it was what happened this morning with Hisham. Embarrassing as that run-in was, maybe we were destined to meet.

A part of me was still digesting my thoughts from the night before. I wondered what the greater purpose of marriage was for me; my reasons for wanting to marry. However, the thought of my deadline remained at the forefront of my mind. Hisham was cute, and I would be crazy to not explore an opportunity that was right in front of me. My heart fluttered as I thought about his smile. With less than a month before my parents’ anniversary, this could very well be my last true shot at . . . something. American-born desi men wife-shopped abroad all the time—perhaps it was time I did the same.