Near the stage, I noticed Asima aunty clapping and swinging back and forth unrhythmically to the music. I quickly inched my way in her direction.

“Salaams, aunty,” I shouted when I reached her, slightly out of breath.

“Walaikum As’salaam, Leila beti!” She turned around, giving me an enthusiastic smile. “Are you enjoying the ceremony?” she shouted back.

“I am.” I nodded.

“Good, good, because you are next in line, Leila.” She wagged a finger at me. “Soon, we will be dancing at your mehendi party!” she said, still swaying awkwardly.

I gave her a tight-lipped smile. Asima aunty was the fifteenth person this evening to tell me I was next in line. The only time I was glad to hear it was when I was at the buffet.

“What time does the groom’s party arrive?”

“I’m sorry?” She pointed at her ear and shook her head.

“The groom’s party,” I repeated loudly. “When do they arrive?”

“Not until the very end . . . tafri abhi shuroo ho rahi hai!” She bobbled her head, giving me a teasing wink.

I sighed, looking down at my watch. For all I knew, this party could go through the night, and frankly, I doubted if my patience—or my hairstyle—would last that long. The last time I saw Hisham, I had funky morning breath and an unkempt ponytail. This time around, I’d decided I would step it up, so I was wearing a green banarasi sari and red lipstick, and had styled my long hair into tight, sleek curls in an effort to come across as a modern-day Sridevi. But as I patted the sweat from my forehead with the edge of my dupatta, I was afraid I was looking more like a modern-day poodle than an iconic eighties heroine. Sadly, even the strongest hair spray was no match for Mumbai humidity.

Asima aunty turned back to the music, and I distracted myself by readjusting the pallu on my shoulder. While my outfit would have been perfectly appropriate for a wedding function in L.A., I couldn’t help but feel grossly underdressed as I took in the extravagance surrounding me. All of the women—young and old—were decked out in their most lavish attire: glittery saris, silky hijabs, and enough gold jewelry to buy a small island. I remembered hearing once that Indian housewives held eleven percent of the world’s gold, and it seemed about half of that reserve was currently dancing around in Meena’s living room.

I looked up at the stage to see Meena seated perfectly still in the center, smiling shyly at each guest as dark green henna was carefully applied to her delicate hands and feet. Although I had only attended a handful of desi weddings over the years, I was always enchanted by the vibrancy and beauty of a traditional Indian bride. Meena was no exception. She was wearing a bright yellow lehenga choli with heavy silver embroidery throughout the front. Her thick hair was braided along the side with jasmine and roses weaved into it, and the golden tikka framed the crown of her head. Her quiet beauty rose above all the pomp and glitter and emanated through each and every corner, captivating all eyes in the room with her simple radiance. She was the prettiest bride-to-be I had ever seen.