“So anyways, what do we do about—” I rolled up the corners of my imaginary mustache.

“Oh, Asad? He’ll be fine. He’s probably YouTubing scenes from Titanic on his phone right now.”

I covered my mouth, giggling.

“Now that you’re free, though—” He grabbed my hand. “Come, you have to see this,” he said, leading me toward the living room. We pushed our way through the crowd until we secured a spot near the front of the stage. We watched, along with the other guests, as Haroon’s mother dipped her hands into a clay pot and rubbed yellow haldi all over Meena’s face and neck. Next, Jamila aunty dipped her hand into the pot and rubbed the yellow paste over Haroon’s face, neck, hands, and feet.

Although I had witnessed this part of the haldi ceremony at previous weddings, this was the first time I felt inclined to know more about the deeper significance behind the tradition. “What is the purpose of using turmeric?” I asked Hisham.

“It’s meant to ward off the evil eye and leave the bride and groom glowing on their wedding day,” Hisham whispered into my ear. I smiled as Meena and Haroon glanced shyly at one another and carefully placed a garland around each other’s neck.

“And the garlands?”

“It’s a symbol of their intention to marry one another.”

We watched as Ahmed, Meena’s brother, joined his mother onstage, followed by all the other cousins and siblings in the family. Members from Haroon’s family also went up. Meena and Haroon took turns applying the yellow paste on each of their relatives, one by one—with Jamila aunty occasionally checking Meena’s mehendi beneath the clear plastic glove she wore as protection.

I spotted my mother standing on the other side of the room, looking directly at me. She kept motioning her head to the stage, trying to communicate with me. From where I was standing, it looked like she was either telling me to go onstage . . . or she had developed a strange crick in her neck. I pretended not to see her.

“What’s happening now?” I asked as a crowd began forming around the couple.

“Oh, it’s just a silly custom,” Hisham said. “Supposedly, whoever gets touched by the sacred paste will soon find a good, attractive partner. At least that’s what the tradition says.”

“Is it true?”

“Why, are you interested?”

I shrugged. While my feelings about marriage were still slightly mixed, I’d be lying if I said a teensy part of me wasn’t intrigued by this “silly custom.”

“I mean . . . I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try.” I smiled sheepishly as he let out an amused laugh. I blushed, suddenly realizing how ridiculous I sounded.

“I suppose it wouldn’t.” He smiled and gently pushed me toward the stage.

“Are you coming?” I asked, looking back at him. He waved his hand to indicate that I was on my own. However, he gave me a thumbs-up, encouraging me to keep going as I hesitantly made my way through the crowd.