As I neared the stage, I spotted my mother, who nodded at me with approval. As much as I hated satisfying her wishes, it was too late to turn back now. I knew she was probably hoping my going up there might mean good news for me and Asad, but Asad was not the one for me. Of that I was certain.

When Meena saw me approach her, she removed the plastic glove from her hand and dipped the tip of her mehendi-covered finger directly into the pot—despite Jamila aunty’s anxious looks. She brought my face close to hers and rubbed her finger gently across my cheek; the paste was refreshingly cool against my skin.

“May this bring you ‘the one’ you are looking for, Leila.” She smiled as her eyes drifted toward Hisham and then back to me. I drew in a deep breath and thought about everything I had gone through over these past few months. Every disappointment, every disaster, every heartbreak flashed through my mind like a tragic movie reel. From the corner of my eye, I could see Hisham watching me from the crowd with a slight smile across his face.

I turned to Meena with a hopeful heart. “Insha’Allah,” I whispered softly. “Insha’Allah.”

Guilt Trip

Bright rays of sunlight greeted me from the dining room as I stumbled in groggily. The mehendi festivities had continued late into the night and well into the early morning. By the time my head finally hit the pillow, the fajr adhan was sounding off in the distance. I was hardly able to squeeze in a few winks of sleep in between all the giddiness I felt from the second half of my night.

After the haldi ceremony, I spent the rest of the night with Hisham. From our insightful discussions about traditions and customs, to consuming bowls of rasmalai, to dodging rishta aunties, my mother, and Asad, there was something about Hisham that was different from the guys back home. He was funny and sharp-witted, yet at the same time cultivated and courteous. It was the first time I found myself attracted to someone Indian-born, and the more we talked, the more I found myself drawn to his endearing mix of traditional and modern values. As I nibbled on a cake rusk, silently lost in these thoughts, my mother suddenly emerged from her room.

“Good morning, Leila beti,” she said sleepily, sitting down next to me at the dining table. The celebrations must have also taken a toll on her because it was a rare occurrence for her to sleep past sunrise. She squinted her eyes as she glanced at the clock hanging above the sofa. “Why are you up so early?” she asked, yawning.

“I was thinking of going out for a bit,” I said, handing my mother a cup of chai.

“Oh?” she said, raising a brow and taking a sip.

“I wanted to buy a new outfit for the wedding tomorrow,” I explained. After I had witnessed the sheer extravagance in the room last night, I realized the outfits I had brought with me would not cut it. I needed to step up my game. “I was thinking of maybe asking Meena to come with me.”