“But I am happy, Ammi.” I tried again to reassure her as convincingly as I could.

“Yes, yes, I know,” she said with a sigh. I hated how she always made me feel so guilty. I wanted to be happy too, but how could I tell her that my happiness was not defined in the same way hers was? She was convinced that my getting married would bring me happiness, but truth be told, these last few months had been utterly miserable for me. In retrospect, I realized I had been much happier before this process started—before she had gotten involved and tried to “help” me.

“It’s very difficult, beti,” she continued. “You don’t understand how hard it is when everybody keeps asking me why you are still unmarried. What am I supposed to say?”

“Why is it anybody else’s business?” I blurted angrily. “I mean, who cares if I’m not married! Why does everyone keep bringing it up? They should be more concerned about Meena’s marriage, not what’s going on in my life!” I slumped back against the seat, my heart raging inside my chest.

“Because that is not how it works, Leila,” my mother replied calmly. “Beti, once you pass a certain age, people start wondering . . .” She trailed off.

“Wondering what?”

“Wondering if something . . . is wrong.” She looked at me. “I just don’t want people to think I’ve failed as your mother.” Her face looked so small and fatigued.

“I’m trying, Ammi. I am. I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

“Just try harder, Leila. Please, do it for me and your father. That is all we ask.”

I looked away, fuming. Why was it so hard for my mother to see that I had been trying? That I was still trying? My reason for marrying was not the same as hers. Or my father’s. Or the same as Meena’s. I was still trying my best to find a way to please them and satisfy their expectations; however, nothing I did, it seemed, would ever be enough. Somehow, my mother never missed an opportunity to remind me of what a disappointment I was. Or how I was causing her to fail. Only she could find a way to somehow make this about her. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the hot tears pushing against my lids. We hadn’t even started shopping yet, and it was like high school graduation all over again. At least some things never changed.

Sari Not Sorry

SEASONS. The slanting red letters in front of the store summoned us from across the street.

“There.” My mother pointed. “That is where we must go.” I slung my messenger bag across my shoulders and quickly followed her into the busy street—trying not to get leveled by a rickshaw. As we neared the entrance, I stopped to admire the breathtaking window displaying dozens of mannequins dressed in the most beautiful Indian outfits I had ever seen. Every dress looked like it had just stepped out of a scene from Bajirao Mastani.