“Come, Leila.” My mother pulled me inside. “Those are all bridal dresses. They will be of no use for you. You need something more suitable.”

“Right,” I muttered, wondering if there was a specific selection of dresses for unmarried spinsters that she would be more approving of. As we stepped through the heavy glass doors, we were greeted by the same level of magnificence on the interior—rows and rows of racks filled with vibrant, heavily embroidered silks and chiffons. There were floor-to-ceiling compartments brimming with glittery saris, and tall showcases along the back walls full of accessories and shoes to match any dress in the store. For a brief moment, I forgot all about my mother and drew in a deep breath. It was every girl’s Bollywood dream.

A prissy-faced young saleswoman stepped out from behind one of the counters and walked toward my mother. “Hello, madam, how can I help you?” she said in a heavily affected British accent. She was dressed in a slim black pantsuit and her hair was wound tightly in a topknot, lending a bewildered expression to her heavily made-up face.

“Yes, my daughter is looking for a wedding outfit to wear.”

“Your wedding, miss?” The saleswoman turned toward me.

“No, no, no,” my mother interjected before I could respond. “She is just a guest, not the bride.”

“I see,” the saleswoman replied haughtily, looking me over with pity.

“You know what, I’ll just take a look around myself.” I quickly turned away as my mother continued yammering to the saleswoman about the different styles she felt were “appropriate” for my body type.

I moved to the back corner of the shop, making sure I was clearly out of sight. Once I felt safely invisible again, I began looking through the racks, pulling out anything that caught my eye. There was a gorgeous burgundy lehenga choli with gold and ruby crystals scattered throughout the tulle bottom; I picked out a sleeveless salwar kameez with an elegant high neck, floral designs, and small silver buttons lined delicately down the back; I spotted a navy blue anarkali with a long-sleeved form-fitting bodice covered in golden sequins. I kept pulling and piling dresses over my left arm until it felt like it would collapse under the weight. If I was ever to have a Bollywood moment, it was happening right then—that is, until I turned the corner and bumped straight into my mother. Both her arms were also hidden beneath multiple layers of dresses, as were those of the judgmental saleswoman, who was trailing closely behind her.

“Leila, beti, I have found all these beautiful dresses for you. Why don’t you go in the dressing room and start trying them on,” she said, shoving her pile onto mine. “Oh, and don’t bother trying on some of these darker dresses,” she said pulling out the burgundy lehenga choli, navy anarkali, and about half of the other dresses I had selected. “I can already tell these colors won’t look good against your skin tone.”