For the next ten minutes, we were introduced to potas and potis, bhaiyas and bhabhis, chachas and chachis. Even the padosis from every floor in the building had come by to greet us. I stood there amid a sea of people, smiling as politely as I could, trying to respond to their questions in broken Urdu.

“Arey, we all speak English here!” one of the chachas teased as I stumbled over my words, and the whole room broke into laughter. I flushed a deep red.

“Oh, and this here is Meena,” Jamila aunty interrupted, pulling forward the arm of a thin, fresh-faced girl and bringing her forward.

“As’salaamu Alaikum, aunty,” Meena said shyly, looking at my mother. She had fair skin, long black hair that was loosely braided to the side, and slight dimples that deepened as she smiled. She was wearing a bright pink salwar kameez and her dupatta was wrapped lightly around her head. I crammed my hands into the pockets of my track jacket. Of course she’s prettier than her photographs, I thought miserably. I shrank back toward the door.

“Walaikum As’salaam.” My mother pulled her close and kissed her on both cheeks. “And Mubarak, beti!” Meena blushed and smiled. “We are so happy we could be here to attend your shaadi!”

“I’m so glad you came all this way, aunty,” Meena said, her voice soft and gentle. She looked around quietly. “And where is Leila?”

My mother glanced back and spotted me a few feet behind her, still swatting at the mosquitoes. She took my hand and pulled me to the front. “Here she is.”

“Hi,” I said, lifting my hand in a small, awkward wave. I had my hair matted in a messy bun, beads of perspiration across my forehead, and a tangled messenger bag wrapped around my waist—for every ounce of grace that was Meena, I was an ounce of hot mess. If I had known we would be meeting half of Mumbai upon our arrival, I would’ve dressed up more.

“Hi!” Meena replied, a hint of excitement rising in her voice.

“Meena, beti, let’s get Leila and her mother something to eat,” Jamila aunty suggested. “They’ve had a very long flight, and they must be very hungry!”

Within seconds, Meena and a gaggle of aunties began buzzing around as they cleared the dining table and disappeared into the kitchen to prepare dinner for all the guests. My mother made herself busy by helping out wherever she could, and the sound of chatter filled every corner of the flat. All the men in the family sat in the drawing room cheering loudly at a cricket game while the women could be heard laughing and talking in the kitchen. I wasn’t used to such distinctly separated spaces for men and women. Being deficient both domestically and socially in a room full of strangers made me uncomfortable to enter either space, so I lingered around awkwardly trying not to get in the way.

I found a secluded seat on the window ledge between the living and dining rooms—away from all the noise—and tried to make myself invisible. Every now and then, an aunty would appear from the kitchen and offer me spicy pakoras, warm, flaky samosas, or steaming masala chai. I accepted all of it, eating quietly as I observed the commotion around me from a distance. Each time Meena would come out with a tray of something to place on the dining table, she would glance over at me and smile. I looked away, busying myself with my plates of food so I wouldn’t have to converse with her, but I could still feel her watching me. What is her problem? I wondered, wiping my hands on my jeans. Hasn’t she ever seen an American girl eat before?