“Makeup? Even the men?” Meena covered her mouth and giggled. I broke into a grin.

“And let me tell you about this one time I had this run-in with this homeless woman, but it turned out to be Jared Leto . . .”

* * *

That night as I lay in bed next to Meena, I thought about everything she had shared with me. For her, marriage was a ticket to freedom. A chance at independence—something that was not accessible to her as a single woman. What was the purpose of marriage for me? My father married because it offered him a companion, someone who would care for him in a foreign land where he had no one else. My mother married because it gave her the opportunity to live abroad, a destiny not given to anyone else in her family. What will a husband offer to me? Besides simply appeasing my parents or living out a Bollywood fantasy, how will marriage enhance my life in a way that being single can’t? I had independence, opportunities, companionship, people who cared for me. Yet I had focused all my energy these last few months on finding a spouse. As I lay there enclosed beneath a cocoon of mosquito netting, I found myself questioning what my ultimate purpose was. Was it marriage itself? Or was there something greater?

Seeing Double

“Oye! Thoda is taraf!”

“Yahaan par?”

Dhak! Dhak!

“Thoda us taraf . . . bas! Ab frame bilkul sahi lag rahi hai!”

I rubbed my eyes and turned over. The sound of voices hammering outside my door had stirred me awake. The other half of the bed was neatly made—sheets smoothed, pillows propped. Meena was not there. I pulled back the thin gauze of mosquito netting and wrapped a robe around myself. Yawning, I walked down the darkened hallway toward the commotion. What time is it? And where is everyone?

I peeked into the kitchen before stepping into the living room—the source of all the noise. The room was teeming with almost a dozen people—none of whom I recognized from last night—all working meticulously on every square inch of space. There were short, potbellied uncles holding clipboards and shouting instructions. There were sari-clad aunties bustling around as they arranged elaborate bouquets and adorned the windows and door frames with colorful garlands made of carnations, roses, and marigolds.

I walked through the room, taking in all the sights and smells. The sweet scent of gardenias lingered in the air, mixed with an aromatic incense. All the sofas had been pushed against the walls, leaving a large open space in the center of the room in front of an impressive makeshift stage. Along the other three walls were scattered dozens of pillows and cushions, silk and embroidered. The stage was embellished with yards of bright silky fabrics that draped elegantly over two chairs with beautiful designs hand-carved into the wooden frames. A big gold-sequined heart was centered behind the chairs. The words MEENA + HAROON were spelled out in blooming crimson roses. I held my breath, taking in the vibrancy of the decor—the yellows and reds and purples and teals. The colors were loud yet understated. Over-the-top, yet classy. It was beautiful. It was exactly how I imagined a traditional Indian mehendi ceremony to look. It was exactly how I’d dreamed my own Bollywood-themed wedding would look . . .