Last-Minute Love (Year of the Chick series) (8 page)

Chapter Seven

Two days left...

My house was buzzing with aunts, uncles, elder ladies who shook their heads because I wasn’t engaged yet, and so on.

Tonight was the big night for the “mayian,” which was a pre-wedding ceremony to cleanse
the bride’s soul. What this really meant in my own translation was a big tent in the yard, a catered buffet affair, about seventy guests, and an eventual “jaggo” dance, where the ladies literally balanced a decorated jug on their heads, dancing turn by turn amidst the chanting.

Yeah.

Before any of that fun could begin, all the ladies in our camp needed to get dressed, and because this was an Indian function, thick multi-coloured fabrics embroidered to high heaven were the order of the day. It was a visual delight for all involved, but these layers of fabric needed ironing.

Yet another slave task I didn’t anticipate.

Everyone who knew me knew that I’d rather clean toilets in a prison than iron clothes. Well actually, maybe everyone didn’t know this at all, since friends don’t actually compare household chores in conversation, and if they did...well I’d stop being friends with them right away. So fine, maybe I was the only one who knew, but yes, I hated it! The iron would get so hot and then the steam would make everything hotter, which of course would make me sweat, which was super-annoying when I’d just taken a shower ten minutes ago…
gahh ironing!

The stack of clothing kept growing, as my
sister needed three (no four) decorative Indian outfits ironed, in case she changed her mind at the last minute.
Bridezilla!
By the end I had to take another shower, which left barely half an hour for hair and make-up.

Standing in my room now, this paradox of a
dresser stacked with beauty products next to a bookcase rammed with nerdy history books, I started to curl my hair into its usual voluminous mass. Only seconds into the process, I heard a knock on my bedroom door.

“Can you please do Anju’s hair and makeup?”
said my aunt from the other side.

I opened the door and realized it wasn’t really a question, as my aun
t was already walking away, while my tall and skinny cousin Anju stood awkwardly in the doorway.

I let her inside and wondered why this seventeen-year-old cousin needed somebody else to do her hair and makeup; like wasn’t she obsessed with this stuff? I quickly realized that my cousin, not unlike
myself, had the awkward teenage genes that were prevalent in my family, not to mention the lack of income that would be needed for copious amounts of eye shadow.

I sat her down on the chair beside my dresser and set to work. As I put on the various shades of
eye shadow, I tried not to be jealous of the absence of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. I also tried not to notice how I didn’t have to use concealer on her, since she didn’t have big dark circles under her eyes.

For Anju’s hair I was having some trouble curling it, so I kept on adding
more styling products. Eventually I realized that her hair was so soft and silky it was harder to hold a curl…ohhh what a problem to have! My damaged hair on the other hand could spring into a curl in five seconds.
At least that’s something.

When I finally got rid of Anju
, I had five minutes left to slap on some eye shadow and curl my hair. My sister of course would be thrilled with the sloppy look, as it would greatly increase the contrast with her beauty. I kept reminding myself that her happiness came first since this was her wedding after all, so some sloppy curls later I was ready.

To finish off my outfit (an
emerald green Indian dress with silver embroidery), I put on some earrings that were moderately-sized along with a matching necklace. There was no way in hell that would piss off my sister.

I turned to make my way downstairs,
but before the first step I collided with Anju, who was wearing...giant chandelier earrings. All I could do was gasp, as she smiled and sauntered away. This was the strictest violation of the “Indian girl code” I’d ever witnessed. The code stated that for any kind of Indian party you were at, whether an engagement party or a birthday party or a wedding, each girl’s earrings must not “out-glam” those of the party honoree’s, and the second-in-line honoree’s (which would be me in this case), and so on. Didn’t everybody know this? It was so obvious. Meanwhile this little rat had made me waste all my time on her hair and makeup so I’d spend less time on my own, thus making her out-shine me as well.
Diabolical!

As a quiet revenge, I wished
her the meanest thing of all: that her parents would take her to India one day, and force her to marry some creepy old man from the village.

A
nd may you birth an entire army of dead-beat sons...

***

The light atop the videographer’s camera blinded me, as I, my mother and sister entered the yard on this warm summer’s night. We were each carrying trays with various ceremonial sweets and props, for the soul-cleansing ceremony that would follow. The camera didn’t stay on me for long, because before I knew it twenty or so ladies ambushed my sister and brought her to the “staging area.”

The s
taging area referred to an uncomfortable stoop that Neema was required to sit on (
God help the bride who has early-onset osteoporosis
). Behind the stoop hung rows of shiny coloured fabric, which formed the garish rainbow backdrop that would pop in all the pictures and videos (since the classy white backing of the tent was just too boring for us Indians).

I hid in the back far away from the action, but
before I knew it two Indian friends from my childhood days were beside me. They were non-identical twins and my sister’s age. Both of them were pretty enough, but neither of them was married. And their parents kind of hated them for that.

“Your sister looks so pretty,” said
the first twin Reena.

“What’s with your
cousin’s earrings though?” asked the other twin Neetu.

I sighed. “I know!
I think she stole them from her mom’s bridal jewellery set.” We laughed.

We turned our attention to the makeshift stage, as
my mother finished mixing up a cruddy yellow paste. This stuff would now be rubbed on every exposed part of my sister’s body.

“That’s kind of disgusting,” said Neetu.

I shook my head. “I know dude...I know.”

It was rather fascinating to watch all the aunties jockey for position, so they could grab the largest clump of paste, and rub it on
the largest surface area of Neema’s body. An elder lady who was someone’s cousin’s grandmother or something scored the collarbone, and she rubbed and rubbed while my sister winced in horror. As much as I knew this was a sacred ritual, it was totally hilarious.

My aunt or the earring-code-breaker’s mom took the next bigg
est chunk, and got to rub it up and down my sister’s right arm.

We were almost out of paste and skin
by the time my turn finally came, so I took a small chunk and rubbed it against her cheek. This moment for me was my one small victory against all her Bridezilla behaviour, so I exfoliated the shit out of her goddamn cheek with that paste.

“I’m gonna kill you,” she said.

“Whatever, you’ll be out of the house in two days.” I smiled and walked away.

***

Dinner had come and gone, which meant there was a very clear divide in the party by now. The men were in a side-tent getting their drink on, and the always-sober women were in the centre of the patio, chanting their little hearts out. It was fascinating and wonderful to watch two generations of Indian women, as they recited memorized chants one after the other. Meanwhile they’d take turns balancing a decorated jug or “jaggo” on their heads. The jaggo was lit with oil candles, which sometimes resulted in drops of hot oil landing on old ladies’ foreheads. It was awkward.

As I watched them, I actually felt disappointed in myself
, for never having learned these songs. How would I pass these traditions down to my children? And why had I never been interested in this stuff during all the Indian weddings I’d gone to in my life? I suddenly realized that I’d spent so much time associating Indian weddings with horrific arranged marriages, that I’d blocked out these cultural milestones. Nowadays the music I loved was some new indie rock band or some old-school Madonna, but these chants? They were Greek to me. This one moment represented my failure as a good Indian, but it didn’t make me suddenly obsessed with another pilgrimage to India.
Not yet.
The bigger problem at hand was that I’d barely even seen two specks of the world. I hadn’t even been to Europe! As a writer who wanted to see the world, I’d have to deal with the basics first (
like Paris
), before I ever tried to be a chant-happy Indian.

My aunt broke my spe
ll of inadequacy with a tap on the shoulder. “Come on, we’re going to take the jaggo in the streets now.”

Umm excuse me? A
s in the streets where non-Indians live?

Twenty minutes later (
since that’s how long it takes to organize multiple generations of Indian women
), we made our way down the street in full chanting form. Within seconds, lights started turning on in the houses along the street. As for any cars that would drive on by? God help us. I knew deep down that I wasn’t a teenager anymore, and so I shouldn’t be embarrassed to be “loud and proud” as an Indian, but I felt a bit bad for even being out here. It was eleven o’ clock at night for goodness sake, what if we were waking these people up? Would they call the police?

To my surprise, neighbours
started coming onto their driveways to...wave. And smile. A few seconds later, they all started fiddling with their mobile devices, and a few seconds after that they started videotaping us.
Oh god
. I wanted to believe all these people would show the video to their friends, to tell them how cool Indian people could really be.

T
he pessimist in me decided they’d be posting that shit on YouTube.

From that day forward
, I would always wonder if I was featured on YouTube somewhere, in a video called “Indian Girls Gone Wild”...

***

One day left...

In the corner of a make-shift basement salon, I sat in the spinning chair and held my hands together nervously.

“How does it look?” I asked.

“So beautiful!” said the stylist.

“Now remember,” I said. “I’m not the bride so let’s keep it simple.”

“But your hair curls so beautifully!” said the other stylist.
Thanks to years of damage.

These stylists were actually two young
Pakistani women I’d found on a message board, and they’d agreed to do my wedding hair and makeup for cheap. They were also only a few minutes’ drive from my house, which was enough to convince them to make a free house call before the reception. Today’s work was only a “trial,” but testing out the look was essential before the big day (
I do NOT want them screwing up my look
). I was cutting it pretty close at only a day before the wedding, but if they ended up being horrific I’d just do everything myself.

When they were finally finished I
rose to look in the mirror and gasped. The girls thought I had gasped because I loved it so much. I definitely did love it, but…I looked like I was gunning to be the bride! My hair was curled and coiffed into something you’d do for the Oscars, and my eye shadow possessed a smokiness I had yet to ever pull off myself.

My sister’
s gonna kill me.

I thanked the girls and rushed home, knowing that my sister was out getting waxed and buffed for the big day.

I can totally beat her home.

When I pulled into the driveway her car was already there.

Oh no.

I walked along
the side of the house so I wouldn’t go past her bedroom window, then snuck inside through the sliding door in the back.

I raced through the kitchen and grabbed the banister, but before I could climb the first
step I heard it.

“What
the fuck?”

I turned and once again her eyes burned with “wedding fire,”
but how had she appeared out of nowhere? It was impossible. She must’ve converted from Bridezilla to Bridewitch.

“It was just
the trial,” I said, trying my best not to stammer. “They always try everything, but it won’t end up looking like this at all.”

She was standing mere inches away from me now, as I
suddenly feared for my life. Meanwhile I wondered where everyone was. No witnesses? Weren’t there like twenty people living here right now? Were they all just taking a nap on their basement cots? She grabbed a thick curl and pulled on it. When she let it go it sprung back into place. This seemed to infuriate the beast.