Last-Minute Love (Year of the Chick series) (9 page)

I waited f
or her to say something, but instead she was eerily silent.

“Do you need anything else
before tomorrow?” I said meekly.

“Oh
hh, what do you mean?” she said, her voice getting louder with each word. “Why should you do any work? WHY DON’T YOU JUST PUT ON MY TIARA AND CALL YOURSELF THE BRIDE?!” She stormed upstairs and slammed the door shut.

I breathed in and out as slowly as I could.

It will all be over soon…

Later that night, my sister, mother, aunts, cousins and close friends were seated on various floor mats in the kitchen, waiting to get our “mendhi” or henna patterns done. This was the last thing to do before the big day, and once it was finished we couldn’t mess it up by doing housework, which at last meant a moment to relax!

My sister would be getting a design on her entire forearms and hands, as well as her legs f
rom the knee down. This guaranteed the bride’s design would be fabulous and unmatched.

Most of the other girls were picking flowery patterns, but I wanted something a little mor
e badass. I found one that looked like it was daggers shooting out of my hands.
Cool.
When my mother saw it she still made me get a flowery pattern for the inside of my hands.
Whatever.

My sister and I
weren’t on speaking terms yet, but when she saw my mendhi getting done and confirmed it didn’t extend any further than my wrist, she was appeased.

From there, our
hands were wrapped in plastic and rolls of white gauze bandage, so we could sleep without upsetting the pattern. My sister, with half her arms and legs now completely bandaged, looked a lot like a mummy or a burn victim. That and the fact that it was itchy made her very frustrated, which of course was hilarious to me. I could hear her complaining right up until she went to bed.

I
f she even went to bed.

Neema’s
wakeup call was three a.m., for what would undoubtedly be a big fat Indian wedding…

Chapter Eight

Yelling.

A baby crying.

There’s a baby staying here?

Pots clanging.

Mother’s yelling louder than anyone else’s.

Yes, it was six a.m.
and the big day was here.

I brushed my teeth and str
olled into my sister’s room, because according to the time she should’ve been ready by now.

When I saw her I tried not to flinch.

“Is it done?” I asked.

“What?”
she said.

“Your makeup.”

“Yes it’s done; she just has to do the lashes.” The makeup artist nodded. “Wait, why did you say that?” Paranoia swept across her face. “Doesn’t it look done? TELL ME!”

I smiled reassuringly.
“Calm down it looks fine, just hurry up and finish your hair.”

I walked
down the stairs with my eyes still in shock from what I’d seen. Is this what they did to Indian brides on their wedding day? Eyebrows penciled in so thick and lipstick so pink that you’d confuse her for a drag queen?
A lovely drag queen mind you, but “draggy” nonetheless.

I
made a mental note to never let the makeup artist know I was the bride on my wedding day.

If I ever have a wedding day...

***

An hour later, with more babies screaming now (
where the hell did all these babies come from?!
), I stood in front of the mirror tying my hair into an elegant ponytail. Since this was a Sikh wedding ceremony, I had to tie my hair and cover my head, with the help of the flowy head-covering draped across my bed. This turquoise covering matched perfectly with the long turquoise blouse and matching tights which were my “Indian suit” attire. Though some might consider turquoise an ugly colour (easily associated with hideous bridesmaids dresses), I was freshly tanned and capable of pulling it off. Not to mention that the shiny silver and (fake) diamond jewellery would add a nice touch. I held up a mid-sized chandelier earring to my face, wanting something bigger...but knowing that I wasn’t the bride.

One day
my time will come...let’s hope.

***

I stood outside my parents’ bedroom, rolling my eyes at least once every five or six seconds. Meanwhile my sister, now looking resplendent in her pink Indian dress with the blinding embroidery, put on her huge chandelier earring as the camera rolled.

The scraggly Indian videographer directed her each step of the way, with his constant “Smile now! Look here now!” instructions.
He’d chosen my parents’ bedroom as the movie set, since their inexplicably large dresser and matching furniture would look great on camera. As for me, I couldn’t stop rolling my eyes because this fake-smiling bride was the very same one who’d been terrorizing me every day. This was an Oscar-worthy performance.

A distant cry reminded me of all the random babies that were crawling around the house. I decided to quickly check on them, but before I could head downstairs
the videographer called for attention.

“All come in now! For family moments!”

What the hell is a family moment?

“Brother! Pa
rents! Sister! We need you here!”

A few minutes later
with all of us gathered in the bedroom, my greatest fear regarding awkward family videos was realized. For our whole lives, my siblings and I had avoided displays of affection; any affection at all was our sibling kryptonite. For this very reason I watched in horror, as the director acted out exactly how myself and then my brother should hug my sister for the camera. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d hugged my sister, but my best guess was sometime in the nineteen-eighties.

After taking all the direction l
ike a champ, the camera started rolling and I was off. I walked towards my sister---this Bridezilla of nightmarish proportions---with the slowest of awkward steps. My walk was so unnatural that I looked like I was holding a DVD player between my legs, like a thief had once done in the store I used to work at as a cashier. Since I wasn’t actually straddling any electronics, I must’ve looked like Brendan Fraser in “Encino Man,” when his caveman self first melted out of the ice and remembered how to walk. When I was three feet away from her, I reached out my arms and patted her shoulders, which maintained a safe and non-affectionate distance.

“No, no, no.” The director
switched off the camera, as his Indian head bobbled rapidly in disdain. He then showed me how our bodies were meant to touch, with my cheek on Neema’s shoulder as the finishing touch.

“
Maybe you can add me in with some special effects,” I suggested.

The Indian director sighed as he grabbed the camera,
while leading me back into position. A moment later he yelled “action!” for the second take. This time I grudgingly did as I was told, and tried not to stare directly at my sister’s layers of makeup as I closed in for the hug.

My parents completed their shots without any issues, but my bro
ther Sonny ended up taking fifteen takes. He blamed the suit for his stiffness, but in reality I could tell that just the thought of touching my sister was making him sick.

At least we don’t have to worry about incest...

***

After what
seemed like three hours of filming, the wedding party and some stragglers were finally leaving the house, herding their way through the beautiful flowered archway (
which I’d built all by myself
), then piling into the SUV limo.

At least
they “attempted” to pile their way into the SUV limo.

It only took a few second
s to realize there were too many people and not enough limo seats. In the end, all the “on-the-fringe aunties” had to take their own cars to the temple, and based on their expressions I just knew it was the start of a feud that would last two decades.

Once the legit family members w
ere in the limo and it peeled away, my mother began to stare at me. Usually this was the start of a critique about my flaws, so I quickly straightened out my head covering, or anything else on this turquoise Indian outfit that might be wrong.

To my surprise,
she simply said “Beautiful.”

I patiently waited
for the punch line.

There wasn’t one.

I didn’t have a tape recorder, but I would cherish that moment forever.

***

“You should eat something,” I said. My sister and I were alone in the bridal room, with the ceremony only minutes away. This “bridal room” was a combination of stacks of books on the history of Sikh religion, religious icons painted on big canvases, and glass walls so everyone who walked by could stare at us like paparazzi. Most of those oglers were children with sticky-looking hands.

My sister
meanwhile, with her hundred or so bangles on each arm, slowly massaged her stomach. “Fine, give me that samosa.”

I eyed the greasy
samosa on the plate. “What else have you eaten today?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing since three a.m.?”

“No.”

“Then you probably shouldn’t be eating fried dough filled with spicy potatoes.”

“GIVE IT ME!”

Uh-oh, Bridezilla’s back.

I handed
her the plate and watched her take a bite. I watched her chew, swallow, pause…then puke it all out into the nearby waste bin. A few children screamed and ran away. It didn’t seem like the right time to say “I told you so.”

I handed her a tissue instead.

The door opened a second later and my brother nodded his head.

Time for b
ig sis to get married…with some nice rancid vomit breath.

***

In the traditional Sikh temple, the men sat on the floor on one side and the women on the other. In every wedding ceremony I’d been to, I would pray for it to be over as my butt would get all sore and my shoulder muscles would burn. This wedding was no different, except I wanted to get this over with so I could focus on my many duties at the reception, like emceeing the entire thing and making a speech.
It’ll be fine, half the audience barely understands English.

I watched my sister walk around the temple altar for the fourth and final time, with her soon-to-be husband leading the way. He was dressed in a traditional Indian “kurta” (long golden shirt, matching pants) with a turban and a beard he’d t
ried to grow. That turban would be getting tossed and the beard shaved clean by the time of the reception. This made me very glad, since right now he was channelling the “creepy uncle” vibe.

They sat back down in their spots, and with
some final words of blessing in Punjabi, the ceremony was over. There wasn’t any applause or loud “woohoos” as the couple made out, because first of all applause never happened in a serious temple, and second of all Indian couples didn’t really kiss each other in public.

Instead
it was all about “CASH MONEY,” as a throng of guests lined up to drape garlands over the bride and groom, and more importantly to give them cash. Considering this monetary windfall, and then more cash in envelopes when the guests made their way to the reception, my sister and her husband had a shot at breaking even from this wedding.

The Indi
an wedding: a very well thought-out business plan...

***

I slowly inched away from the kitchen, while my mother still sat at the table...wailing. I could barely see her, as other aunties and a few of the grannies surrounded her in a hug like it was a rugby huddle. Crying was like vomiting to me, meaning that if I saw someone doing it, whether on TV or in real life, my body wanted to do it too. I tried to maintain my composure by clearing my throat multiple times, but this sob-fest wasn’t anywhere close to done.

No one had died today, but ten minutes
earlier at precisely three p.m., the caravan of husband and wife had officially left my parents’ driveway. An hour before, family members and friends had welcomed the new couple back here, with tea, Indian sweets, laughter, and (more) money. In stark contrast, the scene was now post-apocalyptic. This was no surprise in the Indian world, because as soon as the daughter left, the mother’s marathon weep-fest was required to begin.

I had seen this three p.m
. weep-fest several times, at aunts’ or second-cousins’ weddings. I assumed the emotions were genuine, but that didn’t make it any less theatrical.

Even though I hadn’t earned my role as a “hugger” of the wee
per (you had to be married for that), I’d feel bad for running away.

On the ot
her hand it was extremely awkward.

I inched
even further away from the kitchen, and a second later my prayer for escape was answered.

Ding-donnnng!

I sprinted for the door, and when I opened it I was greeted by two Pakistani women.

H
air and makeup at your service!

I wasn’t sure if Muslim weddings included weep-fests as well, but when I gestured to the kitchen and the sounds echoing out, they nodded and seemed to understand.

I thought about how early I needed to be ready, in order to make sure everything was on time at the reception hall. Then I thought about my mother, still wailing in the kitchen and wanting us to share in her misery.

In a moment of true narcissism, I signalled for the girls to keep quiet
, and snuck them upstairs to my room.

Sorry mom, but I am NOT half-assing my hair...

***

After weeks of soaking up the sun in whatever increments of time I could manage, I at last looked like a girl who belonged in a
pink and gold saree. The dark pink and silver embroidery glinted off my medium brown skin, while my matching chandelier earrings popped from within my mass of curls.

“T
here’s only one problem,” I said, as I batted my fake eye-lashes at the mirror (
Indian weddings of direct family members: the only time I fake it out with “falsies.”
)

“What is it?” one of the stylists
asked.

“What if it falls?” I pulled at the part of my saree that was wrapped around my lower back and hips. There were many ways to wear a saree,
and some of those options didn’t show any skin at all. Today I had chosen against the no-skin goody-goody option.
Sorry, dad.

My stylists assured me I was safely and expertly pinned, but would the paranoid me who thought her saree would
unravel when she rose to make her speech believe them?

Seven more safety-pins later I was out the door...