The Wedding
Ella
Aunty Zareena had never looked so ecstatic in her life. She was floating, her cream silk sari neatly pinned, her graying hair swept away in a bun. She was laughing and weeping all at the same time. A week remained for Sam’s wedding, and her in-laws were going to be coming over today with the traditional bridal trousseau and to begin the official festivities. I knew Sam would be upstairs going through her closet still trying to decide on the appropriate outfit for the occasion. I shouted out to her as I ran up. It was odd but I didn’t hear her reply. So I knocked. A few long minutes later, “Ya, come in.”
As I entered Sam’s room, I noticed the expected pile of clothes on her closet floor. What I didn’t expect was Sam standing in her jeans by her window. I closed the door behind me and waited for her to say something.
“I can’t do this, Ella.”
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Shehzad had approached Sam about two years ago after he had seen her at a health clinic that she volunteered at every month. Although originally from New York, he had recently started his residency at Cook County Hospital. He had decided to dedicate some of his time at the health clinic in efforts to meet new people, perhaps in hopes of making new friends. For the first few months he didn’t say more than the occasional “How are you?” But then one Sunday afternoon, he asked her if she would like to get a bite to eat afterwards. Sam, being herself, had agreed.
“Samar! Are you dressed yet? They’re ten minutes away!”
“She’s almost done Aunty!” I replied before Sam could say anything. She looked at me, her eyes looked dry as if all that they could give had already flowed. With nothing left to say, I helped her get dressed in silence. I handed the pale pink salwar khamees to her. As she got dressed, I ironed her hijab. My eyes didn’t have the courage to meet her gaze because I knew I had failed her. As Sam pinned her hijab and slipped on her glass bracelets, we heard door bell and the many excited voices in her living room. For a moment I stood admiring her, her pink khamees embellished with embroidery that looked like a delicate flowering vine, along the edges of her neckline and sleeves. Her long duppata, covered with embroidered flowers of pearls and crystals, lay on her shoulders. Her eyes carefully lined with dark khol, her glossed lips sparkling.
Sam waited to be summoned downstairs, and I waited beside her. The hour had passed by in silence, but it seemed like each passing moment had been an eternity. The door opened and Ahmed quietly motioned for us to come down. As I followed Sam down the stairs, I could see the faces of her in-laws light up at their descending bride to-be. As Ahmed walked Sam across the room, all eyes were on her - studying the curve of her cheekbones, her every step, and every piece of gleaming glass that adorned her wrist. Ahmed seated Sam next to Shehzad, her eyes lowered. Her silent sadness veiled by the blush of a new bride. They made an odd couple, like a sturdy oak and a delicate Orchid vine planted side by side. Both beautiful, but somehow unmatched. Shehzad's face was filled with his usual confidence – bronzed and chiseled, he reminded me of a statue prepared to face anything nature threw at him. He sat tall, his navy blue jodhpuri ironed crisp, his brown eyes sparkling behind his silver frames.
They were surrounded by the many trays, baskets and gift boxes that had been presented to Sam’s family. Rich reds, bright blues, antique golds, delicate silvers – glittering in all their glory. I moved to the back of the room where Aunty Zareena stood, watching her daughter blossom into the bride that she had always dreamed of. After all, she had planned for this day since Sam had been born. She would finally pass on to Samar the family heirlooms, the recipes, the traditions she had so protectively guarded, waiting for this day to be. With my arm around her shoulders, we shared our tears. We were both losing Sam in someway.
With the energetic beat of the dhol, Shehzad’s aunts began singing the customary Punjabi wedding songs. Everyone clapped with the steady beat of the dhol, the aura of excitement filling every corner of the Khan home. Sam sat as demure as ever, her hands neatly clasped in her lap. Her platinum emerald cut solitaire that carried the weight of her world twinkled amongst the camera flashes. Shehzad’s mother, Mrs. Akbar came forth with a square burgundy box. She took out two gold bangles, delicately carved and studded with rubies and emeralds. She gently slid them on to Sam's wrist, her face covered with excitement. She then kissed Sam's forehead, and attempted to whisper unsuccessfully, “A beautiful bride for my Shehzad. Now all I have to hope for is many beautiful grandchildren.” As the room burst into giggles, Sam smiled, and Shehzad’s eyes never left the prize that he had just won.
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