“I’m not ending with your wedding.”
“I’m serious. You think they’ll listen to a whole story about us without at least one shaadi scene? Those guys live for our sequins and jalebis.”
“It’s not for those guys.”
“Still gotta get it past them, babe.”
If only to subvert Naima’s cynicism, I really didn’t want to end with a shaadi scene. But Shiba, as if in unconscious collusion, texted me just a few days later, completely out of the blue, for the first time since we’d said goodbye in Delhi.
Hi, Anisa. I’m sorry for not getting in touch sooner. I can explain. I’m in London later this week. Please can we meet?
I had thought about texting Shiba a couple of times after my return to London but never went through with it. I realized, however, upon receiving her text, that even after all that had happened, I still would have dropped everything to see her. But no, I stopped myself. This time, she needed to come to me.
Super busy with Naima’s wedding.
But you can swing by if you want? It’s on Friday.
K. Text me the address.
·
So, despite my feelings about Azeem, I have to admit that Naima’s wedding day was nothing but love. It was moving to see her friends and family gather, showering their hopes and blessings on the couple. And I could see how such events, with the mass of support and well wishes they bring, can help to solidify something as tenuous as the attempted union of two souls. Also, the food was delicious, the music was great, and the dance floor was blazing for hours on end.
For most of the ceremony, Naima was sitting on the stage wearing an elaborate maroon lehnga that was so heavy it had taken the both of us to lift the box when it first arrived from the designer. She sat with Azeem beside her, who was dressed in a gold-and-white sherwani and bright-blue pagri. They both had smiles plastered on their faces while group after group came to pose with them for photographs. I stood by the stage waiting for an opportunity to say hello. Then, seizing a gap between guests, I went in.
“Naima!”
“Anisa, oh my god, this dupatta is killing me.”
“Oh, wait, I know,” I said, remembering my sister having the same issue at her own wedding. I stood behind her and lifted the fabric off her shoulders, holding the weight of it in my hands.
“Ah, thank you. Just stay like that forever. So, is she here yet?” Naima asked. I pretended not to know who she was talking about, but she just rolled her eyes. “You know who.”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Okay, well, point her out when she arrives.”
“Anisa!” Naima’s mum called out from below, gesturing toward the photographer and instructing me to stop holding up Naima’s shoulders. I readjusted her dupatta and sat next to her instead. Azeem, on her other side, was accepting an envelope from Naima’s khala with a big grin on his face. The khala positioned herself between the couple and stuffed a laddoo into Azeem’s mouth despite his vehement protests. She aimed for Naima next but Naima pointed to the bowl of M&M’s in front of her that she was using as a laddoo substitute.
“One of those instead, Khala.”
“Silly girl,” her khala said. “Skin and bones.” But she assented, popping a single blue M&M into Naima’s mouth and kissing her on the forehead.
“You look good, Azeem,” I yelled so he’d hear me over the commotion.
I aimed an orange M&M his way, gesturing for him to catch it with his mouth. He obliged, and I missed. The dot landed on his sherwani. Straightaway, he picked it up and popped it into his mouth, still grinning.
“Thank you!” he yelled and gave me a thumbs-up. He looked so happy. My mother would have said, if she’d been there, that he looked like “the cat that got the cream.”
I made my way to the dance floor next, one eye still on the lookout for Shiba. Naima’s cousins were at its center, dragging in uncles and aunties who would oblige them with short dances met with hooting and hollering. Other friends and family watched from the side, clapping along to the beat, and little children wove through the crowd, jumping around ecstatically. Some of Naima’s younger cousins were dancing in a tight circle in the corner, erupting in laughter now and then and not-so-surreptitiously passing around a hip flask. I joined a group of our friends from uni and allowed myself to be taken by the music. I hadn’t seen some of these people in years, and as we danced and danced, it was as if we were summoning back our eighteen-year-old selves. We emerged from the dance floor, faces glowing, just as the food was being served. And that’s when I saw her. Shiba. By the door, holding a Pepsi bottle. She was wearing a bright-pink sari with a silver blouse, her braid draped over one shoulder. I walked over to her.
“Hi,” I said. “I wasn’t sure you were going to come.”
“Sorry I’m so late.”
“It’s okay. Nice to see you’re still alive.”
“I’m really sorry I went so quiet, Anisa. I just didn’t know what to say.”
“It’s fine. Me neither,” I said. “Are you hungry?”
“Always.”
We made our way to the buffet and then to the table where my friends from uni were sitting. I had become vegetarian by then, and so my plate was filled with daal, palak paneer, and cholay, but Shiba’s karahi looked so good that I had to dip my sheermal in, just to try the shorba.
“So, what brings you to London?” I asked eventually.
“To tell the truth, I came to attend a memorial service.”
“Oh no. Who for?”
“Well. That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. David, Anisa. He passed away three days ago.”
“Oh my god, David David? How?”
“A Jet Ski accident, apparently. He had family in London, so they gathered here to pay their respects. Papa came, too, and Eric and George.”
My stomach churned when I heard that Arjun was in London. I had compartmentalized my experience in such an extreme manner that I hadn’t considered him being able to leave Delhi. I imagined him bursting through the doors of the shaadi hall, furiously wagging incriminating photos and private messages extracted from my iCloud. The idea of sharing my story according to Naima’s plan suddenly felt fraught, more loaded with danger.
At the same time, David’s passing incited sympathy in me. David, with his shaved head and thick biceps, who held himself, always, very upright. David, who put tahini on everything and always skipped dessert, who roamed around Delhi wearing Fabindia kurtis and had named his son Ravi. David, who, like the rest of the foursome, spent a whole lot of time contemplating legacy.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said and recited the prayer in my head, Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.
“Me too,” she said. “I … well, that’s kind of why I came to see you, actually. When you first came to India, I was so excited to let you in. And then, everything just … listen, I’m sorry—”
“Seriously, it’s fine,” I interrupted.
I was only just starting to extricate myself from this drama and wasn’t going to be sucked back in. I tried to change the subject and lighten the mood, introducing Shiba to my uni friends, but she had an uncanny way of holding herself at a distance, as if she were in an ecosystem apart. In response, she received a kind of deference, and even admiration, but also cut off the possibility of any real connection. Eventually, the party started winding down. The music was lowered and then switched off, and some of Naima’s cousins began to clear up the hall, stacking chairs and collapsing tables. Guests trickled out.