“How is it down there?” she asked.
“I might have told Samir Uncle I’m trying to paint professionally.” He twisted his mouth and pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, the way he so often did when he was lying or was nervous, completely unaware of his habit, and this instantly endeared him to Hadia. It was him. Her brother. The expression was an exaggerated version of itself—his jaw had become defined, cheeks hollow, but it was his unmistakable, signature look.
She tried to say his name in a scolding tone but began laughing at the thought of Samir Uncle, the most gullible friend of their father’s. The old Hadia would have told him to be careful—that everyone either would know he was lying right away or would soon find out. But she was not sure anymore what she could tease him about without causing offense. Again she tapped at the spot beside her.
“You look really beautiful,” he said.
“Not too much?” She lifted her decorated arms that looked like they belonged to someone else, gestured to her jewelry. He shook his head.
“Mumma must be so happy. You finally accepted one,” he said.
“It wasn’t arranged.”
He looked surprised for a moment. Then he smiled. “Now I’m not the only one who has disappointed them.”
“No. But you did make it a little easier for me to.”
Was their laughter born of ease or discomfort? Amar took a seat by her. A boyishness still lingered in the way he carried himself. You won’t tell Baba, will you, he would ask her, each time he snuck out telling her to leave his window open, or anytime she caught him smoking. Always the same look on his face. Always the big brown eyes. All those nights she had spent waiting at the window for him, tracing the little etching he had carved on his windowsill, tensing each time there was a creak in the house that could be their parents waking to discover them. As the years passed he stopped waiting for her answer—he did not doubt her, he already knew, had always known, that she would never tell.
“I wanted to ask if you would do something for me,” she said now.
“Anything.”
He hadn’t hesitated. His tone so sincere she felt sure she had been right to invite him. She explained to him that she would soon walk downstairs with her eyes downcast, with only Huda to guide her. Her closest friends would be holding a red net cloth above her as she walked through the crowd to the edge of the stage, where Baba would be waiting to lead her up the stairs to Tariq.
“Will you walk on the other side of me?” she asked.
Amar nodded.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
She reached over to put her hand over his. It did not matter if the old way between them was gone and a new way would have to be found; it was a comfort to sit next to him, the kind of comfort only possible between two people who had been in each other’s earliest memories.
“I have something for you,” Amar said, reaching into his suit pocket and pulling out a small, messily taped package. “But don’t open it yet.”
He placed it in her hand. She shook it a little, tried to guess what it could be. She tucked it in her purse and told him it would be the first gift she opened. He was solemn, looking down at his own lap. Then came the knock at the door. Amar helped her stand. When they opened the door, Mumma’s eyes filled at the sight of her. Huda too had to touch beneath her eyes with her knuckle, and this surprised her, Huda being the one among them who was never emotional, and Hadia nudged her as if to say not you too.
“Are you ready?” Huda asked.
And everything Hadia had not been thinking of all day rushed toward her, and she told herself: Huda is asking you if you are ready to go downstairs and walk through the hall, and if you nod yes to this, then it means you want to be with Tariq, you are ready to be. To him and to that life, she nodded yes.
The photographer lifted his camera. Her mother touched Hadia’s forehead with her index finger and traced Ya Ali in Arabic, the gesture done for her protection and luck before every first day of school, every big exam, any flight she had to catch. Something about the movement of her mother’s finger on her forehead, the look of concentration on her face as she prayed, calmed and comforted Hadia. Even if she could not bring herself to pray for grand things, she could trust her mother’s faith, depend on her mother’s belief. Mumma fixed her ghoongat so that half of Hadia’s face was hidden for the entrance. Huda took the crook of her arm. Before taking a step Hadia turned to Amar and held her other arm out until he took it.
Her wedding was both a celebration of the life she was about to embark upon and a night to mark the departure from her old life at home. Her friends waited by the elevator and stretched their arms high to hold the red cloth like a canopy above her. The cloth filtered the light red and had little mirrors sewn into it that threw sparkles on the carpet. The drummer began to drum for her arrival and she felt the beating in her whole body. She stepped forward.
They entered the hall and on the periphery she could see the rows of tables, people seated in chairs whispering, taking photos that flashed. They stopped walking and her friends removed the red cloth and the light was suddenly golden and warm. Huda whispered in her ear, “You can look up now.”
Baba was holding his hand out for her, a look of tenderness on his face she swore she had never seen before. Baba kissed her forehead softly so that the jewels of the teekah did not dig into her skin and Hadia was surprised by how deeply cared for it made her feel. He led her up the stairs to the stage. And there was Tariq, and the drummer stilled his beat, and she was struck by how handsome Tariq looked in the light, handsome in the cream-colored sherwani he wore, and she prayed, Please God, let me remember this. When their eyes met he grinned and she knew: I chose this. I chose him. This is my life. I did not think it would be possible for me. But it is. It will be.
* * *
SOMEONE HAD SPILLED water on the front of her sari and it bloomed into a dark, embarrassing splotch. Layla excused herself to try and dry it as best as she could. She hoped this fabric was not the kind that stained after it got wet. There were pictures they needed to take. She wanted one good family photo to replace the one that hung in their living room. It was about time she took it down. She had not changed a single photo since Amar left. She glanced once more at her daughter seated on the stage next to Tariq, a modest gap between them until the nikkah was complete. The two of them were smiling and speaking discreetly. They looked like a king and queen of an ancient, magnificent time. She walked quickly with her head down and burned with pride when she overheard a table of women saying how luminous the bride looked.
Never had she looked at her daughter with as much awe as when Hadia stepped from the hotel room, looking both mature and ready for this step and also like that hesitant, wide-eyed girl she had dropped off on the first day of kindergarten. How long she and Rafiq had waited for this moment. It had come later than she might have wanted—her daughter would soon be twenty-seven, and with every year that passed her worry had grown, especially when attending the weddings of younger and younger girls, while Hadia insisted her priority was finishing her studies. But there was much to be thankful for. Tariq was respectful, an educated young man. Layla reminded herself that he was the kind of man they had wanted for her. Rafiq too had taken to him more than he liked to admit.