My face bright pink, I pull her back up and she glares at me, too angry to say anything. Her hijab and head jewellery askew, she grits her teeth and limps out of the room, clutching on to the parts of the saree that have come undone. I follow her, but not before I spot the look of amusement on the guy’s face.
‘What the hell was that!’ Samia explodes the minute we enter the restroom. She whips around to look in the mirror and upon seeing her dishevelled appearance, turns a scary shade of purple. I gulp and offer to help sort it out.
‘You don’t even know how to put on a saree!’ she hisses and starts fixing it herself. I’m too scared to start reapplying my lippy now, so I hang back with a guilty look on my face.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble when she’s finally sorted herself out. ‘I got a bit carried away.’
‘Carried away doing what?’ she demands, giving me a look. She appears to be slightly calmer now so I tell her about the guy and my epic fail to ignore him and look cool and mysterious.
‘Well, the illusion is shattered,’ she sighs, and I smile wryly back, dreading the fact that I have to walk back in there.
We leave the bathroom and linger around the foyer for a while, still working up the courage to head back into the hall. On one side there is a drinks station set up with fresh juices and mocktails, and a gelato stand with a range of different flavours. On the other, there are two stalls, one with a lady dressed in a bright green saree wrapping up fresh paan with betelnuts and all the traditional accompaniments; and the other, a skinny man frying up chana choor mixed with lemon juice, chilli, fresh onions and coriander. The fragrance of the chillies and lemon is too good to resist, and since it’s already two and neither lunch nor the bride are anywhere in sight, I help myself to a little cone and dig in. Samia doesn’t want to look greedy or drop any on her clothes so decides to swallow her embarrassment and go back to our table.
A group of drummers dressed in white sherwanis burst into the building and start pounding a traditional Punjabi beat. Their energy is infectious and immediately everyone in the hall (apart from the really old or really religious) stands up and starts clapping to the beat.
The huge bridal party follows in a haze of pink. In the middle of all her siblings and cousins is the bride, looking absolutely breathtaking in a white raw silk lengha covered in crystals, carrying a pretty floral bouquet. I have no idea how she’s managing to walk with the stone-encrusted dupatta weighing down on her complicated updo and the long train of her skirt. She is clutching on to her dad for dear life and is looking downwards, as is the custom for Bengali brides. You can’t look too happy, you see. If you do, everyone will think you’ve had a love marriage and couldn’t care a toss about leaving the safety of your parental home.
After the bride and groom unite on the stage and exchange flower garlands, we finally get to eat. The food, as always, is the main event at our weddings and everyone tucks in as though they haven’t eaten in days. Except me. I’m too afraid of dropping curry onto my expensive saree and humiliating myself even more than I already have done.
The happy couple also eat during this time, and I notice how ecstatic they both look. There was a time in the not-so-distant past when Bengali girls didn’t meet their future husbands until their wedding day; and even then, they were too shy/respectful/scared to glance at the man they would be expected to share a bed with. They would sit there, dressed in beautifully adorned red silk sarees with red dupattas draped low over their heads and faces. Their vision obscured, they wouldn’t dare to look up even when feeding their new life-partnermishti. I’ve lost count of the number of wedding photos I’ve seen where the bride is looking in one direction, and her arm is pointed in another as she reluctantly brings rasmalai to her husband’s lips.
By the time my siblings and cousins have stuffed their faces (and I mean stuffed – they had to refill our platters twice), everyone can barely move. Kamal and Rashid undo their trouser buttons as they sit back with huge grins on their satisfied faces.
The speeches are lame as they always are. I don’t know why Bengalis bother with speeches. You can never hear a thing over the endless chatter of all the elders, the kids running riot and the servers clanging cutlery as though they’re playing steel pans. Half the people in the room don’t get the ‘English’ humour either and most of the jokes fall flat. When the bride and groom finally cut the cake, somehow, we all manage to find space in our stomachs to eat a slice or two.
When Mum and Nani drag me over to yet another table to meet yet another aunty I’ve never seen before, I’m well and truly ready to go home. My feet are hurting, my makeup’s melting and I’m tired of smiling. I’m tired of telling people I’m twenty-nine years old only to see instant judgement and pity in their eyes. I’m tired of no one understanding what I actually do for a living, and I’m bloody tired of this whole stupid wedding with its stupid forest theme and stupid perfect bride.
There is a flurry of activity in the hall and I look up to see that it’s the part of Bengali weddings that I hate – the ‘biddai’ – which literally translates to ‘farewell’.
This is always the most emotional part of the day. It’s when the girl officially leaves her parents’ house to join another family; when she’s no longer a daughter, but a wife and daughter-in-law; when she’s traditionally expected to prioritise her husband and her in-laws before her own family.
With all that looming ahead, it’s no wonder the entire bridal party is in tears. When the bride’s dad kisses her on the forehead and whispers something to her while she weeps, even I feel like crying.
There are more tears and finally the bride, with mascara-streaked cheeks and bloodshot eyes, climbs into the Rolls-Royce Phantom where the groom is sheepishly waiting. He’s supressing a massive grin in an attempt to be sympathetic, but he is clearly besotted and cannot wait to get out of here with his new wife. I mean, if he’s anything like Layla, then there’s a reason why he’s so eager to fast-forward to the wedding night.
As the car doors close, I see him hand her his white silk handkerchief and give her arm a gentle squeeze. She looks at him gratefully and her sadness slips away when he says something reassuring to her.
The moment is intimate and beautiful and I feel guilty for noticing it. A lump swells up in the back of my throat. Will I ever find a love like this? Actually, forget love, I’m not naïve enough to think that I’ll fall in love with my husband before we get married. Will I ever find a person who cares enough about me to hold me while I wipe my waterproof mascara all over his expensive white clothes? Will I ever find someone who will look at me as if I’m the most beautiful, precious thing in the whole world? Will I ever find someone who will look after me more than my parents?
And then, right there, in the crowd of people waving goodbye, I burst into tears.