They talk for a few more minutes, and when she hangs up the phone, she feels a sense of relief for the first time in years.
Eight
Simran
The engagement puja is a blur. Kunal and Simran sit side by side in front of a mahajara priest, who chants Sanskrit hymns and gives them instructions for the rituals, steps to ensure a healthy marriage, which they conduct in fixed, robotic movements. Their parents and siblings sit behind them. Everyone else is arranged around the room, their legs folded and palms clasped together.
Simran feels like an outsider, suspended above the room, watching herself audition for the role of a good Indian wife. Polite smile. Shaking legs that are concealed under an eggplant-colored sari. Being an Indian bride is a careful game of addition and subtraction.
Add: eyelash extensions, fake smile, layers of makeup, and clothes that weigh as much as an eight-year-old child.
Subtract: hair anywhere except from the head and a minimum of five pounds. Every time she says a prayer, she feels a mixture of gratitude, relief, and confusion. This is what her life was always supposed to look like. Things are finally working out. She didn’t screw everything up. There’s no time to focus on why it doesn’t feel the way she thought it would.
After the puja, Kunal and Simran bow down to all their elders and ask for their blessings. Some give them cash folded in tattered envelopes. Large plates of panda and ghor papdi sweets are passed around the room. The extinguished incense spreads the smell of jasmine through the house. Songs from nineties Bollywood movies blast through the speakers, each one its own pocket of time travel. They pose for professional photographs with their families.
At one point, Kunal squeezes her hand and whispers, “We made it.”
“We really did. All the way from the lacrosse field to here,” Simran says as she tries to refrain from kissing him and getting cursed by all the uncles and aunties who think only married people should have physical contact.
Many of the aunties stop her to offer their precious wisdom.
Do not get Samiya as your wedding decorator. She is our friend, but she is a beetch. Your entire reception will look like peacocks exploded all over it. Blue! Green! Blue! Green!
Please make sure the venue has good Wi-Fi. I need to tag my Facebook photos ASAP!
My aunt’s sister’s friend’s son wants to come to the wedding. That’s okay, right? Nobody should feel left out.
Kejal Auntie, one of Simran’s favorite family friends, puts both of her arms around her. “Simi, beta, you’re going to have a royal wedding!”
“I’m not sure about that, but thank you,” she says.
“No, it’ll be better than any of the royal weddings, I know it. Those brides have nothing on you!”
“Well, I love them and think they’ve all got a lot on me, which is great.” Simran knows all too well that Kejal Auntie and so many of their other friends obsessed over every detail of every royal wedding. They still watch parts from Diana’s, Kate’s, and Meghan’s ceremonies.
“Hm, well, are you going to do one of those crazy wedding diets?”
“I don’t know. Probably not,” she says.
“Really? You’re not?” Kejal Auntie asks.
Marital status and weight are two of the most popular topics among Indian aunties. Simran thinks Kejal Auntie can’t even help herself.
“It’s not in my plans right now,” Simran says as she recalls some of the miserable and unhealthy practices her married friends endured, from 1,100-calorie days to Atkins diets to creating Pinterest boards just for “thin-spiration.”
“Good for you, beta. No need to make yourself miserable during a time of your life that’s supposed to be happy. And speaking of, I also wanted to talk to you about some other things. . . .”
“Such as?” Simran asks, not sure if she wants to know.
“You know, marriage tips. Things to keep in mind in the bedroom.”
“Wow, that’s so . . . um, nice,” she says. “Maybe another time.”
“Ah, I see. You already know about all that, don’t you? No tips needed for you!”
A warmth spreads to Simran’s face. This can’t be real.
Kejal Auntie leans closer and lowers her voice. “Good for you, beta. Do you know how much all of us had to suffer with these men who had no idea what they were doing? It’s always better to test a man out before sealing the deal.”
She winks and adjusts her sky blue sari, which makes her look like an Indian version of the chubby, grumpy fairy from Sleeping Beauty.
The Indian Sleeping Beauty fairy with sex tips.
Simran wipes a bead of sweat off her stomach. “Thank you, auntie. That sounds really um, exciting. I should go change out of this sari.”
Time passes in a blur of sensory overload. Grilled onions, cumin, and chili powder permeate the room. Some uncles and aunties stop her to take a selfie. Others form clusters around the table of dosas and uttapam. Glasses of red wine sparkle like rubies. Adults split pistachio-filled Indian sweets and sing along to the Bollywood songs. Everyone is intoxicated—no, overdosed—on wedding fever. There’s nothing like a big group of overbearing Indians to remind you that shit is real.
Simran scans the crowded room and finds Sheila.
“Are you okay?” Sheila asks.
“Fine,” Simran says, guiding them toward the staircase. Her armpits are damp. “I just need to get out of this outfit. Can you help me with the safety pins?”
Most Indian outfits require around three thousand safety pins, all of which disappear when you need them again.
“Of course.” Sheila nods and pulls up the skirt of her tan salwaar kameez, the one she wears to every Indian function, regardless of how formal it is.
“Incoming,” Simran says, pointing in the direction of Sheila’s mom, Anita Auntie, who is approaching them. She’s tugging the wrist of an olive-skinned, lanky guy who looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Simran recognizes him as Kunal’s distant cousin Karan.
“Sheila, I’ve been looking for you! This is Karan Shah. I told him he had to meet you.”
Sheila shoots her mom a look of death.
Anita Auntie pretends not to notice.
Behind them, a cluster of guests motions for Anita Auntie to join them at their table. She swats in their direction, like they’re mosquitos, and keeps her eyes on Karan. Her waist-length hair is swept into a loose braid, and unlike her daughter, she’s wearing blush and a teal eye shadow that matches her sari. The final remnants of her berry lipstick linger on the perimeter of her lips, which now resemble a shriveled prune.