Good Girls
Photo: Lenzil Gonsalves on Unsplash
Short story: ‘This is not an introduction, it’s a mating ritual. I am twenty-four and ripe for marriage.’
I am at a wedding that looks like a movie set. The couple stands atop an elevated stage, surrounded by an imitation of a palace made of cheap Styrofoam. The wall behind them is decorated in intricate designs of marigold and chartreuse lace. Off-white curtains drape the exterior pillars of the palace. White string lights spiral upward towards the ceiling, luminating every surface. The ceiling of the wedding hall boasts of gilded crystal chandeliers that soak the grand ballroom in a luminous allure. I look up at my cousin Maira—the bride. She shines under the backlights that hit just the right spots, revealing all her best features. Everything around me is straight out of a high-end wedding magazine. The extravagance is nauseating.
Everyone has been assigned roles. Mine is to behave like a good girl.
I ride up the stairs of the wedding stage to congratulate Maira and find her wrestling with the edge of her golden dupatta. She is a beauty to behold tonight. Adorned in every shade of gold, bathing head to toe in sequins that dance in your eyes, my cousin’s wedding lehenga—a carefully crafted Falguni Shane Peacock piece—is draped around her petite figure. Laden with generations of heirloom jewelry, her smile is as proper as of women in glazed magazines in an airport waiting room.
Maira freezes when she sees me and looks down. Her husband is standing next to her, laughing, and shaking hands with his friends. I notice her fingers entangle between the thick embroidery of the cloth as she struggles to say something to me. I think she wants water.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, taking a step towards her. Instead of answering me, she begins to sob. I do not understand the reason for this breakdown. Did something happen? I rush to her side and try to comfort her.
Her husband notices the commotion next to him and says, “Stop crying Maira. You’re making us look bad.” I glare at her husband, but he does not seem to notice me.
“Do you want me to bring you some water?” I ask.
But before she can answer, her husband says, “Can’t you forget what happened? Stop making a scene.” He signals me to take Maira away.
I take her backstage to clean her messed-up make-up. I give her a glass of water. I ask her again. She refuses to talk.
I was eighteen when my mother first talked about marriage. It was at the dinner table, on a Sunday. And Sunday is when we ate brown lentils with rice and tamarind chutney. I was immersing my fingers in the thick lentil soup, breaking brown pods, and fusing them with white rice. That’s when she said it. “It’s time you start thinking about marriage. You’re of age now.”
I looked up at once, taken aback. “What age?”
“The marriageable age,” she said, inspecting me the way one looks at a lamb before it is taken to the butchers.
“Mom, please.” I tried to ignore the uneasiness creeping inside me.
“What ‘please’? It’s the truth. You have started college, and it is time we found you a nice husband from a good family, preferably an engineer.”
“Mom let me eat,” I said, tears threatening to overflow.
But she did not stop. And she did not let me eat. Until I could no longer hold back my tears.
“You have my permission to do whatever you want after marriage. I am liberal that way.”
“Your permission? Really?”
“Yes, I am a feminist.”
“Eighteen is too young,” I continued between sobs. “This is just cruel.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you crying? It is not too young for Maira. You know she already has people lined up for her because she is so beautiful. At least she has that going for her and you…”
I interrupted her before she could finish that sentence and obliterate my confidence. “I’m not like Maira.”
“Wah, now you will talk back to your mother? Maira never talks back to her mother. You know why? Because she is a good girl. She listens to her mother. Like all good girls should. But you, you never listen to your mother. This is all your father’s fault,” she said, stomping out of the dining room, ending the conversation that shouldn’t have started in the first place.
I try to make sense of what I just witnessed. But every time I think about it, I feel immense anger and resentment towards Maira’s husband. I look for my mother thinking that maybe she knows the reason for this abrupt breakdown, but there are too many people around. As it usually happens at overcrowded Indian weddings, I am pushed back by a myriad of faces over-caked with foundation and red lips with layers so evident that Van Gogh would have seen volcanoes in them. The aunties have arrived to give their blessings to my cousin on her wedding day.
“Excuse me,” I say, cutting across the women as I see my mother walk by.
“Noor, I am so glad I found you, I want you to meet someone important,” she says, gripping my right shoulder.
“Mom, did you know...”
But she interrupts me, “I would like to introduce you to Hamza.”
Hamza utters a barely audible “hi” then looks away in the distance. My mother’s excitement makes this scene appear like something out of a melodramatic Bollywood movie. As though she is waiting for me to leave everything and run towards my new sweetheart; like he is on the last train and I have just realized that I love him. Hamza is not helping either. Under his icy blue suit, his chest is puffed up like a pigeon’s. This is not an introduction, it’s a mating ritual. I am twenty-four and ripe for marriage. Hamza is my marriage prospect.
“I will leave you two alone,” my mother says, putting a hand on my shoulder. In the background, a saxophonist plays Dulhe Ka Sehra Suhana Lagta Hai.
“Well, this is awkward,” Hamza says, then approaches me. Takes a step towards me.
I take a step back. “Tell me about it,” I say.
“Truth be told, I wasn’t ready for this.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“Me neither,” I say. The bad feeling is creeping up again.
“Should we go somewhere else and talk?” he says. He comes close again and attempts to take my hand.
I take another step back. “Do we have to?”
“I suppose,” he says. “People are staring, and this dress is not helping. Honestly, when I am with beautiful girls like you, I don’t really care much about what is happening around me.”
A chill runs down my spine. Goosebumps appear on my forearms as I try to cover myself. But it is not enough. This is supposed to make me feel good. But it has the opposite effect, I feel naked. I feel ugly. I want to slap him; I want to disappear. But I do not. I smile instead, because my mother is watching.
I still remember the day I had decided to meet Maira. She had just said yes to the marriage proposal and I had some burning questions for her. I was freshly out of college, 22 and ready to face the world with a degree in law. Marriage was never my primary concern. That is why it was baffling to me when she took such an important pronouncement in just one meeting with a boy.
“How did you make the decision?” I asked her, noticing how big the marigolds were on the dress she was wearing that day. As children, Maira and I would often dress identically, pick the same dresses in different colors. And during summer vacations we would twirl around in our grandmother’s living room. From playing hide and seek with our cousins, to feeding stray dogs, and telling each other stories about Djinns we had heard from our friends in school, we truly were inseparable.
“What do you mean?” Maira asked, taking a sip from her ice-tea. I could almost smell the marigolds. Maira was still in the final year of medical school. And she did not have a problem with marriage. In fact, her existence depended on her attracting the right suitor, like she was somehow bred for the role.
“What pushed you? What about him made you say, this is it?” I asked.
“I just like his fun-loving nature.”
“I get that.”
I didn’t say out aloud, Lots of people have a fun-loving nature. “But…”
“His family is fun loving too,” she said. Maira had studied to become a doctor, a career path carefully selected to attract the right kind of men. The right suitor wants a girl who does not leave the house before he has gone to work and can also be home before he comes back. The perfect suitor wants a girl who can cook, take care of his family, is religious, is well brought up, and can give him a healthy baby boy. Maira studied her way to medical college only to end up getting engaged in the final year.
“That’s it?” I asked. You are not getting married to his family.
“What else do you want?” she asked me, looking outside the big transparent window of the restaurant that overlooks a busy road, exposing the inside of the sitting area.
“Compatibility? Do the two of you like the same things?” I asked.
“I’m sure we do, but even if we don’t, I can adjust.”
For how long. All your life?
Hamza and I walk towards a glittering fountain spluttering out gold and purple. “For privacy,” he says. A kid runs past us, ice-cream dripping from her hand. I dodge her. Hamza fails to. There is ice-cream all over his suit.
“Fucking hell, my Armani! Stupid kid.” His eyes seem to look for the kid we both know will never be spotted.
I see an opening, and I take it. “I don’t want to waste your time. So, I will be straightforward. I cannot marry you. I got a job at a firm in Hyderabad. I plan to leave my current job and move there. They are paying more, and they take a lot of high-profile cases.”
I did not know what was happening, but I remember the feeling. The feeling that this was not good. The feeling you get when you smell rotting meat, metallic and unpleasant.
“That’s too bad, but I’m sure we can work something out,” he says looking down at his suit. Trying and failing to clean the ice-cream stains. “I have to say,” he adds. “You are prettier than the pictures I saw of you.” He sits down on the marble edge of the fountain.
“How do you suppose this will work? You live in Delhi, I’ll be in Hyderabad, and you want to get married on Skype?” I ask.
“No,” he says, looking up at me. “You will move to Delhi and live with me. I am sure you can find something similar in Delhi too. What’s the big deal?”
I sit down on the marble edge and try to steady myself, but my hands are sweaty and trembling, they slip every time I try to hold on. I am scared. The bad feeling comes back.
“You okay?” he asks, turning towards me. “Aren’t you happy this situation between us worked out so well?”
I face him. “Do you see that girl? There, on the stage? Right now, she is wearing clothes more expensive than anything I have ever owned. This is supposed to make her happy. That is not me. I cannot be her and if I say yes to this, I will be exactly like her.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t understand, it’s just a marriage proposal. And it is not like I am marrying you right now. We are just talking. Also, I think this is the right age to get married.”
Every impulse in my body tells me to slap him, but I chose to explain to him instead and I say, “No, you don’t understand. I have to be someone before I can be a bride.”
“What about marriage then? If you think I will stop you from working, then I would like to tell you,” he continues, “you have my permission to do whatever you want after marriage. I am liberal that way.”
“Your permission? Really?”
“Yes, I am a feminist.”
“Wow. Tell me what else will you give me permission to do?”
“You can definitely keep your friends after marriage. I mean, I am not a monster. Just no guy friends.”
Is he joking?
“Umm okay… and what about my coworkers?” I ask, trying again.
“Oh, you can be friends with them as long as they are girls.” He is looking at me, starring straight into my eyes. I can’t help but think what my life will be if I say yes to this man. My mother always said if I studied too much I will be unsuited for most men; because men do not want smart wives, they want obedient wives.
I hear a commotion in the background. From where I am sitting, I can see Maira walking down the wedding stage.
“I think we should go back,” I say, getting up.
“Can I walk with you?”
“She was crying when she saw me.”
My mother is not surprised.
“Brides always cry,” she says.
“Oh, I don’t think you need my permission for that,” I say.
I’ve heard about Hamza before, from my mother. How he is the most eligible bachelor in town, with a good job and a good family. He is every woman’s dream. But with me, it seems like he is everything that I am not. We exist in a single room, but we are worlds apart, universes even. Opposites. And opposites attract. Isn’t this what makes for good romances?
But then, what are good romances? The ones you see between the sepia tints in your grandparents’ pictures. Or the one you see when you watch your parents fight? Or are they the ones between your best friend and her boyfriend, who changes every other day? Or the one you felt for that boy who broke your heart all those years ago?
Maira descends from her mini marigold garden, her head is dropping from the weight of the garland around her neck. Her golden lehenga with a long trail, is held up by her younger sister, a symbol that she is next in line. One by one, she starts saying her goodbyes. A strange lull has fallen over the entire ballroom, the type you only notice when it is completely evident. The live orchestra has stopped, and the musicians are putting their instruments away. A lone man folds plastic chairs in the backdrop. They have done their job for the night. She walks towards me after saying her goodbyes to her parents. She seems happier. And for the second time that night, she is crying, the tears of leaving everything behind.
Maira’s hug is gentle, and she faintly smells of marigold. A sadness takes over me and I am reminded of the summer I was six and she was seven. I had gone over to her house for a sleepover. Early next morning, before the harsh summer sun made it impossible, we went out to play. There was an abandoned building at the end of the road, where we would often go to play in the sand. But that day, there was a man in there. At first, we did not pay any attention to him because he was facing the wall; but he kept inching closer to us, and that’s when we noticed that his hand was in his pants. He faced the wall again and shook his hand violently, then looked at us and repeated this. I did not know what was happening, but I remember the feeling. The feeling that this was not good. The feeling you get when you smell rotting meat, metallic and unpleasant. I asked Maira if we could go somewhere else and play. She said yes immediately. But wherever we went that morning, that man would appear, until we decided to go back home.
We never talked about it, I never asked her who that man was or what he was doing. Not even as adults. We never told our parents, either. But the feeling still lingers. The unpleasantness comes back every time a man looks at me.
For a minute I wonder what will happen if I give into my mother’s persistence and agree to marry Hamza. I will move to Delhi and find a similar workspace there. I will be happy, I suppose. Then, I will be expected to have children. Perhaps, I will be asked to leave the job for said children, leaving behind a future of my own choosing.
After the newlyweds leave, I finally catch hold of my mother.
“So, do you like him?” she asks as she sees me walking towards her. I stick out my tongue to her and start making gaging noises.
“But he’s such a good…”
I interrupt her, “Did something happen to Maira before she came to the wedding hall?”
My mother looks around and makes that face she makes when she is about to spill some tea. Then says, “Apparently her mother-in-law was furious at her for being late to the wedding party and screamed at her. Why are you asking?”
“She was crying when she saw me,” I tell her.
My mother is not surprised.
“Brides always cry.”
“Well, I do not think they should.”
“But…” she starts to say something, but I interrupt her again. “I’m going to take the job in Hyderabad.”
“You’ve always done what you’ve wanted.”
As I am about to exit the ballroom, I notice a partially withered marigold bud next to my left foot, I stoop down to pick it up and observe it. This one is strange looking, red at the edges, as though it were touched by the flames. I wonder how it has become that way, so different from all the other marigolds. Away from its obligation to be an object of adoration. A symbol of matrimony—worshipped and put on the pedestals with the Gods. It is supposed to be up on that stage. But here it is, nestled warmly between my palms.
***
Samia Ahmed is originally from Bhopal, India but now lives in Virginia where she pursues her passion for writing. Her work can be found in The Kenyon Review, Coffin Bell Journal, deLuge Literary and Arts Journal and Indus Woman Writing. Her flash fiction was nominated for Best of the Net Anthology 2019. She is the contributing author of The Ordinary Chaos of Being Human, an anthology published by Penguin South East Asia. You can find her on Twitter: @Samia_is_Ahmed and Instagram: @she_banshee.
