Chapter 1
"I think that guy is taking pictures of us!" I whispered from behind my hand and gave one quick jerk in the direction of a nearby table where a well-dressed man sat with his laptop.
As if on cue, my two besties and sister swivelled their heads at the man. There were many words to describe these three, but 'discreet' was not one of them.
I squeezed my eyes shut, praying for patience. I could wish they always behaved in a socially acceptable way like me, but it would be a moot point. They did. When they wanted to.
Most of the time they just chose not to care. Naya and Betsy walked their own path. One blazed it, and one quietly mowed her way along. My sister was still trying to find hers, but she left a wide swath wherever she went.
Jaya wiggled her fingers at him. "He's cute. Not GQ cover, but defo easy on the eyes."
"Smooth!" I griped and snuck a peek at the man.
It was clear he cared about his appearance. His charcoal grey suit was crisply pressed. He'd matched a bold tie of colourful blue and yellow whorls with peach accents with a light yellow shirt that brought out his light brown skin tone beautifully. His thick black hair was coiffed into a kind of pompadour recently made fashionable by a new Pakistani singer that was climbing the South Asian charts.
He was exactly the kind of man I could see myself together with.
See myself together with.
As in a couple.
As in married.
I gulped.
Wedding.
Growing up, attending weddings was one of the main social hubs in the expat Pakistani community. It was an important place to catch up with old friends – since it was common for parents to invite every single person they had ever interacted with to their child's wedding, you were bound to know a lot of people there – make business deals or, of course, scout for potential partners for one's own children.
As the only female Pakistani doctor within a 100-kilometre radius, saying my mom got a lot of wedding invitations was an understatement. Mom spent time every day updating her contact book just to keep up with the ever-changing web.
Being dutiful children, my brother, sister and I had attended every function until we hit our teens, then she let us take it in turns to attend.
This year I turned 28. In Pakistani years, I was ancient. Proposals for us had been rolling in since forever. I'd been waiting for Mom to announce she'd made a match for me since I turned 20, but, surprisingly, Mom was pickier than we expected. She hadn't forced me to go to a wedding in years.
I wasn't complaining though. Being unwed allowed me to do a Business degree plus a Master's in Business Administration, then focus on building up my sales career. I excelled at the challenge of sales. My success there meant that I'd already been able to sock away enough to buy a house outright since my parents wouldn't hear of letting any of their children pay rent while living at home. 'You'll have a lifetime of bill paying' was their reply when we tried to chip in.
They'd reassured us time and again that the money for our weddings was already saved. They had started when we were just babies, because with both Mom and Dad in the medical profession, they knew the amount of people they'd have to invite just out of politeness would be beyond ridiculous. I shuddered to think about gargantuan bill. Even with preparation, many families spent decades paying off just a single child's wedding.
I can feel my heart start racing at the thought of my own wedding. Undoubtedly the planning would be yanked from my resisting hands and given to .... Who would my mother choose? There were some decent wedding planners in the community, but would they look after every single minute detail like I would? I know they say they do, but I doubted they could plan like I could. I'd lost count of the amount of unpolished weddings I'd attended.
The movement from Jaya's fingers made the man's eyes swing from me to her. He stared absentmindedly at her moving digits as if lost in thought and hadn't yet processed that we'd caught him in the act. His eyes focused. He snapped to attention, quickly laying his phone down on the table.
A blush crept up out of his neatly pressed collar as he went back to his laptop to type furiously for a minute or two before closing it and stacking the papers he had spread out on the table.
During all this, he kept looking at whatever was on the screen of his phone then sneaking peeks up at us - at me, I thought, which didn't make sense since I'd never seen this guy before in my life.
"Want me to do a walk-by and see what he's looking at?" stage-whispered Betsy.
Jaya rested her elbow on the table, put her chin in her hand, and leaned slightly toward the man's table with her eyes half-closed. "You know, I think he's looking at you specifically, Abi."
My stomach did a nervous flip. I squeaked, "Why?"
"Why is he looking, or why do I think that he is?"
I gave Jaya a mild grimace, and she flapped her hand at me. "Keep your panties on. See, there!"
I couldn't stop the impulse to look over, and sure enough, his black eyes locked with mine because he was definitely looking at me. The corners of his mouth tipped up in a little smile. I felt a flutter of happiness in my stomach despite my discomfort at how forward he was being.
"This is so embarrassing!" I hissed and pressed a hand to my forehead to hide my face.
"Seriously Abi, only you would think some hot guy making eyes at you is embarrassing," Betsy chided. "Look at him. He's well put together. Just your type. I say businessman."
"Lawyer," countered Jaya. "Look at his briefcase. It screams legal. He's your type, too, Abs. All polished up. Look at the shine on those shoes! He could give you a run for your money in the perfection department."
I felt heat in my cheeks at that. "You know I don't date. And I'm not that perfect."
Betsy and Naya exchanged a look and burst out laughing.
Laying a hand on my forearm, Betsy squeezed gently. "You know we love you and always have your back, whether you are perfect or not, Miss Mary Poppins."
I ground my teeth, but the old nickname rubbed away the edge of my anger. Betsy flicked her eyebrows up once and I broke out into a smile. My two best friends were the only ones that could wrap me around their fingers.
Betsy smirked at Naya then turned to me. "Abi, you should go talk to him. He's obviously interested." The man got up and started putting his papers and computer into a very expensive-looking, brown, leather satchel. "Quick! Before he gets away!"
My besties groaned as he walked to the counter to return his tray then to the door. Before he left though, he paused to look back at me and held up his phone, mysteriously tapping it with one finger, as if he was sending me some secret code that I wasn't aware I'd learned.
He glanced at my table mates before coming back to me again. When he flashed another little smile, I'd be lying if I didn't say those butterflies took flight in my stomach. This was the most excitement I'd had in a long while.
After he pushed open the door and was safely heading down the street away from us, I lowered my hand and exclaimed, "Okay, what was that? He's the third guy in the last month that's looked at me as if he knows me or is happy to see me or something. I don't get it. It's not like I'm on a dating site or go clubbing like you two."
Jaya frowned. "What was the phone tap action at the end there? Abi, you sure he's not some client you've visited but don't remember?"
I levelled a look at her. "Jaya, would you forget a man who looked like that?"
"No, but I also would have made sure to go talk to him!" She poked my shoulder.
I crossed my arms over my chest. "You know I get uncomfortable talking to guys outside of business calls. I get all mealy-mouthed, and say stupid things and scare them off." But the real reason was dating was severely frowned on. Sure, most young Pakistani women were out doing it, but my inner compass wouldn't allow me to.
"You don't scare them off!" Jaya protested, her voice rising. "You're Abi, the queen of charm and poise."
"She's right," Besty said, ganging up on me with Jaya. "Since we met in Grade Two, I've never seen you at a loss for words."
My wedding planner jitters were still with me. I turned to Betsy.
"You're so lucky you only have a bridal shower and reception to worry about. What if I get matched with someone who wants a dozen pre- and post-wedding parties? The logistics are a nightmare to think about."
Betsy and Jaya quirked eyebrows at exactly the same time and reached to take my hands.
"Things can and probably will go wrong. It's Murphy's Law and all that," Betsy said gently.
I squeezed my eyes shut and willed my nerves to settle. The description under my high school year book photo was 'unflappable'. Lately, though, I'd felt anything but.
"The wedding will cost a fortune as it is. Not to mention the walima."
"Do you have to have them all?"
I shrugged. "Kind of. If the groom's family insists. The nikah is where the actual wedding occurs, and the walima is required to announce the wedding. Anything else is just extra. I swear the South Asian community is the worst for wanting to show off their money by throwing a lot of wedding parties." It was only one of many aspects of the community that drove me nuts. How was a fancy car or umpteen wedding parties going to get you into Heaven?
"I never understood the walima part." Betsy's dreads rippled as she shook her head.
I raised another shoulder. "Different traditions is all. Like changing names. It's a Christian practice to show ownership. Take the nikah. In Islam, brides don't have to go to the mosque for it. Just her guardian and two valid witnesses to confirm she agrees to the marriage."
Betsy's jaw hit the floor. "Jump back! You don't have to go to your own wedding!? Aren't you kind of an important part of the ceremony, since you'd be the bride! What if this guardian sells you out, and you end up married to some total stranger! And what do you mean changing my name to show ownership? No man owns me!"
I chuckled. It was my turn to rub her hand soothingly. "Since it's an arranged marriage, it's kind of expected the groom will be a stranger. But don't worry about the guardian. It's my dad. God forbid if he wasn't around there's a whole very specific list laid out about who can and can't be a guardian. Muslim women are well protected by a whole slew of laws."
Disbelief shone from Betsy's eyes. "I still don't know how you can want to marry a stranger. It just doesn't seem natural."
"That's because you have Jeff, and if arranged marriages were an everyday thing in the West, or the Church, you wouldn't blink an eye. In history-"
"I know, I know." She held up a hand to stop the rant before I even got started. "Royal marriages and all that. Christians too."
"You've met - how many? - members of my family in arranged marriages? What did they all say?"
Betsy frowned in defeat. "Other than your Auntie Zoya, they did eventually fall in love with each other. I just can't imagine letting my mom pick out some guy for me!"
I laughed and squeezed her hand.
"What I can't imagine is going to bed with all sorts of different men I'm not even married to. At least in an arranged marriage it's not some one-night stand."
I knew a lot of young people in the South Asian community who would accept their parents' wishes to have an arranged marriage, but they'd already spent years on the dating scene.
The older generation mostly turned a blind eye. They'd tried indoctrinating their traditional values in their kids, but the social pressures and wide exposure to the wildly different Western values meant that by the second-generation traditions generally just got lip service.
I'd had the first-generation treatment because my mom was raised in Karachi, Pakistan. When she finished medical school, she moved to Canada where she met my Dad who was born and raised in my hometown of Parry Sound, Ontario.
To my mom's delight, while my brother and sister were in the 'blind eye' category, they knew I'd always do what they asked and expected.
"Bets, you know I don't think a love match is in the cards for me. I'm perfectly content with an arranged marriage. Looking forward to that whole matching thing being taken off my hands." I flapped my hands in the air shooing away the annoying fly of finding a partner.
I really didn't mind my mom arranging my marriage. With her extremely high standards, I trusted her choices in everything. I'd never been able to put my finger on why the thought of choosing my partner or even getting married at all unsettled me deeply.
I checked my coffee cup but it was still empty. "As for ownership, whenever I do get married, far far from now, the only big change will be that I have a husband and where I live. That'll depend on who I marry and his family. We'll probably live with his parents, or mine, or even possibly in our own house. I'll still be Abi Khan, though."
Jaya paused before taking the last sip of her iced cappuccino. "Yeah, well, lots of women are keeping their name these days. It's so much easier than changing all your ID."
I nodded. "True, but in Islam, women have never had to. She isn't someone's property marked by taking their name."
Betsy's voice rose in anger. "But I won't be my husband's property. That's archaic!"
I adjusted my hijab. "That's where the practice comes from, though. Muslims take their father's last name because it helps to identify them for things like lineage and inheritance, which is spelled out in the Quran, by the way, so don't worry about Dad leaving everything to my brother. He can't. Or to me, for that matter, since I know he loves me best." I snuck a look at my sister but, surprisingly, she didn't rise to the bait.
"I had no idea," Jaya said thoughtfully.
I shrugged. "A lot of people don't. It's not exactly something covered on the news."
Jaya grimaced and tossed the lock of hair she'd been braiding over her shoulder. "Let's not even start that conversation."
Sitting up straighter, Betsy said, "Well, I still can't imagine not going to my own wedding! I've been looking forward to it since I was five and went to my aunt's wedding. She looked like an angel coming down the aisle." Her eyes got that faraway look she had whenever she was imagining her own big day.
I shook my head in dismay. "Trust me, if you had to sit for hours through all the functions, you'd be happy to skip at least one. However, if I don't go to the mosque, I'd be stuck at someone's house with all the ladies and have to listen to them try to outdo each other with stories of their weddings, and their daughter's weddings, and their sister's friend's cat's bird's wedding! Gah! It's insufferable! No, if Mom ever does get around to making the arrangements, I think I'll go to the mosque. At least there no one can talk to me!"
Betsy sat back in her seat, still shaking her head at this news that had rocked the wedding foundations of her world. She turned to my sister, Anjum. "Anj, would you go to the mosque for your wedding?"
My sister was a girlie-girl through and through. The kind of woman the full-on pomp and ceremony of a Pakistani wedding was made for, so it was no surprise when she said, "No, probably not."
She was, however, intently interested in stirring the last cold inch of her coffee. In fact, she'd been unnaturally quiet for the last ten minutes. My mom said my sister started talking in utero and hadn't stopped since.
My sister-radar started blaring out a warning.
I leaned closer to her, "Anj? Something you want to tell me?"
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