“We’re downstairs. You on your way?”
Shit. Wedding clothes shopping. She forgot.
“Ugh, Saira, I had no sleep last night.”
“Mum invited Shaila Aunty and Marley. You have to come.”
Reena sighed. Great. A whole family thing. She was not in the headspace for this. “Give me a couple minutes.”
She was dressed and out the front door in a little under ten minutes. The grungy ripped jeans that were conveniently hanging off the end of her bed weren’t the best choice for a day spent at Indian formal wear stores, but she couldn’t make herself care about her appearance now.
Shaila Aunty and Marley were in the car when she got to it. She slid in next to Marley. After greeting her mother and aunt, she turned to her cousin. “Hey, Marley, how come you’re joining us?”
“I needed her fashion expertise,” Saira said, leaning over Marley. “And Shaila Aunty knows the manager of this store.”
Shaila Aunty turned to look at Reena. “He gave me a great deal on the sari I wore to my Eid party. Remember, my yellow georgette? It’s all about building relationships.”
The kebob place was in the same plaza as the sari shop—in a newish, suburban strip mall that catered mostly to the Indian population living in Markham. It still felt strange to Reena to see sari shops and Indian grocers in the suburbs, but the diaspora was all over the greater Toronto area these days, not just in the city.
And the shop wasgood. Over paper plates of spicy kebobs, tender-crisp vegetable samosas, and steaming cups of rich masala chai, they chatted about color schemes and menus for Saira’s wedding.
“You’re not going to serve this heathy food, are you?” Mum asked. “Ashraf’s family will run screaming if you give them tandoori tofu and kale pakoras.”
“Tandoori tofu sounds disgusting,” Reena said, “but kale pakoras…”She thought about it. “If you added rice flour to the batter, they’d be really crisp.”
Saira smiled. “We’re thinking we’ll have some organic, healthier options, but we’ll do the greasy Indian stuff, too. I mean, this is awedding. When I meet caterers, you’re coming, Reena.”
“Reena, beti, you have to teach Marley to cook better,” Shaila Aunty said.
Mum nodded. “I taught both my girls to cook. Reena’s biryani is even better than mine. Not her khichro, though.”
Reena wasn’t about to let that go. “Mum, you use a mix for khichro! At least mine’s from scratch.”
Shaila laughed and patted Marley’s hand. “See! If you don’t make biryani, you’ll never get married. Although”—she smiled—“maybe you will marry a girl, and she’ll know how to cook,” Shaila Aunty said.
Mum laughed. “Can you imagine double the bridal clothes? The expense!”
“Mum.” Marley rolled her eyes and took her hand out from under her mother’s, “I’m not getting married. No one is getting married but Saira.”
“Yes, beti, don’t remind me,” Mum said.
Reena chuckled, dipping a samosa into the ambli chutney.
“You don’t want two weddings at once, though,” Shaila Aunty said.
“No, of course not.” Mum grabbed Shaila Aunty’s hand. “Remember how upset Mummy was when you and Amin wanted to get married a month after my wedding? Such drama.”
Shaila laughed. “She accused me of being pregnant!”
Marley frowned. “Ew.”
Reena agreed. She’d rather not think about her aunties engaging in premarital sex.
“You were so lovey-dovey,” Mum said. “Everyone thought it was a love match.”
Reena frowned. “It wasn’t a love match?”
Shaila Aunty smiled while putting another samosa on her plate. “I was so smitten with him, but technically, we were introduced by the matchmaker in the Jamatkhana.”
