“This weddingwill nothappen during Ramadan—” Azizah repeated.
“Fine. If you don’t care to come to my wedding, we’ll just get married in Sierra Leone. There’s a mosque near my hostel, I can arrange anikahtomorrow—” Saima started, causing her mother to squawk in outrage.
“Should I call my good friend Shah Rukh Khan to mediate this discussion?” Dadu offered. In another life, Dadu, aka Mohamed Ali Mumtaz Aziz, had been a hotshot Bollywood director for some of the biggest blockbuster hits of the ’70s and ’80s. Which he managed to bring up in every single conversation.
Still, Azizah wasn’t going to give up without a fight, even if it had been a while since their family had a reason to celebrate. Maryam knew she was partly to blame for whylog kya kahengewas so effective on her scandal-shy parents.
“Beta, be reasonable. Ramadan is only six weeks away. How can you organize a wedding while you are in Sierra Leone treating patients? And you know December is the busiest timeof year at the pharmacy; plus, we will all be fasting...” Her mother trailed off into meaningful silence, and Maryam recognized her cue. Everyone in the family knew how this conversation would end: with Maryam stepping in to solve all the problems, as usual.
“Don’t worry about anything, Saima,” she said. “I can coordinate the wedding details from Colorado.”
“But nobody gets married in Ramadan,” her mother tried one last time.
“It will be a smallnikah, only close family and friends,” Maryam assured her. “The important thing is that Saima found someone who makes her happy.” She paused, wondering if now was the time to press the point. “Youarehappy? This feels rushed.”
“Relax, Bor-yam, I’m happy. I promise,” Saima laughed. Maryam stiffened at the nickname but didn’t push back. Also as per usual.
“Maryambeta, I will ask A. R. Rahman if he can DJ the wedding—it’s the least he can do after I jump-started his career,” Dadu said, referencing the world-famous Grammy- and Oscar-winning composer best known for his ’90s Bollywood bangers.
Maryam smiled at her grandfather and patted him on the shoulder. “I can handle this on my own,” she said. “In fact, I think organizing Saima’s Ramadan wedding will be fun!”
—
Famous last words, Maryam thought sourly now as she inched past a large travel party heading to Disney World, complete with matching T-shirts and Mickey Mouse hats. While Saimawas thankfully not a bridezilla, coordinating with Miraj’s family in Toronto had turned out to be a nightmare.
So far, Saima’s future in-laws hadn’t lived up to a single Canadian stereotype: they didn’t punctuate their conversations with “eh,” they disdained Tim Hortons, and they had no desire to be friendly to their brand-new American family. In fact, for the first two weeks following her sister’s engagement, she couldn’t even reach them on the phone.
When Maryam finally got hold of Miraj’s mother, the woman’s first order of business was to emphasize how important their family of doctors were in the Toronto Muslim community, followed by a third-degree interrogation about the Aziz family. After Maryam admitted to being a pharmacist, Saima’s future mother-in-law reassured her it was never too late to return to school, especially since it wasmucheasier to get into medical school in the United States. Apparently, they werefarmore selective in Canada.
Then she dumped all the wedding planning on Maryam, reasoning that since she was still single at nearly thirty-one (“Do they not have any suitable boys in Colorado, and is that why your sister went husband-hunting in Sierra Leone?”), she had nothing better to do.
And Maryam had thought Canadians were supposed to benice.
By the time she arrived at the airport, Maryam had had just about enough of her family, Miraj’s family, and the world in general. The only person who hadn’t been irritating her was Dadu, and even he was testing her patience at the moment.
She gave the precariously loaded luggage trolley, piled high with half a dozen carry-on bags, an extra hard push inher frustration. Her family were overpackers in the best of circumstances, and for a whirlwind wedding with three formal events—mehndi,nikah,walima—plus the gifts they had bought for Miraj’s family, they had outdone themselves. They had paid extra when they checked in their luggage, but still had plenty to carry on.
Why did Saima do this to us?she thought again, after she pulled Dadu back from tripping over a stroller while making funny faces at a toddler.
Maryam wasn’t normally resentful. Usually she was calm, patient, and responsible. Dadu called her “the Unflappable Maryam Aziz.” It was just that at this moment, she longed to flap away somewhere quiet, such as a cabin in the woods, or a deserted island in the South Pacific, or even a tiny town in the middle of nowhere.
Anywhere but Denver International Airport, five days before Christmas, in the middle of a tri-holiday maelstrom, while she was fasting. She hadn’t eaten since five that morning, and her stomach felt cramped with hunger. With the two-hour time difference, by the time they arrived in Toronto, she would have gone without food and water for over fourteen hours. Nothing she wasn’t used to, of course—she had started fasting at the age of ten—but she could have used a shot of caffeine right now. In an IV drip, preferably.
Their little party was also attracting more than their fair share of attention, she noticed. She could feel curious, interested, bored, and occasionally hostile eyes resting on her hijab, and on her father’s long salt-and-pepper beard.
She had started to wear the hijab last year. While her mother only occasionally drew adupattashawl over her head,and Saima didn’t observe the head covering at all, Maryam had felt strongly compelled to start wearing the traditional head covering, and she was still getting used to the unwelcome extra attention it caused.
A young white woman passed them, the heels of her sky-high, expensive blue satin stilettos clicking as she pulled a chic cream-colored suitcase behind her. Her caramel-highlighted brown hair was perfectly blown out, the edges carefully curled so they framed her face. The high cheekbones of her triangular face emphasized large brown eyes, a ski-slope button nose, and a wide smiling mouth. She jostled the leaning tower of suitcases in her haste, forcing Maryam to reach out a hand to steady them, glaring at the oblivious woman’s back.
“Come along, Maryambeta, our flight leaves soon,” Ghulam called. “I have been watching the Weather Network, and they are calling for snow in Toronto.”
“We’re flying to Canada. Isn’t it always snowing there?” Maryam grumbled, but she leaned her shoulder into the luggage cart and followed.
She spotted brunette Barbie again at the security line; the other woman sailed through without any “random” security checks or secondary screening. Meanwhile, the security officer spent a good three minutes comparing the admittedly unflattering picture in her American passport to her face, and she could hear the entire line audibly groan when she started piling luggage onto the scanner bed.
In contrast, the young woman was already halfway across the departures lounge, chatting intensely on a little flip phone. People with cell phones were so annoying. Maryam waspositive they were a passing fad, and renewed her vow to never buy one.
When the Aziz family entourage finally made it to their gate, Maryam collapsed onto a seat, feeling as if she had run a marathon. She was pretty sure she had sweat through her white blouse, too. She idly scanned the crowd—and her gaze snagged on a familiar face. Maryam did a double take. It couldn’t be. Heart pounding, she chanced another quick peek at the young man seated a few rows away.
