High school geography was probably the last time I heard of the little country of Bangladesh before I met Arman. Enticed by instate tuition, he immigrated to a small university near my hometown in Kansas. When circumstances forced me to move home, I enrolled and our trajectories collided. Drawn together by fate, we married eleven months after we met in an itty-bitty wedding with my family and made plans to visit his when we were settled.
Two years later, we’re ready to make the big trip. Returning home for the first time since leaving for school five years earlier, Arman is bringing home a degree and a pale, and newly disabled, bride. Seventeen months into our marriage, my body irreparably malfunctions, and I’m diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I’m mentally struggling with this new reality and the implications it brings to our future. Blaming myself for disrupting our lives and permanently altering our plans, I don’t feel deserving of the extravagant wedding ceremony Arman’s family is planning for us. Self-doubts fray and fade my built-up excitement for our trip.
Due to my school schedule, we have to visit in the hot season, and MS and heat don’t mix. Stepping out of the cool airport into the drenching heat of Dhaka, I immediately wilt and Arman hurries me into his brother’s waiting car. On the ride to their parents, I attempt to absorb the new sights but am crushed by the weight of judging and scrutinizing eyes following me. It’s not hard. I blend in about as well as a lone marshmallow does floating in a vat of chocolate. My paranoia fears they will bore through the white on the outside and see the broken on the inside.
Drained of energy, Arman gives me time to recuperate before divulging details of the marriage ceremony. When he does, my damaged brain fractures somewhere between confusion and intrigue.
“Really?” I utter. “We just sit there while they smear stuff on our faces?”
“Yep. During the Gaye Holud–or turmeric on the body–ceremony, we sit on a dais and guests come give us their blessings, rub turmeric paste on our faces, and feed us a bit of sweets,” repeats Arman as he paces our room. “Afterwards, we have the wedding.”
Insecurities I have been beating into dark corners since we arrived come tumbling to the forefront. I shoot him an inquisitive look, “Will people want to bless the white girl you married?”
He stops mid-stride and stares at me, “Do I care? We have my parent’s blessing and that’s all that matters. You’ll never see most of these people again.”
His steady words temporarily lull my nagging reservations.
I tentatively smile, “I’ll trust you, but you know I’ll fret.”
Rolling his eyes, Arman pulls me into a hug, “I know.”
The morning of the Gaye Holud, my mother-in-law Ammu comes to wake me. She hustles me into a cab and we travel across town. My sister-in-law Emon has reserved a beauty salon and I’m to be their doll for the day. Tonight, I get to dress like a princess and camouflage my damaged parts. Unaccustomed to this level of attention, warm tingles zap through my veins, awakening butterflies to flitter in my stomach.
Tuning out the constant buzzing of unfamiliar chitter-chatter around me, I sit in the makeup chair and enclose myself in my moment of awe. A girl approaches, sweeps up fistfuls of my hair, and plaits it. She twists and pins the braids into an elaborate updo, then starts coloring my face.
At one point, the girl flicks her brush towards my eyes. “Open,” she instructs.
I widen my eyelids as best I can, praying I compensate for the new MS droop in my left eye.
Huffing irately, she gestures more forcefully towards my face, “Open,” she loudly reiterates.
Confused, I stare at her reflection, and then mine, in the mirror. Are my lashes sloping? Is that the problem? I attempt stretching my lids further, but her scowl tells me immediately she’s not happy.
The girl rapidly jabbers Bangla to Emon. I may not understand the words, but annoyance and frustration universally translates. Catching my pleading look in the mirror, Emon walks over to the exasperated artist and explains the difference between ‘open’ and ‘close’ in English. Embarrassed that my language barrier is causing the problem, I close my eyelids and hope I haven’t created a scene.
When I open my eyes again, a gasp escapes my painted lips. The makeup is bold, striking, and…stunning. The finishing touch is a jeweled bindi between my eyebrows before Emon escorts me to the back of the salon.
Waiting to dress me, Ammu hands me a skirt and a fuschia, midriff blouse to put on and subsequently begins expertly wrapping my saree over them. She wraps the undecorated end of the saree, securing the top edge in my skirt as she goes, around my waist twice and then the ornamented end once loosely. Folding it five times, she drapes the saree over my left shoulder, reaching my heals. Pulling the fabric that’s crossing my chest snug, she tightens and tucks in the last wrap until reaching my belly button. With a flick of her hand and wrist, Ammu pleats the excess fabric, forming the signature ruching in the front, and again places the top portion into the skirt’s waistband. The end draped over my left shoulder is swung across my back and thrown over my right. Ammu anchors everything with safety-pins to avoid any saree-novice, wardrobe-malfunctions.
Like a mummy ready for the pyramid, I’m snugly sheathed in yards of orangey-gold, black, and fuchsia silk and sat on a low chair. With deftly moving hands, Ammu has beaten my MS’s sneaky clock, and my balance hasn’t given out. My body flips an hourglass as I start an activity now, and my energy runs out when the sand does. MS doesn’t play fair though, and changes the number of grains each time
A small girl squats next to the chair, lays a cloth across my lap and positions my arm palm side up. Grabbing what looks like a piping bag filled with mud, she forms intricate lace and flower patterns on both sides of my hands, fingers, and forearms in henna. Hypnotized, I follow her tiny hands. The cold paste tickles my skin when it’s applied and prickles as it dries. I try to convey to her how beautiful her work is by exchanging smiles and nods in lieu of words.
The final aesthetic to my wedding makeover is draping me in flowers. Aside from stacks of orange-glass bangles, the entirety of my jewelry is constructed of Beli flowers and ruby-red roses. Ropes of the delicate white blooms are looped around my neck and forehead and dangled from my ears. The chains of angelic smelling blossoms are punctuated by scarlet roses giving me the scent of a walking garden.
As a sign of modesty, a fuschia-scarf is pinned over my hair before leaving and ending my six hours of adornment and packaging. Scared of stepping on my saree, I shuffle in my golden heels, like a child walking in their mother’s shoes. Arman’s cousin Borna shields me from prying eyes with a scarf while Ammu hurries me into a waiting cab.
Strands of twinkling white lights dangle from the roof of Arman’s parents’ apartment building, signifying a wedding, welcoming us home. I sense the festive energy coursing through the premises as everyone prepares for tonight's celebration on the fifth floor and try to draw strength from it to climb the two flights to the family’s residence on the third. MS has depleted strength from my left side, so Ammu supports me as I struggle to lift my leg up each step. Clutching my hand, she keeps my beautiful saree from dragging on the dusty cement.
Inside, Arman is mired in tumultuous activities. He only has time for a few words before being pulled back into the chaos. Not wanting to get in the way or dishevel the beautician's hard work, I retreat to the dining room and quietly sit, waiting for showtime.
Taking advantage of the stillness, my mind swirls up a cyclone of anxieties and emotions. What if I fall again or my hand starts shaking? MS takes so many things out of my control, and I’m scared. People will be watching, waiting, and some even wanting the outsider to mess up. I can’t let that happen. I have to be a step above perfect.
By the time Borna comes to collect me, I’m a snarled ball of nerves and the silence is permeated by the TAP-TAP-TAP of my heel. Before they cause an MS flare, I try focusing my speeding thoughts on the playful tiktiki -gecko- crawling across the wall. Shifting my eyes back to Borna, I propel adrenaline through my body, and I grab her outstretched hand.
Emon is waiting for us at the concrete staircase. The girls hold a gold scarf over my head and assist me to power up the two flights. Walking into the room, my eyes swiftly swing back-and-forth, as if on a pendulum, to take in my surroundings. One item catches my attention right away—a white-wooden, canopied platform draped in marigolds.
Wearing a royal-blue punjabi, Arman slowly walks me to the eight by eight dais. Focusing on each step, I attentively pick up my feet to avoid a fall. We pause in front of the brightly colored and floral scented box. Strings of mandarin-orange marigolds curtain the sides and drape the header and footer. The pinnacle of the garnishment, however, is displayed along the back wall. গায়ে হলুদ –Gaye Holud in Bengali–is written in more flowers and accented with roses.
Most ungracefully, I scoot onto a sheet adorned with red and orange squares covering the two feet tall podium. While Arman takes a seat beside me, I try remembering the advice he has given me: straight face-no teeth, sit straight-don’t fidget, talk quietly-if at all. I fold my hands demurely in my lap, hope my outsides aren’t quaking as much as my insides, and pray I don’t sweat through my saree.
The guests begin arriving, and Arman recognizes many of his friends dispersed throughout the crowd. Classmates from his middle school years in Libya, as well as from his college and university years in Bangladesh are here. Each one, along with other friends and family, comes by to offer congratulations, blessings, and obligatory facials. The ladies sit on Arman’s side and men on mine. Attempting not to flinch when they wipe the cold, gritty turmeric paste on my cheeks and forehead, I breathe in the orange and ginger aroma and imagine I’m exfoliating my skin.
Directly following the arrival of my in-law’s Imam, the evening shifts to the actual wedding ceremony. He begins with blessings and readings from the Qur’an, then asks us both if we accept the other. My father-in-law Abbu, standing beside me, shares the proper response-Kabool, meaning “I Accept.” He tells me I need to say it three times and gives me a reassuring smile. I feel the heat of everyone’s eyes on me and wonder if my makeup hides my red cheeks or simply conceals it as blush. Clasping my clammy hands together to steady my voice and crossing my fingers I’m coherent, I awkwardly answer Kabool three times. Signing the marriage contract and a benediction prayer closes the evening.
Exhausted from the elations and anxieties of the day’s activities, Arman must navigate me safely back to our room.
“You were lovely tonight and did great,” he says, assisting with unpinning and unwinding my saree. “You worried for nothing.”
This time, my eyes are the ones twisting, “I’ll expect two anniversary presents now,” I call teasingly over my shoulder, stumbling into the bathroom. Scrubbing tonight’s facade off my face, I dream of the day they create makeup to fix the inside imperfections as well as the outside.
Author: Katie Yusuf
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