Her reflection in the full-length mirror near the front door told the story. It saw a young girl whose sadness made her appear even more beautiful. Her tears had made her eyes seem clearer and her eyelashes seem longer, and added a natural blush to her cheeks. She’d lost weight since she met Imraan. In her peach sari, she looked almost slim. Or maybe it was because she’d allowed her hair to grow down past her shoulders, the way he liked it, that made her appear thinner. But she had indeed changed.

  Somewhere in the depths of her wounded soul, she wanted to still feel beautiful – and she wanted him to see it too. Quickly, she took a selfie and posted it to Instagram. In the van, waiting for her mother, she refreshed her feed neurotically, checking if Imraan had liked her picture. He hadn’t.

  Finally, her mother appeared in a burgundy dress. It fitted her well, flaring at the skirt. Like a shock of bougainvillea, the colour enhanced her olive skin and complemented her jet-black curls in the evening light. She greeted everyone curtly and sat next to Zaina.

  They didn’t say a word to each other the entire way to the hall.

  ‘That’s why we shouldn’t have them sleeping in the storeroom. We don’t know what’s going on down there!’ Ruki argued, spooning some chevro into her palm and slapping it expertly into her mouth.

  Aunty Shaida was nodding furiously. ‘Yes, and especially the young ones. They bring their boyfriends to sleep with them because they buy them fancy-fancy cellphones and wigs! Then they want anything nice they see. They think they deserve it.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Rabia said, gesturing delicately, as if she were smoothing the air between them. ‘The issue here is that we need more security. Let’s not get carried away.’

  ‘Carried away!’ Ruki exclaimed, the green and red bits of almonds in mid-munch in her mouth. ‘The problem in this building is that you all like to share maids, so they know everyone’s comings and goings.’

  ‘Ruki, maybe Rabia is right,’ Aunty Shaida said. ‘Maybe we need to all talk to our maids. You know, I still feel they need guidance. We must tell them what’s right and wrong, like a mother would.’

  They all nodded, even Shirin. They were sitting at the round table in the glass hall, leaning in to each add their opinion across the rosy centrepiece.

  ‘Yes, very motherly,’ Rabia said sarcastically, with a slight roll of her eyes as she wondered if Shirin had any maternal instincts. She had to admit, though, that this was probably the only way they’d find the culprit. ‘But you’re right,’ she nodded at Shirin. ‘Let’s speak to our maids, see what they know about the jewellery. Someone obviously has access to our flats at night.’ She adjusted a wayward rose in the centrepiece.

  ‘Oh?’ Mrs Hassim’s voice rose a little. ‘And you think they will tell us anything? ‘Remember what Julie’s maid did—’

  ‘Shh! The bride is walking in! She’s coming!’ Shirin hissed.

  All eyes turned to the entrance. Angelic music welled up like birds soaring through a clear sky, slowly growing louder as the eager chattering in the hall quietened into silent expectation.

  Zaina craned her neck for a view of the entrance. The entire room seemed to glow in luminous shades of violet and lilac, the light dancing off the silver crystals of the chandeliers and the mirrored vases on each table overflowing with white and yellow roses. The smell of lavender hung in the air. Zaina felt she might have floated away in this perfect setting, had it not been for the heaviness of Ruki’s hand pinching her thigh, saying, ‘You’ll be getting married next, Inshallah!’

  Zara drifted in radiantly on the arm of her proud father, as if she’d been born to walk on a white carpet dusted with silver glitter and rose petals. Her mother, Aunty Julie, and her brother Farid, who’d flown in from Pretoria, had the same look of pride in their eyes as her father as they trailed behind Zara. Walking behind her daughter’s two-metre train, Aunty Julie sparkled in her gold dress, which had left some shimmer on her mascara-stained cheeks. Her heavy eyelashes batted her tears away dramatically.

  Zara basked in the adoration of the guests. Her gown was surprisingly simple, yet the softness of the silk hinted at an earth-shattering price tag. It fit her perfectly, the square neckline highlighting her delicate collarbones and a line of diamanté accentuating her waist. Her veil was a whisper of white floating just above her mahogany locks. For the first time, Zaina saw her smile. Really smile.

  Zaina looked with pride at the dark red henna weaving up the bride’s slender fingers and along the sides of her feet. She was proud of her work, and a secret applause fluttered in her heart.

  Around the table, the women were quiet, lost in reminiscing. Ruki remembered herself as a young, insecure bride in red, uncertain of her future. She inhaled tightly at the memory of her mother lying shrouded in white on the floor. She wished her mother could’ve seen her get married, or offer her the advice only mothers can impart to their daughters before marriage. She surrendered to her tears.

  Rabia saw herself twenty years before, with the same hopeful smile and glowing expectation – expectation that had been crushed by a man who’d never seen her worth. For Julie’s sake, and Zara’s, she hoped this marriage would last.

  Shirin watched the bride’s feet. ‘Kick and walk!’ her mother used to tell her when she was practising for her wedding. She recalled the measured perfection in each step, reflected in Zara’s stride.

  The men sat on the other side of the hall. The fathers saw their daughters in Zara, feeling the grasp of their dainty hands on their arms as they handed them over to another man and another family. The younger ones sat glassy-eyed at the ambitious thought of an equally luminous wife.

  This was what happened at weddings and funerals. The threads of dreams and fears, hugs and tears, draped themselves around every corner, packaged together in an embrace between old and young. At a wedding, in the depths of your soul, you imagined yourself as the dewy, youthful bride, fresh with the lily-white optimism of a sparkling new life with the man you loved. You longed for that feeling, whether you’d felt it before or not. And in the darkness of a funeral home, you imagined yourself, or your mother or husband or child, laid out on the floor, within the finality of the white calico sheet, nothing more to say or hear. And you made your way home, bones aching from a deathly chill, determined to love harder, live harder and pray harder while life still beat through your body.

  Just like the contagious scent of camphor that clung to your black cloak after a funeral, the perfume of expectation and hope drenched your wedding outfit. It ran its fingers through your sprayed tresses and danced off the light of your sequined shoes, playing with your scarf in the fresh evening breeze.

  Zara floated towards the stage as the music faded. She perched on one of the elaborate white-and-silver ottomans, plump sunny roses in hand, and waited for her groom.

  The men made their way across the lawn to the jamaat khana to pray and witness the nikkah ceremony. The women in the hall would be able to listen to the ceremony on the loudspeaker as Zara sat on the stage.

  Earlier in the day, Zara’s father and uncle, and the groom’s father, had asked her for her acceptance to be married. Now, with her agreement, the moulana asked the groom in front of the male congregation if he accepted Zara as his wife. The groom’s father presented the mehr to the moulana, a wooden chest holding two gold coins cushioned on maroon velvet. Nodding, the moulana asked the groom to repeat his acceptance, and then blessed the marriage with a duaa.

  Zara cupped her hands during the prayer, her eyes burning into the dark henna, praying for a happy life with her husband.

  As the prayer came to an end, congratulations echoed across the hall, as the men wished the groom well and the women readied themselves for his entrance. Aunty Julie made her way to the stage to kiss her daughter on the cheeks and ensure not a hair on the bride’s head was out of place.

  ‘I heard he’s a doctor,’ Ruki said, pleased with herself for offering some wealthy information.

  ‘Hmm, and very handsome,’ offered Mrs Hassim, raising her eyebrows in approval.

  ‘Well, I just hope he treats her well. In the end, that’s all that matters,’ Rabia said shortly.

  They munched happily on the chevro and bite-sized samoosas, assessing the décor of the hall and designer dresses worn by the groom’s cousins, the unpleasant afternoon squabble between Ruki and Shirin readily eclipsed.

  ‘You’re looking lovely, Zaina,’ said Shirin, in a rare moment of generosity. Her peacock-green sari hugged her sexily.

  Ruki also turned her attention to Zaina. ‘Who knows, you could meet someone tonight,’ she teased in a singsong voice that Zaina knew all too well. She smiled half-heartedly. Ruki continued, ‘In fact, there is someone I want you to meet,’ and she rubbed her hands together like a woman constructing a juicy plot.

  Rabia knew Zaina hated this, but she was determined to take some joy in her daughter’s social angst, after all the lies Zaina had told her. ‘Oh, that’s so nice of you, Ruki Masi,’ she smiled, then gave Zaina a quick glare.

  ‘Yes, there’s no harm in meeting someone,’ Ruki said. With her blue-and-tan scarf draped in a series of knots and frills on her head, she looked like a fortune teller.

  The men filtered into the hall, emanating importance, as if they’d been working on a huge business deal. Zaina watched them and wondered which among them would be her co-victim in Ruki’s scheme. Maybe it’s that thin, mousy-looking one with the gold chain, she thought, horrified. Or that one – with the premature pot belly and elephant walk. Haathi mere Saathi, she thought, recalling that old Hindi movie about the boy and his giant pet elephant. Maybe it will be this one in the light blue shirt – tall and unpretentious, with kind eyes. A tiny zap of hope buzzed through her skin. He would be a perfect distraction from Imraan.

  Bowls of steaming chicken-and-corn soup on vast trays glided on waiters’ shoulders towards each table. Aunty Julie was famous for this soup, and she’d made sure the caterers had used her recipe. She gleamed with pride as murmurs of delight echoed compliments to the chef.

  With less than the fanfare of the bride’s entrance, the groom strolled down the aisle in his jet-black suit, followed by an entourage of his friends. He was indeed handsome, with green eyes and a generous smile.

  Zaina remembered that Billy had told her when the groom walked in, the right person to look at was the bride – to see her expression. And Zara’s was filled with love and hope and a thousand blooming possibilities.

  Her new husband, after greeting Zara’s mother and father, and every other known family member and cousin who was overcome with emotion, finally joined her on the stage. Holding her hand tenderly, he placed what looked like a small diamond mine on her finger. Zaina was sure it blinded a few people sitting close to the stage, especially in the million-kilowatt flash of the photographer’s camera.

  While the bride was adorned with jewellery by her new sister-in-law, Zaina wondered what the newly married couple were talking about. She always wondered this – what do you say to someone after you’ve married them? She would want her groom to say to her, ‘You look beautiful,’ or something epic and romantic that she would remember forever.

  Then she thought about how both bride and groom knew they were going to see each other naked for the first time later on. Zaina imagined this would be the most embarrassing thing. She wouldn’t even be able to look at her groom. Thinking about it, she blushed brightly.

  What Zara was actually saying, through a forced smile, was, ‘This petticoat is killing me. It’s really digging into my skin.’

  ‘And these lights,’ the groom said, ‘I’m going to melt. My cheeks already hurt.’

  Then Zara turned to him ever so slightly and said, ‘I can’t wait to be alone with you.’

  And suddenly his smile wasn’t so forced any more.

  Oi! Tell me what’s going on. Hav u bn arranged yet? Billy teased through cyberspace.

  D chickn biryani is divine. N da samoosas wer nice 2. Not sure abt da mutton. Looked suspicious.

  Dn’t change d subjct.

  Ok, potentially n introduction l8tr, but nothing 2 appetising on the menu.

  Haha. Leme know how it goes.

  As if on cue, Aunty Ruki finished her last mouthful of biryani, making sure to run her fingers around the plate to gather up any rebellious grains of ice. Licking her fingers, she gathered herself up and instructed Zaina to ‘wait there’.

  Rabia rolled her eyes and sighed. Oh, God, please don’t let her make a scene.

  ‘Zaina! This is Goolam Hoosen Khan,’ Ruki bellowed, as if she were announcing the arrival of an all-encompassing hurricane. People from other tables turned to look.

  Realising it was too late to get out of its path, Zaina turned around in her chair and looked straight into his protruding stomach. Chal … mera Haathi.

  ‘Sit, Goolam, sit and talk to Zaina,’ Ruki urged, shoving a champagne glass of Coke into his pudgy hand.

  The poor young man sat down facing Zaina as all the women stared at him. He and Zaina reluctantly murmured ‘salaam’ to each other.

  ‘Zaina is very talented, you know. She is also very educated. And Goolam, he lives in Pietermaritzburg. He owns a business,’ Ruki announced proudly.

  ‘Yes, er … it’s a wholesale,’ Goolam said nervously, beads of sweat assembling on his forehead and above his twitching lip. He shifted uncomfortably in his black pants and shiny black shirt. His voice was unexpectedly thin.

  Up close, Zaina noticed he had pleasant brown eyes, but they were swallowed up by his chubby cheeks. ‘Oh. What do you sell?’ Zaina asked, feigning interest.

  ‘Um … toilet paper, mostly.’ His eyes darted around nervously.

  Zaina thought he seemed constipated.

  ‘Hah! The good-quality one! Not just any kind,’ Aunty Ruki clarified. ‘Quick, give him your number, Zaina. They will serve dessert just now and everyone will start leaving.’

  ‘Oh, well, I guess I could give you my landline number,’ Zaina said. She hoped he would get the hint: nobody called on landlines these days, unless maybe someone had died, or they’d lost their cellphone. In fact, if the landline rang, it sent most people into the headless-chicken flap.

  ‘No, no,’ Ruki insisted, ‘give him your cellphone number. You can chat. On the WhatsUp thing.’

  How does Aunty Ruki know about that? Zaina wondered. But, stuck in the glare of the women, she had no choice.

  Goolam diligently took down her cellphone number. As he walked away, Zaina relaxed, turning back to a few amused faces.

  ‘Free toilet paper for life,’ Rabia said, sipping her tea. ‘You could do with that, with all the crap you’ve got yourself into,’ she added, under her breath.

  The evening drew on, in the hazy fairy-tale dream of the smiles of friends and family, uniting and reuniting for pictures with the bride and groom. Little girls ran around with flowers in their hair after their naughty little brothers. Two suited mini-scientists with spiky hair mixed cooldrinks together at the next empty table, thrilled by the orange and red fizzing concoctions, daring each other to taste them. Just in time, Laila swooped in, hauling them away, her face flushed with embarrassment.

  As the men from Summer Terrace drifted in and out of conversation around the table between cigarette puffs, Ismail found himself drawn to the enigmatic lady on the opposite end. Had he really looked at her from afar before? It occurred to him that if he hadn’t known her, then this was the type of woman he would be attracted to.

  It was Shirin, his wife. She was magnetic in the way she held her posture, the commanding brightness in her gaze and the youthful curve of her figure.

  He noticed that other men had seen it too. They envied him. If only they knew. Why does she stay with me? he pondered. Surely, she couldn’t be happy. He resented her for staying, and he resented himself for not sending her away. He was selfish.

  ‘Ready to go?’ Mr Hassim asked, wiping his hands on a paper towel and letting out a satisfied burp. He had the task of driving the minibus.

  ‘Chalo, let’s go,’ Ismail said, standing up with a sigh of resignation. He went over to Shirin’s table. Touching her back gently, he inhaled her sweet perfume. ‘We’ll be leaving now,’ he said quietly to her.

  Shirin thought he was being unusually attentive, but put it down to an imagined intimacy. ‘Ladies, let’s get ready to go,’ she informed the others like a drill sergeant.

  A hundred kisses and hugs later, some sporting Aunty Julie’s gold dust on their arms and cheeks, Ruki, Mrs Hassim, Aunty Shaida, her daughters and her husband, Shirin and Ismail, Rabia and Zaina climbed into the large white-and-yellow minibus.

  ‘What a nice wedding, nice couple,’ Ruki said, already eating the Chocolate Logs handed out to guests.

  ‘Mmm, very nice. But I always feel that a bride must wear a scarf. You know how much blessing there is in that,’ Mrs Hassim piped up from the passenger seat.

  Ruki made her agreement known.

  Mr Hassim switched on the Islamic radio station. A serene tune floated out of the speakers.

  Towards the back, Shirin and Ismail sat in silence. She was used to it: silence defined their consent to their marriage. She felt a little sad: who would bother to look at her any more, when her own husband didn’t. There was no need to kick and walk. No, nowadays she stood still.

  The drive home was quiet and peaceful, apart from Ruki’s intermittent observations of the night. Zaina, however, was angry. While her ‘prospect’ might have added a comic twist to the evening, she was resentful that Ruki could actually think that he would suit her … or that she would settle for him. Did Ruki not think she deserved better? Would she have wanted that for her own daughter?

  But Zaina knew why her prospects had never quite reached the standards of being handsome or educated, or both. Her mind wandered back to an Eid ten years before, spent at her late grandmother’s house.

  ‘Who will want to marry a Memon girl from a dysfunctional family?’ Hafsa Masi had asked, cramming a gulaab jamun into her mouth. She and her sister had become the matriarchs of the family after Zaina’s grandmother, their sister, had passed away. The pair lived through other people’s lives, witnessing countless weddings and wailing at every wake. They seemed immortal, as if they thrived on the delicacies of depression, divorce and death in the Moosa family.