The room was covered in sarees in assorted colours. Sounds of the out of tune, loud, old women singing was somehow drowned out by my loud thoughts. Strong smells of henna and saffron filled the air, viciously attacking my nose. The sequins and stones in my salwar stabbed my skin creating a unpleasant stinging. Never liked wearing salwars; they’re rather uncomfortable and not very attractive if you’d ask me.
Scanning the room a group of girls catches my attention. They were in their late teens; happy and carefree – just like you should be at that age. Watching these girls dancing filled me with feelings of envy and nostalgia. I remember being like that; happy, carefree and having the rest of my life in front of me because it was just last week. I almost felt sorry for myself, something that I have perhaps never done.
As the henna artist my mother insisted I have, piped henna on to my hand I could feel it stiffen from the cold paste. I examined her whilst she created her master piece; making it seem so effortless. I watched as her masterpiece came alive. The brown lines became a part my arms and hands. The brown lines are clinging on to my skin just like I am clinging on to the last morsels of childhood I had left.
‘Beti you look for so beautiful.’ Aunt Geeta held my face and I came crashing down to reality. ‘Thank you Geeta Kaki.’ I politely flashed a smile. She took a sit beside me, now being large women this was quite a struggle for her, and a very humorous event to witness. ‘Let me see you henna darling’ she takes my hand and examines it with great detail. ‘Wah wah such beauty just like the bride’ aggressively pinching my cheek. ‘You know what they say the darker your henna is the more your husband will love you!’ How ironic as I knew that no matter how dark my henna came out but soon to be husband wasn’t going to love me. He hasn’t even met me.
