The Light At The Very End Of The Tunnel

The Henna Party

It is said that the first time a relationship was given a legal name was in ancient Egypt. In fact, the universal wedding symbol, the perfectly round ring, also dates back to the ancient Egypt, when the circle of the ring represented a union without beginning, without end. This knowledge didn't make me glow with pride. It made me want to throw up. I couldn't stand long enough to plan a week from today let alone my whole life. And the thought that I was going to jump headfirst into a life that would put a leash on my very wild heart was heart crushing. I was getting married. Married to a man I had never seen before. And while Mama maintained a giddy front. Baba became the quiet secluded one. It was as though they had swapped spirits. Ziad was still awkward around me. Was this how all brides to be felt. I felt like I was locked in a jar. The lid my roof and ultimately my limit. I dreamed of going to Paris. Of going to Australia. Of just going to places. Of just....  Living. Not just watching my life leave me behind.

Time had the annoying proclivity to speed up when you need it to just stand still. It was as though a hand had stretched forth to twist the hands of time into fast forward. The Henna day is tomorrow.  And as I lay in bed waiting for morning to come, tears leaked like a faulty roof. I didn't know I had this much tears. I didn't remember falling into a restless bumpy sleep....

It was here. It was the first occasion of the wedding. It turned out I was the only girl in town who didn't know about the family I was going to be a part of. Mama said they were rich beyond words. Old money. Whatever that meant. Mama had sent our invitations to all my friends, her friends and the whole family. For a reason I couldn't seem to comprehend they seemed to be jealous of my predicament. It became even more clear when three huge vans came in succession to our house. Parked in convoy in front of the small house with peeling paint, it looked so out of place. It turned out that the three vans came with every clothing I would require for the wedding and for wearing after the wedding. I had never seen so many clothes at once. Not even in the local seamstress' shop. Shoes, bags, underwear, jewelry everything. And a box of lingerie I wouldn't be caught dead wearing.   One of the boxes read Henna day. The gold in there was unreal.
Accompanied with the van was a tall woman wearing all black. She had black eyes. And her khol was so thick, she appeared to have used her fingers to smear it. She was the henna artist.
According to Mama she was the best in the country. To my dismay Mama was loving the heinous atmosphere of her only daughter's wedding. She hummed wherever she went. And she barely noticed the bride being slowly swallowed into a pitch black cocoon of misery. The Henna artist turned out to be a mute. I never spoke to her but mama having become a walking body of giddiness kept trying to get her to talk. She wrote a note and passed to her. Mama looked like she had swallowed a can of slimy worms. And she kept apologizing until the lady started to laugh. It didnt bother her apparently. She had overcome her flaw. Gotten over it. I wonder when I'll ever laugh at my predicament the way she did. And the look she gave me when she saw me staring said it all. It told me to be hopeful. Time heals all wounds, physical or otherwise. But then what if the wounds kept getting split open. Never to be left to heal?  I smiled back at her, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. She took my hand and began working her Magic.