The Wedding Countdown Read Online Free Page A

married.’
    And wouldn’t you know it, here’s Sanaubar, bang on cue. One hand rests on her swollen belly, the other tows her snotty son.
    ‘Mummy- ji , Auntie- ji .’ Sanaubar dutifully air-kisses her elders, before turning her attention to me. ‘Hello, Amelia, interesting churidar kurtas . Did you make them yourself?’
    Only the fact that I’m twenty-two not twelve stops me from smacking her in the face.
    ‘A girl never reveals her tailor,’ I say airily. Actually, I love this outfit. My dressmaker and I have worked on it for weeks and designed it from scratch. I love looking different from everyone else, as well as making a fashion statement on the side. I don’t think Mummy- ji would let me get away with Liz Hurley-style safety pins or a J-Lo bum-cleavage frock, but a different neckline or an original way of draping fabric is fine. And the less flesh shown the better.
    The material for today’s outfit is silvery green and the cut is really flattering. My stomach has never looked so taut or flat. All my cousins have been asking me where I’ve bought this outfit. Maybe if I don’t make it as a journalist I can turn my hand at fashion design. After all, Victoria Beckham started by making a living just changing the colour of the thread in jeans, so how hard can it be?
    ‘You’d better keep it a secret,’ says Sanaubar nastily, ‘if that’s what she makes. That colour is so last season. My husband bought my outfit from Lahore. Everyone’s wearing this style in Pakistan.’
    I make a mental note never to visit Pakistan if it means wearing vomit yellow with snot-green flowers. I’d rather go naked, thanks, than look like something the cat threw up.
    ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ gushes Auntie Bee. ‘Sanaubar’s husband dotes on her. He says he must have done something in his earlier life to deserve her.’
    He was probably Adolf Hitler, then.
    ‘Lovely,’ we all echo dutifully.
    ‘And another grandchild on the way,’ ploughs on Auntie Bee. ‘God has truly blessed me with a dutiful daughter and a growing family. But never mind, Hamida, I’m sure that you’ll be as fortunate too one day. One of your children is sure to marry eventually, insha’Allah . Do you know, Hamida, I pray for bechari you and my bechara brother and all your becharay children, and especially bechari Amelia, night and day, night and day, I pray and pray, after each and every namaz , always, always first, even before I thank Allah- ji for blessing me with a beti such as my Sanaubar…’
    ‘Oops!’ Sara cries, whacking her elbow into Auntie Bee’s towering plate of food and sending splats of chicken and rice flying. ‘Clumsy me. Sorry! I must have tripped.’ She winks at me as she takes Auntie Bee’s podgy arm. ‘So sorry, Auntie- ji . Let me help you get cleared up.’
    I instantly forgive Sara for bringing up the dreaded subject of marriage. It’s worth it to see Auntie Bee dripping in chicken tikka and Sanaubar’s hideous shalwar kameez vastly improved by the splatters of red dye. My mother, though, is furious. I recognise the firm set of her mouth and the shoulders so tense that they are practically round her ears. Poor Mum; she’s more and more in the firing line as time goes on and my ovaries supposedly wither away. 
    Over at the buffet relatives are fighting for available chairs, which is when the claws, or rather nail extensions, really come out. It’s less like musical chairs and more like territorial warfare. At the last shaadi I was in real fear for my toes, so foolishly exposed in sandals. I may be a pacifist at heart but I can fight with the best of them and, besides, Qas always says that my bony elbows can slice granite. Pretty quickly I find a seat for my mother and fetch her some juice.
    She sighs. ‘Auntie Bee always knows exactly how to get to me.’
    ‘Yeah, she’s got a real talent for upsetting people.’
    ‘She does have a point though,’ says my mother slowly.
    I suddenly find my toes extremely