My Big, Fat Desi Wedding by Prerna Pickett

Author:Prerna Pickett [Pickett, Prerna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Page Street Publishing
Published: 2023-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

The kitchen now smells of nuts, honey, and buttery dough. An older man with his back toward me is arranging trays on the counter.

“Assalamualaikum.” I greet the older man who is busy fiddling with the knobs on the wall oven.

“Waleikum Assalam,” he replies in a deep voice. Zayn introduces this man as his father. When he finally turns around, a surprise runs through me as I recognize him. But only now do I notice the striking resemblance. The same hazel eyes and that dimpled smile. He has kind, gentle eyes and a patience about him that Zayn clearly lacks.

“Zayn’s mother made perfect baklawa. She tried to teach me. It’ll never be as good as hers, but we try. You want to help?” Mr. Malik asks as he pours a dark honey-colored syrup over the tray.

“Sure. I love baklawa. I want the recipe so I can try it out, too.” I sidle next to him and watch as he carefully pours. The sizzle of the hot syrup over cool pastry sheets fills the air along with the smell of sweet honey.

Mr. Malik, Zayn, and I prepare the baklawa trays, then cover them with plastic wrap and set them aside.

The timer on the oven beeps as he sets it for four hours. “I’ll set the timer on the oven so that you both don’t forget about it.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started with my biryani, so I’ll keep an eye on it if Zayn wants to leave. I think I’ve got this.” I hold the oven door open as Zayn slides in the last of the trays.

“Do you want to come to the Qabrastan with me, son?” Mr. Malik looks at Zayn.

He flits his gaze in my direction and his jaw hardens. “Can we do this another time, Baba?”

I take the rice and disappear to another part of the kitchen. The kitchen is part of an open floor plan in the community center’s basement, so even though it’s not tiny by any standards, voices carry.

Mr. Malik’s soft but irritated voice reaches my ears. “You’re our only child. She would’ve wanted you to visit her grave, son. Maybe it’ll help give you some closure? Remember the grief counselor brought that up? Maybe you can write to her and bring a letter to read to her, if it helps?”

Zayn’s reply is in an even more irritated tone. “You wanted me to be here, so I’m here. Today is tough, Baba. I want to be in a happier place, this is why I’m here to help with the wedding. I can’t, I’m not ready—”

“Are you ready to pray? Because that’s the least you can do. The masjid is so close, at least attend the dhur prayer and pray for her soul? I have to go, but it would make your mother happy. That’s all we can do for her now.”

A shuffle of feet and the door opening and closing lets me know someone has left. I stay put and resist the urge to check up on Zayn.

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