Free Last-Minute Love (Year of the Chick series) by Romi Moondi Page B

products. Eventually I realized that her hair was so soft and silky it was harder to hold a curl…ohhh what a problem to have! My damaged hair on the other hand could spring into a curl in five seconds. At least that’s something.
    When I finally got rid of Anju , I had five minutes left to slap on some eye shadow and curl my hair. My sister of course would be thrilled with the sloppy look, as it would greatly increase the contrast with her beauty. I kept reminding myself that her happiness came first since this was her wedding after all, so some sloppy curls later I was ready.
    To finish off my outfit (an emerald green Indian dress with silver embroidery), I put on some earrings that were moderately-sized along with a matching necklace. There was no way in hell that would piss off my sister.
    I turned to make my way downstairs, but before the first step I collided with Anju, who was wearing...giant chandelier earrings. All I could do was gasp, as she smiled and sauntered away. This was the strictest violation of the “Indian girl code” I’d ever witnessed. The code stated that for any kind of Indian party you were at, whether an engagement party or a birthday party or a wedding, each girl’s earrings must not “out-glam” those of the party honoree’s, and the second-in-line honoree’s (which would be me in this case), and so on. Didn’t everybody know this? It was so obvious. Meanwhile this little rat had made me waste all my time on her hair and makeup so I’d spend less time on my own, thus making her out-shine me as well. Diabolical!
    As a quiet revenge, I wished her the meanest thing of all: that her parents would take her to India one day, and force her to marry some creepy old man from the village.
    A nd may you birth an entire army of dead-beat sons...
     
    ***
     
    The light atop the videographer’s camera blinded me, as I, my mother and sister entered the yard on this warm summer’s night. We were each carrying trays with various ceremonial sweets and props, for the soul-cleansing ceremony that would follow. The camera didn’t stay on me for long, because before I knew it twenty or so ladies ambushed my sister and brought her to the “staging area.”
    The s taging area referred to an uncomfortable stoop that Neema was required to sit on ( God help the bride who has early-onset osteoporosis ). Behind the stoop hung rows of shiny coloured fabric, which formed the garish rainbow backdrop that would pop in all the pictures and videos (since the classy white backing of the tent was just too boring for us Indians).
    I hid in the back far away from the action, but before I knew it two Indian friends from my childhood days were beside me. They were non-identical twins and my sister’s age. Both of them were pretty enough, but neither of them was married. And their parents kind of hated them for that.
    “Your sister looks so pretty,” said the first twin Reena.
    “What’s with your cousin’s earrings though?” asked the other twin Neetu.
    I sighed. “I know! I think she stole them from her mom’s bridal jewellery set.” We laughed.
    We turned our attention to the makeshift stage, as my mother finished mixing up a cruddy yellow paste. This stuff would now be rubbed on every exposed part of my sister’s body.
    “That’s kind of disgusting,” said Neetu.
    I shook my head. “I know dude...I know.”
    It was rather fascinating to watch all the aunties jockey for position, so they could grab the largest clump of paste, and rub it on the largest surface area of Neema’s body. An elder lady who was someone’s cousin’s grandmother or something scored the collarbone, and she rubbed and rubbed while my sister winced in horror. As much as I knew this was a sacred ritual, it was totally hilarious.
    My aunt or the earring-code-breaker’s mom took the next bigg est chunk, and got to rub it up and down my sister’s right arm.
    We were almost out of paste and skin by the time my turn finally came, so I