1 Ammi asks something and looks around at all of us. No one answers. I don't even hear her over the sound of Billie Eilish softly crooning in my ears. 'Wait 'til the world is mine.' Ammi's looking at me expectantly, so I pull off my earphones and let the wires dangle around my neck. 'You asked me something?' She nods. 'I asked you for today's gold rate.' I groan and shoot a glance at Abbu, who's sitting on the other end of the sofa, sipping his tea. He doesn't have Billie Eilish in his ears, but he's so lost in the news that he hasn't heard her at all. 'Ask Abbu!' I tell her. She shakes her head and indicates my phone. 'You check and tell me.' 'You check for yourself, no?' I tell her, balancing my plate on my lap precariously. 'I'm getting late for college.' 'I always end up somewhere else, Abir. Check and tell, no?' she says. The slightly pleading tone in her voice does it for me. With a sigh, I pick up my phone, pause the song just as Billie's getting to the good part, and google for the day's gold rates. I show the phone to my mother whose eyebrows go up in worry, predictably. 'I don't know why you're so worried about gold rates,' I say. Ammi doesn't even bother replying. 'Apparently, they're asking for eighty sovereigns these days,' she mutters. 'How are we going to arrange so much and then do it all over again?' Ammi glances at Amal, my younger sister. I don't want to get into a shouting match with her before class. But why is it that when Ammi sees me and Amal, she sees only the 'responsibilities' that they have in getting us married? Why can't she see us for who we are? 'First of all, who's asking for eighty sovereigns?' I ask her and immediately wish I'd kept quiet. Amal, who has been reading a book while eating her breakfast, looks at us. As usual, she has been lost in her own thoughts. 'What's going on?' Ammi sighs again. 'You know. The boy's side.' 'Which boy's side?' I ask, alarmed. 'Any boy's side. Any potential bridegroom. Your future family.' I grit my teeth at her words but decide that I can't rise to the bait. I will get late for college. I finish eating quickly and take the plate to the kitchen to wash up. Nani ambles out of her room and smiles at me. 'Leaving?' I nod. I don't have time to chat with her. I know she will be disappointed. But I don't want to be paired with--ugh, never mind--that person for my chemistry practicals today. If I don't leave right now, I'll miss the bus to college, and everything will go downhill from there. I hurry back to the living room, where everyone is eating, as we have been for a few months since Nida Phuppu's kids accidentally broke the dining table legs. Don't ask what they did to break the legs. It is true, though, that the legs had been a bit shaky for a long time. Abbu had been furious when he saw the damage, but he has yet to find the time or the money to get it fixed. I wish we could just chuck the table out and buy a new one. But imagine saying that to Abbu. He'd look at me like I had two heads and three legs. I don't have time to document the many ways in which my home can be made a lot less shabby. There's the peeling paint (the house was last painted when Nida Phuppu got married eight years ago). Then there's the rickety furniture. And of course, everything related to electronics is outdated, barring my precious laptop and our phones. I fix my earphones in my ears again and wrap my head scarf so that they are concealed under it. Ammi looks at me and makes a 'tch' sound. 'How many times . . .' she begins. 'Ya, ya, I know. I won't listen when I'm on the road. Come, Amal!' I tug on my sister's shoulder. Her school and my college are in the same direction, so we travel together. She stands up and brushes away stray roti crumbs from her uniform. She's wearing a sweater and leggings. 'How are you not feeling cold in December?' she asks. I'm wearing my regular shalwar kameez. 'No time to discuss why our body temperatures are different and why my metabolism is superior to yours. Just come!' I nearly roar at her. This gets Abbu's attention. He looks up at us and nods and then goes back to his newspaper. Ammi will get busy preparing lunch once we all leave, but first she walks us to the door. I push my feet into my sandals and wait impatiently while Amal ties up her shoelaces. How on earth did I get a sloth for a sister? She's so infuriating. Ammi watches us with a sad smile on her face. I wish she'd stop making that face. But I've seen that expression for a very long time, and I know what it means. You're getting so big so soon! We'll have to start thinking about your marriage any time now. All the relatives are asking. Gold rates are just going to keep increasing. 'Bye Ammi! Khuda Hafiz.' I lean close and hug her suddenly. My mother can exasperate me, but she loves us, even if that love is tinged with unnecessary worry about what our future families will be like. I wish she'd appreciate the family we have now. Neither I nor Amal are going to be getting married any time soon. I'm seventeen and my sister is fourteen. Ammi needn't worry so much already. But she does. Amal and I leave our house in the tiny gully behind Commercial Street and wave at Mahim Chacha, who is waiting in his auto. He waves back at us. We hurry into the auto. Chacha will drop us off at the bus stand where we'll get on our bus. I mentally prepare for college. I will not think of that person. I will not think of that person. I guess I am thinking of that person already, but I will stop. This minute. Amal and I get on the bus. It's one of those rare days when both of us can manage a seat. 'Don't even think about it,' I tell Amal as she looks around to see if she can pull out her book. She sighs. 'So unfair. You can listen to music and I can't read.' 'What can I do if my hobby is better suited for commuting than yours?' I tell her with a superior smile. She sniffs, irritated. 'But I was at the end of a chapter, Api!' 'And it will wait. Read it in your lunch break,' I admonish her. 'You are not the boss of me,' she says, folding her arms across her chest. 'I am. The boss. Of you,' I enunciate with a grim smile. I do love bossing over her, a bit too much. 'I'll get back at you. Just wait,' she promises. 'It's for your eyes, Amu. You don't want to ruin them by reading on a bus! It's too shaky!' 'They're my eyes!' 'And you're going to be a big star some day. Doing whatever it is you want. Do you really want . . .' 'Oh, shut up and go back to listening to Harry Styles!' she snaps. We've had this argument before. 'Chee. I wasn't listening to Harry Styles,' I tell her, shuddering. 'Why? What's wrong with him?' she asks. 'Nothing.' We don't talk after that. I press play on my phone, and in my ears, Billie screams, 'You should see me in a crown!' Excerpted from The Henna Start-Up by Andaleeb Wajid All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
