Everything is a scintillating gold: my coat, my watch, the day outside. Music from the rows of bangles adorning my sisters’ arms rings in my ears. But, there’s no tinkle on Ammi’s wrists, no gold sequins on her pastel dupatta.
Waiters wear starched turbans, and banquet tables release aromas, but, I have no appetite.
All eyes are on me. I say “Qubool Hai” when asked the third time. Congratulations echo in the hall. Ammi dabs her eyes and smiles. Elders bless me, but none of the hands carry the same weight and warmth as your palm on my head, my Abba.