This was Jamila’s night. Besides, if there was any misunderstanding and Aunt Bibi thought I wanted to get married too, I could easily put them right and say I was returning to Australia in a month to go to uni. Problem solved. Haider, I’d have to deal with later. ‘Ameera!’ Aunty Khushida called to me from her bedroom. ‘Hurry, child.’ Zeba led me in. Dadi jan and Jamila were there too. Dadi jan smiled at me, but Jamila’s eyes were puffy and red, and she turned her face to the wall when I attempted a smile. Aunty beckoned me closer. Then I saw the dress. It was laid out on the bed: musk pink, a high waist, gold shining through from underneath. The border around the hem was stitched in gold thread and was thirty centimetres deep at least. Instead of the shalwar there was the narrow pyjama worn in Bollywood movies called churidar. Gold high-heeled sandals stood erect on the floor. Aunty picked up the dupatta. It also had gold stitching on the border and hung in perfect folds; if it were on my head, my face would be framed in gold.
