It was like a scene from the story she had, as a child, begged her father to read, over and again; Scheherazade and the Arabian Nights. Each time Scheherazade’s life was saved, she’d sigh with relief, yet listen fearfully again the next time. A moment of sadness tinged the day as she wished her father could be there to see her, resplendent in a sari the colour of fresh pomegranate seeds and draped with gold wedding jewellery, marrying in the country of his birth. She blinked, grateful that, at least, her mother had made the journey. Rachel and Aamina escorted Sally into a small anteroom where a kaleidoscope of silks, chiffons and jewels dazzled beyond the mesh of her veil and she saw her mother and grandmother sitting together, repairing more than thirty years of separation whilst between them, Sammy tugged at his great-grandmother’s hand and pointed. She raised her veil a little and waved to her son then let herself be guided into the garlanded chair, ready for the marriage ceremony to begin.
