0. Lift off

Didn’t expect me to be online today, didja?

That’s a hundred bucks (read dollars) for me, courtesy Absar. Yeay, shopping!

So November 6th is actually here. And I STILL can’t type at all. Mehndi and these extremely annoying nails make typing harder than clipping grass with tweezers on a football green.

I’ve realized long hair and nails are the biggest setback to women’s progress. We chop ‘em off and there’s just no stopping us.

 

I don’t know, do you expect a soliloquy about my feelings? What I’m going through- whether I’m together or panicking everybody else’s butt off? You shouldn’t.

I’ve been preparing for this day for a pretty long time. All girls do; this day is symbolic. This is the day a girl becomes an individual in her own right. And I don’t mean by getting married- I mean by leaving the house of her parents. Walking out of their shadow, stepping away from their protection.

Now we’re the tree- the guardian and the provider. It’s such a world of responsibility and unless we’re completely inept, our parents won’t be bailing us out all the time. After the romance dies down, real life kicks in, and it doesn’t matter if you’re not ready for it. If somebody’s fallen into the sea, and they can’t swim, they improvise. It’s unbelievable what man can come up with in desperate times.

 

So this is a toast to me. A toast to who I was and maybe one day, who I will be. I’ve had a good run. There’s not much I regret having done, and what I regret missing out on… well, life is long and unpredictable. Maybe SCAD’ll just pop up into my life the way S did.

“Hello Hira, we’ve accepted you for a full expense paid scholarship! All you have to do is show up at the airport, we’ll pay for the flight and dorm. Please don’t say no, our college would be proud to have you!”

Add a fridge full of candy and I might concede :p

 

Next time you see me here, I’ll be married.

I’m picturing a yacht with streamers all around and someone opening a bottle of wine…for what it’s worth, I’m still open to fantasies.

 

Here’s to me, ladies and gentlemen

And a reasonably happy tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

2

4^th November

I’ve got nails.

And I really have no clue how you nail-ed (what else do I call you?) people get any work done. I can barely type. I’ve got so much to say and just putting my fingers on the keyboard is giving me a heart attack- what if they chip, or break, or I damage the coat?

Dear god, that’s 1/4^th of my salary down the drain…

Went to Nabila’s yesterday and got acrylics. My hands look awesome

Ok I can’t type at all.

 

You nail-ed people are stupid.

 

2^nd November

Forever. The longest  word in the English language..not a word in fact, but a sentence.

Forever.

Remember how we threw it about?

H + M forever.

H + A forever.

Now H + S forever.

This time for real, if God is willing.

Can you grasp it? Grasp the concept of eternity, in this life at least?

Love, I’ve learned, doesn’t just happen. It’s not accidental, it’s not something you can’t prevent. Love is cultivated; it’s a decision you take, sometimes spontaneous, sometimes deliberate. You control its extent, and maybe, if you’re stronger than the average person, you can control its potency, but love is not all powerful. Love is not a god.

I chose to let myself fall in love with S. and now I realize it had little to do with him. It was all me, 100%. It happened because I kept taking a few steps forward; he helped, but I chose the course.

I think of things that could have been; even though it’s pointless now and I’ve realized that I’m one of those lucky few whose problems solve themselves. People choose their battles, and I just watch and let my battles rage on without my help.

Faded  hearts sketched on old note books- makes me happy knowing how human one can be.

 

 

8.

Hmm.
Where do I begin?

Bilal
This is Bilal.

This is how he looks like all the time. His expression never changes. It’s freaky.

Bilal’s my cousin. I’ve spent 23 years of my life being either annoyed, ignored, or verbally assaulted by him. I’m pretty sure he has a crush on me.

Bilal’s also  scary lazy. His idea of a good day is sleeping 18 hours, during the day. The six at night don’t count. Whenever he’d be over at my nani’s, nobody would be able to sleep on the bed because all 6’ 2” of him would be sprawled on it. Diagonally.
He’s monosyllabic, but the one syllable he’ll be able to spew all day will be dipped in acid. Guess where the acid dipped arrows usually land?

Now me, I’m very witty- with a keyboard. That backspace key is my best friend. But Bilal could make a simple “yes” sound like the biggest insult in the world. It was a gift. It’d take me ten minutes to think of a comeback and by then he’d be asleep.

Back when we were kids Bilal used to be obsessed with flying kites. Once he made I and my brother run up and down eight flights of stairs in his high rise apartment (no electricity hence lifts wouldn’t work), just fetching and carrying odds and ends so that he could fly his kite on the roof upstairs. We were exhausted and he was barely able to lift the damn thing above his head. Trust Bilal to want to fly a kite on the one day there was no wind.

When we were kids he used to eat four toasts for breakfast, dipping them in sugar- flavored tea. He lived on a diet of daal chawal achaar, and eggs; it was hardly fair he reached 6’ 2” while I stayed a measly 5’ 1” regardless of my protein heavy nutrition. He grew tall, I grew fat. God is a man, hence proven.

Somewhere around a few years ago Bilal and I grew up. We stopped being fren-emies and just became first cousins. I guess time had a lot to do with it. Boys and girls can’t stay friends in a jamaat-e-islaami family. We decided simply throwing each other a taunt once in a while was enough to keep familial relations going.

Two years ago, Bilal joined the army. My khalu made him leave IBA in his third year, for whatever reason, and packed him off to the PMA.

Bilal graduated on Monday. He’s home now, but in a week’s time, three days before my wedding, he’ll be reporting for duty in the artillery unit at Waziristan.

Please pray my cousin comes home safely.

Amen

 

Exhaustion

People say I think too much. How little they know. I try not to think at all.

When my friends look through old university or college pictures they always say how much they missed that time. I can’t ever agree with them. I don’t miss anything. I never wish to go back to my school days, or college or university. I wouldn’t even want to go back to a few days ago, though it’ll mean more time with my family. Thinking back is a waste of time; thinking forward, pointless. Thinking of the present is asking for a headache. Solution? Don’t think.

Easier said then done.

My mind exhausts me. I wake up tired. Basic conversation is like philosophical discussions on Kant to me right now. Even random, meaningless questions seem either a jibe, or patronizing.

“Where are you getting your make up from?”

There’s no right answer to this question. Any answer, even if it was Nabila’s (which it’s not), would be a cause of consternation to the other party. If Nabila’s then from whom exactly, and why not Bina Khan who is much better? If not Nabila’s, then why not Nabila’s since no place else is good enough.

Oh, Sabs? From Saba Ansari, you mean ?

Um. No. Hiring her’ll cost more than my shadi dress and atleast that can’t be wiped off with baby lotion.
Make up is make up. The main difference in all these beauty salons is the price.

“Where are you going for your honeymoon?”
Well, I don’t know.
“Don’t go to Malaysia, pitt gaya he”
Err…ok, any ideas?
“Why don’t you try Greece?”
Thank you. Great idea. I’ll just sell my jewellery and S. can liquidize his assets or whatever and we can go there. In fact, why don’t we stop over at Switzerland for a weekend?

So what do I do? Act sweet and pretend that I don’t find this in the least annoying, or go on the offensive? After all they can’t do anything to me now, I’m getting married.

“So what do you plan to get me as a wedding present? Oh please, not that cheap set of dessert bowls you gave whats-er-face!”

“You are getting new clothes made for the shaadi na? You should check out Umar Saeed’s latest collection- it is to die for! And Nickie and Nina are totally worth the 15000 rupees they charge for a single outfit, if you can afford it!”

“Yeah…meri shadi ho rahi he. Feels weird but S. is a darling…absolutely devoted to me. So when will you finally nab a guy?”

Sigh. If only I could.

 

On Beauty

S. thinks I’m pretty.
It’s one of the reasons I love him. He’s delusional.

I know the hallucinations won’t last. A year, or two maybe; then he’ll notice the bitten off nails, and the dark circles and the not-so-glossy lips and he’ll think he was bewitched and probably want to have me burnt on a stake…I’m kind of ready for it when that happens. I’ve spent my entire life being told how completely unpresentable I am.

When anybody compliments me on anything physical I can’t believe them.
My mother has spent the last decade pointing out various flaws in my personal make up. Nothing I do is right, nothing I do is up to mark. I’m too dark, I’m too fat, my nose is the wrong shape, I don’t wear make up. My mother is my greatest, most persistant critic.

It’s what she does- that’s her job, she’s a mother.
She criticizes you so that nobody else does.
If she won’t tell you, who will?
It’s supposed to help you. It’ll make you a better person; a stronger person.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Congratulations ammi. You’ve made me very happy I’ll be leaving home in a week.

16. 16!!! Six-F’in- teen!!!!!

Expect me to blog a lot in the following…let me count…16 (!!) days. I’m officially on leave now- my Zamzama days are over- for the time being. Haye how I miss them already… though honestly if I continued working there I’d be hopelessly bankrupt regardless of my salary. Butler’s Chocolate Café will be opening three galis down shortly, I’ve already adopted it as my new home. S. will have to visit me there whenever he feels he needs my company. Not that he will. Once he starts living with me I’m sure he’ll prefer things the way they were ages ago (read: before we were married).

I haven’t been doing much. Driving myself crazy watching all the wrong kind of movies. Ah…do not misunderstand mon amises! It is not the genre that is questionable in my choice of films, it’s the content. Let me give you examples:

V for Vendetta

The Shawshank Redemption

The Motorcycle Diaries

In the name of the Father

Fight Club

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, that you do not see the connection between above stated movies and Hira’s loss of sanity?

No?

The underlying theme of all these films is man’s inextinguishable need to be free.

Noticed how it’s always ALWAYS raining when people escape from prison?

And here I am getting married. It seems only man has the inextinguishable need to be free, women are born slaves.

Hrrumph. We’ll see about that.

Ugh. Whatever. It’s actually not my fault but my brother’s. If he kept chick-friendly movies like, I dunno, I don’t watch sugary sweet movies, on his laptop, my life would be happier.

If anybody is still reading my blog I’d like suggestions. What do I watch that will make me pro hitching up, getting married, staying married and all that crap? And not give me diabetes either?

Oh by the way, check out this crazy funny video I found after going through another crazy funny video suggested to me by my cousin. I’m putting both up.

Charlie the Unicorn

Llamas with Hats (this is the one Farya suggested)

Also look for Dr. Horrible’s sing along blog.

The whole video’s on hulu; sadly that’s not available for you non-amreekis (obnoxious snicker*) and us, non amreeka- rihaishis (kicks dirt dejectedly*), but you can find all its 6 parts on youtube. Only 42 minutes long, but totally worth it.
And don’t say you have better things to do. If you’re on my blog that proves you have no life. Go do something worthwhile and look up Dr. Horrible (who is just too cute for words).

Shoo.

24- Dear God, the freaking out has started!

Let me tell you how I feel.

I haven’t written any stream of consciousness post for a long time. I think I’ll give it a try right now. I’m in that place in time where all I want to do is get it all out. Take emotional laxatives… just release. I wonder why potty is such a great example for everything- I’ve always preferred diarrhea to constipation for some reason. It’s so good knowing that at least that shits not IN me anymore.

In case you haven’t noticed- the bullshit flow has started already.

I don’t know HOW to feel. I don’t feel happy because I’m just so afraid. Getting married for me doesn’t mean responsibility, or compromise or any of that crap- I mean it does, but that’s not what’s freaking me out. What’s really terrifying me is the idea that I’m growing old.

Old people get married, right? Not youngsters like me.

I see married women and all I can think about them is that they’re so colorless, and boring, and typical and so [ok, I’ll be getting repititous here] very old. Even when they laugh and talk and joke around I can’t see them as young- young at heart maybe, but not almost-kids like myself. Regardless of the fact that I’ve graduated, that I have a job now, that I’ve been legally adult for 2 years now, I’m still just a post-teenager. I’m not eligible for marriage, you pervert.

So stop thinking of me in that way.

I see life moving past me, and it’s not the life I planned. Where’s SCAD? Where’s New York, where’s the independent, one room with kitchenette that I wanted for at least some time? I was supposed to do these things before I get married! Who’s f-ing with my schedule?? Is it you, God?

Oh. Well, carry on then. Can’t say anything to you, can I?

Marriage brings along a hubby, another family, eventually a kid or two…so much baggage. So much more people I have to think about. Here I am, not very good at thinking about myself even, you can’t expect me to handle all of them!

And oh dear God…what will I talk about?

What’ll happen when S. realizes I’m so very very boring?

What’ll happen when I realize S is boring-er?

He’s supposed to carry out the conversation! I just add the sarky stupid comments.

I mean, with my emotional capacity not being much more than a teaspoon, and wonderful interpersonal skills, how am I supposed to make this marriage work?

How will I keep this really great guy happy when I’m so rarely happy myself? Ultra high emotional maintenance is not much of a turn on, at least not in a wife. I mean, nobody marries the whiny, crazy bitchy. They just have a short, painful affair, end it by sending a text or moving to Peru, and spend the rest of their life trying to avoid the woman. Until they find her at a wedding, realize she’s STILL hot while wife is all cute and dumply, have another short painful affair, then return to wife and Peru, never showing their face in the country again.

Jeezus.

Will I drive S. out of the country?

It’s so hard. Not knowing how to correctly feel. I can’t decide between elation, fear, sadness, anxiety…so much to fill in a teaspoon.

How can I feel happy thinking about watching football with S. when I remember the time Zehra and I watched the football World Cup to ogle Ballack’s legs? O.k, too graphic. I’m sorry. Stream of consciousness, remember?

I feel like a terminal cancer patient- Astaghfirullah. I keep thinking “My world is ending”.

Why can’t I think “My world is beginning?”

Why am I not made that way?

I’m so scared. Just so so scared. So scared of letting everyone down- my susral when they find out I’m not that bubbly, happy and social girl they thought they were marrying their son off to; my parents when they realize I’m not good at handling relationships and that I haven’t inherited even a shitty thimbleful of their social skills; S when I can’t be consistently supportive and appreciative- I’m just too bloody honest. When he’ll realize he is in a way, just too good for me- and myself, because I can’t keep pretending to be what I’m not. After all I’m supposed to be such an F-ing great actress and I here i am, not even being able to stop using the F-ing F word!

Just because I’m not typing it doesn’t mean I’m not screaming it in my head.

And don’t get me started on how I cuss when I drive.

What if I crash his car? I’ve been harping on about how I can drive so well now, what if I do something stupid like the O-turn?

So many what-ifs. So many questions. I wish I could just stop thinking, just like I’ve stopped talking. I don’t know what to say. I have verbal dyslexia all of a sudden. Sentences just don’t come out straight- because I’m not thinking about the conversation at all.

I’m just thinking about walking to the car and my mom crying her eyes out. That’s all I can think about. Not S., not my brand new tv with cable television, or the clothes. Just walking away from my world as I knew it- and I’m not sure anymore that I’ll be doing it willingly.

That’s all.

Ok. I’m done now..

Thank you and good bye.

I’ll go hide under my bedsheet now and bite off the remaining nails I have.

28

Oh dear God…I don’t know what to do.

Should I pray for children?

Or should I not pray for children?

What in God’s name should a girl who’s not particularly fond of kids do?

A few days ago, I, my mum and my cousin along with her two children went shopping for chooriyan. Yes, I know. What were we thinking bringing two kids- brother and sister at that- to a store where everything is made of glass but somebody must have let the bull into the china shop ergo age old mahawara, so we’re not the only idiots around, ok?

My niece and nephew drove me mad.

Nawal decided she wanted every pair of choori in the shop that was her size, Rayyan kept hitting me with his baseball cap, then Nawal and Rayyan started fighting over who got the stool, Nawal wins because she is louder, she stands on top of it and belts out nursery rhymes. Rayyan gets caught in random ninja aunties’s burqas, his khala extricates him out before he gets booked for harassment; luckily there is no ordinance against lesbians or who would have saved the khala?

I then come up with a trick my mum’s used a million times. I tell Nawal (who’s progressed to Ait taali batali! Oon ai tiya?) that if she doesn’t shut up the scary dukaandaar uncle will beat her up; she looks at me mockingly, gets off her stool, walks up to the guy and asks him pointedly:

“Aap mudhe maalain de tiya?” [Will you hit me?]

Poor guy gets freaked out and stammers “No no beta. Of course not!”

Nawal ignores me and returns to stool

God in Heaven, I can’t pray for kids. I just can’t.

Transition.

From you, to you except you’re not.

We’re at the chooriyan store, my niece (why in heaven’s name did we bring toddlers to a choori store?)is  standing on a stool reciting nursery rhymes, my nephew is standing behind me hitting me with his hat, my mother is making sets for S’s cousins and nieces, and I’m trying to choose the colors I want from a myriad of plain glass bangles. I decide on yellow, red, green, turquoise, blue and black. My mother turns to me and says “What’s this? You’re picking out plain bagles? I told you to look through the fancy ones!”

“But these’ll be much easier to wear!”

“Arey!? Why do you keep forgetting you’re getting married. You won’t be the same Hira Saiyed anymore!”

Why not?

I wish I could change fundamentally. Start liking children, maybe. Become a better muslim, a warmer person, less sarcastic, more generous, grateful and happy. But wishing I could change all through my childhood and teenage life didn’t make an iota of difference- I stayed stubborn, angry, too smart for my own good, too irritable of other people’s weakness. I learned to hide it better, but that’s about it. We don’t change from how God fundamentally made us, nobody does.

So why will I stop liking plain chooriyan?

Why will I stop wanting to go to SCAD, or loving mac & cheese or watching football matches for hot footballers?

Because I’m Hira Sayem? Not Hira Saiyed?

As if.

30 days!!!!!

Let me tell you what it feels like being able to buy shoes from Charles and Keith.

Not actually buying them, but knowing that you can.

It feels surreal. So surreal I want to cry.

My hands shake at the thought of actually being able to afford splurging on nachos at forum; at having the moolah to buy a present for my cousin that she might actually like, at finally NOT caring what a slice of cheesecake costs…

Oh dear God I think my eyes are welling up again.

I got paid. Somebody actually paid me to copy motifs off the internet and change the color. Somebody actually paid me.

Hear that? It’s the sound of millions of litte birds fluttering inside Hira’s heart singing that tune from Disney’s Cinderella…EXCEPT that, ladies and gentlemen I am no longer Cinderella surviving the month on a measley thousand rupees! I am Spartacus!!!!

Please hand me a tissue, I just can’t stop.

Is this what freedom meant to the muslims of India? Is this how Italian immigrants felt at the first sight of the Statue of Liberty? Is this how Elizabeth Taylor felt after every divorce?

Oh the joy…money is the greatest thing in the world.

33 – II

Shhh…

Let me tell you something.

Close the door first.

No, check that there’s nobody outside then shut the door.

All clear? Positive? Good.

What- do you expect me to scream it to you across the room?? Come closer!!

Ok…now promise you won’t tell anyone…done? OK, here goes.

*takes deep breath*

I don’t like women.

I never have, I doubt I ever will.

And this includes all ages, all types.

I don’t like little girls; I think they try too hard to be dolls.

I don’t like teenagers- they’re either stereotypically dark and gothy, or stereotypically plastic. Or both- stereotypically. They claim they’re different- like all their friends do. Been there, done that;  much better than you because I’m a great actress. Yawn.

I can’t stand 20 to 30 year olds. They’re just expired teenagers. And expired teenagers smell too strongly of expensive perfume and lack of soul.

And anybody who crosses 30 ceases to interest me anyway. Sorry.

To add irony to injury, I’ve studied in all girl institutions my entire life and have started working in an exclusively female design unit.

It has driven me to the point that I can’t hold it back any longer- this deep irritation that I have always had towards members of my own sex.

Will somebody- preferably female- in the audience please assure me that I’m not the only one? That another woman in this huge population of impossibly girly females also finds this concentrated clichéd femininity nauseating, and suffocating and downright dull?

I wish I had people to gossip about. It’s everybody else’s fault. Why are they so straight and narrow? People I know, start having extra marital affairs. If you’re not married yet, seduce someone who is. Give me something to share at these cat-fests.

I wish I actually paid attention while my shadi shopping was going on. Maybe then I could discuss more intelligently on the merits and demerits of various face powders, and compare the embroidery of Qartoba and Kehkeshan with painful, excruciating detail.

I also kind of wish I liked children more. Maybe then my ‘awwws’ would sound more convincing. And maybe then I’d be able to know which end of a baby is up- I’ve got a basic idea. Dribbly side is the top, smelly side is  the bottom. Bingo.

Maybe if I actually tried remembering some of my more obscure relatives, I’d be more ‘in’ the conversation…or what if I intimately discussed the conversations between my fiancé and myself (and guarantee boring them to death :S)

Would that help me fit?

Groan…And I don’t even watch Indian soaps!!!

Why the f- is woman-talk so difficult???

33

“This is Hira Saiyed. She’s getting married next month”

“Oh my god! Really?! How does it feel?”

I don’t know how to answer this question. “I’m f-ing petrified” isn’t going to make this conversation any easier. And she won’t really put me on the stand and demand the truth- regardless of how incapable of handling it she is, or I am.

Why do people insist on asking these questions? It’s not like they’re in the least interested in how I feel. Just say ‘Congratulations” and talk about the weather; I won’t think any less of you. To be honest, I won’t think of you at all. I’ve got a lot more going on.

Like getting married.

What can I compare getting married to?

Leaving the country?

Starting a new job?

Growing an extra arm?

All of them?

I want to go to sleep and wake up on November 7^th. All of this will be over then. Somebody can sleepwalk me through my wedding- I’ll find out what happened when the pictures come.

Which reminds me Farooq- where are the pictures of Leena’s wedding?

42- but 39. Uff. Whatever.

42

Disclaimer- This post and the author of it bear no ill feeling to Malinga. He is a great player, and I’m sure must have a wonderful personality.

I don’t know why all of you insisted you wanted to read this. You’re not missing much- just the extreme superficiality and shallowness of yours truly.

Oh well. As if that’s coming as a surprise.

Here you go. I’ve edited it a bit. Thought I should confess beforehand so that Anas doesn’t say “this isn’t what i have on my google reader!”

42

My nails- (sigh), ok, let me start again. The cuticle type thingies that still somehow remain on the top of my fingers are at their ultimate low. Yesterday two of them started bleeding. I tried growing them, and failed. How’s that for staying true to yourself?

I’ve been hearing a lot from my family for starting work (haw!) a month before my wedding. It seems I should stay at home and fix my complexion because…ok, I can’t think of any reason. Firstly, I think dark-skinned people are gorgeous, so if they give me vague instructions like fixing my complexion the first thing I’ll do is buy suntan lotion.

Secondly, S. isn’t the chitta kukkar everybody’s always singing about at dholkis (he’s more the sanwla salona sort- yeay! ) and the last thing I want is for him to feel all insecure on the stage at our wedding. It’s sweet enough that he agreed to wear a sherwani; I don’t want to ruin his night completely with the absurd, highly obnoxious aunties of my family saying things like “yeh tau raat aur chand ki jori he!” I kid you not, they will not only have the audacity to state this or some other senseless analogy to the guy’s mother (purely by accident since I doubt they’ll actually know who the two people on stage are), they’ll be loud enough for the various other aunties to hear and nod their heads as well.

It seems Mahw isn’t the only person around surrounded by inane, obnoxious aunties.

Why are they in such great supply considering there’s practically no demand for them?

Plus, what difference does it make? I’ll be so caked in make up, it won’t matter whether I even have skin or not. Much less kaali or gori.

When I agreed to marry S. I had never seen him before and he had never seen me. And anybody who knows me will understand that the mental picture I had constructed of my future husband was little better than Quasimodo in a suit and tie. S, Shukar Alhumdullillah, turned out to be extremely cute- completely contrary to my expectations. I am not an idealist, or romantic, or ecstasy sniffing hippie chick- If my parents thought some guy was worth me, I’d accept him. As long as he showers daily and wears deodorant, he could look like Malinga and I’d still love him (Ok, maybe that was a bit of a stretch); and I believe I deserve that same generosity in return(luckily, I don’t look like Malinga either, though I wonder how S. would react if I did).

Something tells me that underneath all that dirt, lotion and hair color is a semi-human being.

Not that I expect such big-heartedness. Men have this strange habit of pointing out flaws in your appearance while looking like crap themselves. And women have a strange tendency of letting them. Another example of that self-hatred all these feminist writers talk about. During university, one of my friends pointed out I needed to wax my arms (sure, asshole. I’ll go when I’m finally done with my projects- at around 3 in the morning), without noticing he needed to pull up his jeans, cut and wash his hair, get acne treatment, and buy new clothes.

Gentlemen of the audience- it’s called a mirror. Use it.

And this, is a comb.

Applause please.

So anyway, when I point out that my fiancé is a little on the Shrek side of the Prince Charming scale my nani always says the same thing

“Kamaney wale mard ki shakal kaun dekhta he?”

Now at least I can reply “Tau phir kamaney wali larki ki shakal ke peeche kyun parr gaee hain?”

And THAT is why I’m working a month before my wedding .