After all, there are so many choices to choose from, so many possibilities. The selections are enormous. Not only that, everybody changes their mind—one day this, the next day that. All very normal, the way of the world, sah?

And so it was that at 23 going on 24, she was all ready to marry. Grandmas, uncles, college friends, assorted cousins who she almost never saw–everybody said so. “The time is ripe.” Mubarak. The husband-to-be, a young banker who knew all there was to know about credit ratings, was waiting eagerly, papers all signed, the right people spoken to, money spent, the engagement and marriage dates set; but then, one cloudy morning in November, she looked out the window, saw a chance of rain and changed her mind, thinking: Come to think of it, his teeth are a little crooked, and what about that smile?  More a sneer than anything else.  And that was the beginning of the end of that.

Or, how about that time last April when she was all packed and ready to go aboard, to London, to see the Thames, Albert’s Hall, Harrod’s beckoned; and later, according to her travel agent, she would move on to Paris and why not Venice. Tickets purchased, hotels reserved.  But then it happened, and on her way to the airport, the terminal in sight, she tapped the driver on the shoulder, announcing, “Turn around.”

“Madam?”

“Turn around. Take me home.”

“You forget something? Passport, tickets?  I am always forgetting my tickets; in fact, just the other day, I….”

“Lah, lah, nothing like that, just take me home.”

“But Madam, the airport is here,” pointing to show her how here it was.  “Right here.”

“Turn this car around,” she said in a strange, husky voice that sounded nothing like her.

So he did because that is what drivers do, and once safely home, she hurried to her bedroom, jumped into bed and spent the rest of the afternoon watching her big brown dresser crowded with lotions, creams and oils.

Or, how about last Ramadan when she promised everybody she would do her duty and fast, even did a double prayer, pledging her allegiance. The father saying, “Good for you.” The mother giving her a hug, “That’s my girl.” But then during day two of Ramadan, at midday, in June, with the heat at its strongest, she went to her bedroom, locked the door, pulled the curtains shut, and taking a bottle of still-cold orange juice from her purse, expertly drank it, while eating a hotdog, mustard only.  Later, with the sun starting to set, she felt slightly guilty, but not much.  After all, in the end, it’s not her fault, not really, when the heat is like that, in June, who can blame her, who can blame anyone?  

And so it went until that day she decided to cross the road not far from her house.  Since it was a small but important road, it was almost always busy with traffic, with much honking, along with hard-charging trucks that thought nothing of going extra fast because there were no speed bumps, nothing like policemen to make a difference.  With arms folded she watched and waited on the sidewalk, waiting for that natural lull in cars and trucks that had to come eventually, until it didn’t, and so, tired of waiting, thinking, surely anybody in their right driving mind will slow down, to let her walk across the street. Convinced that this was how it was done, she thought once, twice, stepping into the road, then stepping back again while finally, sighing a sigh that said this is silly, she made up her mind and moved into the street.   Half-way across—thinking nothing about running—she was hit by a water truck that never saw her, or if it did, thought nothing of hitting people who can’t make up their minds.

Photo by Letizia Bordoni on Unsplash.