Rag e Jaan hai wo

Chapter 12: Operation Escape & Confession

Zara slammed the cupboard door shut and dropped on the bed, glaring at the packed suitcase in front of her like it had personally betrayed her.

"I'm not staying here," she muttered to herself, tapping furiously on her phone. "I'm booking a flight. Tonight. Or tomorrow. Or whatever. I just need out."

The room was warm, despite the AC humming gently, and it smelled like roses and attar — the kind that seeped into your clothes and refused to leave. Like a constant reminder that your life had been hijacked in a shaadi ka jora.

Her cousins had left after a full hour of "dulhan ban ke dikhao!" and asking deeply invasive questions like:
"Do you even like him?"
"Was he romantic at the nikkah?"
"How does it feel to marry a foji?" 😏

Zara had smiled through clenched teeth.

Now, she wanted to vanish.

Meanwhile... downstairs.

The Faqoori residence had returned to post-wedding chaos — dishes clinking, relatives snoring in mismatched beds, and half-eaten mithai trays on every flat surface.

In the drawing room sat Ayaan, black polo shirt, phone in hand, legs crossed casually.

He wasn't supposed to be here tonight. But of course, Uncle Rehan had casually said, "Beta, thoda ruk jao. Zara ki tabiyat check kar lena. Family ho tum ab."

Family, he had said. With a perfectly straight face.

Ayaan had sighed, pocketed his phone, and stayed.

He didn't mind waiting. He was used to patience. Military discipline and all.

But he couldn't lie to himself — the idea of seeing her again, maybe catching another eye-roll or snarky comment, had made him stay more willingly than he would admit.

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The afternoon sun spilled into the room like a silent witness to Zara's unrest. Her wedding clothes were flung across the back of a chair, her suitcase half-packed, and Zara herself sat on the bed like a warrior defeated—not in battle, but in shaadi.

Her perfectly winged eyeliner had smudged at the corners, courtesy of silent, rage-induced tears she wouldn't admit to. Her arms were crossed, phone gripped in one hand, her thumb furiously scrolling through Google flights.

"One ticket. One seat. Any time, any flight—bas mujhe nikalna hai," she whispered, half-crazed. The screen flashed the dreaded words: "No flights available in your region."

"Of course," she muttered bitterly, tossing her phone on the bed. "Sab milke plan bana rahe hain meri zindagi barbaad karne ka."

She stood up, pacing.

"Who even does this?! Nikkah under hospital stress. Molvi sahab with no WiFi in his beard, uncles fake heart attacks like Netflix plot twists, and voh banda—acting like he's the calm in my storm. Ugh."

She yanked open her wardrobe, eyes blazing, muttering all the while, "Main bhaag jaungi. Dekhna. London ke liye direct flight loongi. Ya Peshawar. Kuch bhi. Mujhe farq nahi padta—"

Knock knock.

Zara froze. Her eyes darted to the door like a spy mid-escape.

"Kya hai?!" she snapped.

A muffled voice replied, "It's me."

Of course it was him.

She exhaled hard and yanked the door open an inch.