If I've got to suffer, it may as well be at your hands, your pretty hands. — Jean-Paul Sartre
The time had come. Eid had just passed, Swat's beautiful summers were on peak when the wedding ceremony of Azmaray and Anbar was meant to be held. Men had rushed around the Khan's opulent property for a few days. In their hands were clipboards with sleek black pens running along the starchy white pages. In their necks measuring tapes were hung as they took the lengths of the walls down, calculating how much thread would be needed to string together a curtain of flowers together. Maids had been busy in the kitchen too, preparing all kinds of traditional mithai [sweets] for the ceremony. The tiny bags of wedding favours had been long prepared, stored in the groom's mother's bedroom.
Tall walls of the Khan's mansion were covered in light pink Hydrangeas and gold fairylights. The driveway was lined with multiple vases, holding the most reds of roses. A thick maroon carpet laid out for the guests to walk on. Inside the foyer, the chandelier was illuminated. Underneath it iron wrought tables were placed, the guests expected to place the wedding gifts on the table. The large ballroom's doors had been thrown open. The guarding sculptures of Greek Gods and Goddesses stood with pride. Their square bases covered with flowers. A large stage set up in the centre for the dances—special guests had been invited for it, courtesy of Asghar.
Outside in the mammoth sized garden, the grass was neatly trimmed. Under the canopy shed, made of pistachio green stone a raised stage had been set. Covered in soft floor cushions, covered in earthy tones. The sides divided into two using a curtain of jasmine flowers. Here the marriage would take place in under three hours, and preparations for the food were under way at an unimaginable speed. The chefs stirred the curries and steamed the rice, infusing them with saffron. Spices were chopped, garlic and ginger ground. Doughs prepared and stored, vegetables cut finely to prepare summer salads. Light and breezy with the addition of fresh cherry tomatoes on lemons. Capers plenty with a dollop of fresh cream thrown in.
Inside his bedroom, the groom Azmaray, sat in deep contemplation. He had spent the last two months carefully observing his feelings for Rani. It was not infatuation that much he knew now. Otherwise it would not have lasted so long. However, he had been unable to put a finger on to the fact as to why he had fallen for her. He barely knew her. Their encounters had been limited and there was barely an slip in her facade. Her eyes held a sense of deep joy as if she loved what she did—which he was sure she did. Yet there was more than met the eye.
His aunt, Samira had passed away a few weeks ago and that had pushed his wedding a few weeks back. That had been a blessing in disguise for him. Long enough to think and plan what he wanted to do. And he knew Anbar was not who he wanted to marry. Having cried enough about the way he treated Rani the last time he met her, Azmaray was ready to treat her right. He wished she had agreed, said yes to him. Now he was stuck. Getting tied in a loveless marriage. Scratching the nape of his neck Azamray wore his light gold achkan. The fitted trousers hug his toned calves like second skin. His hands fiddled with the clasp of a wristwatch. Eyes staring out of his window, wondering if he should make a run for it or not.
"Do it". A maternal voice cut his thoughts off.
"What?" He turned towards his chachi [aunt].
"Run. Go Azmaray!" She pleaded.
"W-why do you say that?" Azmaray pleaded.
Hooriya sighed, locking the bedroom door. Stepping towards him, she wrapped her hands around his left palm. Kissing them lightly, tears filling her eyes.
"Because I've seen the look in your eyes. You are in love—and I can't let this family ruin yours and Anbar's lives for the sake of inheritance," Hooriya whispered, her eyes rimmed red.
"There is no one," he denied.
"Don't lie to me. Azmaray I know what you're thinking off. You want to marry Anbar and then denounce your inheritance. You want to hand it over to Asghar". Hooriya spoke full of confidence.
Grinning as she noticed worry marr Azmaray's feature. She knew her nephew like the back of her hand. Even with eyes closed she could understand, but she had seen him write that down in a secret notebook. One no one supposed to know existed.
"Likin—" [But—] he tried again.
"No! There are so many dirty secrets Azmaray. Go to Lahore. A van is taking our gardens apples to sell in Lahore. I've paid the driver to take you. Don't ask how. Just go! Marry her. Come back and claim your right! I promise I'll explain it all to you". Hooriya begged.
Seeing the elder woman almost on her knees, Azmaray nodded.
"B-but how do I know it's love?" He whispered.
"You'll know. Think about why you're mind is clouded with her. Now go!" She shoved him towards his balcony.
"One last question. Will you let Anbar face the consequences?"
"No! Anbar will get what fate has in store for her. Worst comes to worst, I'll send my daughter to Lahore. Go and make me proud!" Hooriya grinned, feeling full of life after a long time.
Hugging her, Azmaray climbed down the large pipe. Luckily for him, his room was nearest to a servants exit. Sneaking out was no problem considering everyone was on the main property waiting for the wedding to happen. Azmaray felt his stomach tie into a knot. Sweating profusely nervousness coursed through him. Adrenaline pumping through his veins as he discarded the top coat of his outfit, leaving himself in a simple trouser and kurta. He clenched his teeth as the squeaky gate rattled with his force. In front of the door, a bright blue Shehzore van waited. A man in his early thirties stood infront it wearing a grin.
"Arey nawab sahab aao ji!" [Oh duke sir please come!] The man opened the passenger sides door.
Azmaray nodded, bit skeptical about his getup. The bright pink shalwar kameez and brown loafers were a bit too much. The man handed him a brown shawl, asking him to cover himself, only to leave his eyes uncovered. Taking the driver's seat, the man locked the truck and begun driving. Underneath his breath he hummed an old Punjabi tune. Driving out of the estate, waving at the guards.
"Myself Rangeen Khan," the man grinned.
"Rang-geen?" Azmaray held back his laugh.
"Haan babu. Ap nai nahi suna? Rangeen hai tu rangon sai bhi zyada?" [Yes sir. Haven't you heard? You are more colourful [Rangeen] than colours?] He tsked.
"Haan. Par yeh naam kyun?" [Yes. But why this name?] Azmaray questioned, still confused.
"Humein dekho, jild har jaga sai alag rang ka hai. Hum duniya mein tapka aur aba bola 'lo bhai Rangeen aya hai' aur bas naam par gaya!" [Look at me, my skin is a different colour from each side. When I was born my father looked at me and said 'look colourful is here' and that was my name!] Rangeen laughed.
The man suffered from vitiligo and it seemed that he had been used to treating his condition with humor and not seriousness. Rangeen Khan was full of life, brimming with laughter and jokes. Azmaray was glad he was the man his aunt had hired. Atleast this made it a hundred times more easier for him to sit in the uncomfortable leather seats of the van. Resting his back against the thin seat, he tapped the flimsy plastic handles. Praying and reciting every verse that he knew for Rangeen Khan was sure quite suited to his name. His very colourful language and reckless driving from between cars on the narrow one way, had Azmaray inching closer to death every second.
"Sahab tension nahi lena kay. Rangeen Khan aur uska Umardaraz baray logon ko chapa karai hai," [Sir don't stress out. Rangeen Khan and his Umardaraz [long age] have defeated quite a few people,] he gleefully slapped the steering wheel.
"Umardaraz?" Azmaray questioned.
"Arey bhai humara daba. Umardaraz". [Oh brother my car.] He slapped the classic Swat hat on his head, sighing.
"Oh," he nodded.
"Haan. Iska umar bara lamba hai. Kabhi phuk phuk kar keh road ki side par band ho jata hai par phir eik dum lamba sulf maro tou zinda ho jawe hai," [Yes. This has a long life. Sometimes it does phuk phuk and stops at the side of the road but give it a long ignition and it comes back to life,] Rangeen Khan added proudly.
Azmaray nodded, resting his arms against the open windows of the car. The cool winds of Swat slapping him on the face as they reached the exit toll of the city after half an hour. The usual security personnel stood around the barrier. Taking checks of the cars, making sure no illegal drugs were being brought into the country. Gulping, Azmaray hunched his shoulders. If they were caught right now, Rangeen's car would surely die before its time.
"You is take not tension. Rangeen will handles matter," he spoke in his broken English, smiling with pride.
Azmaray nodded his head, making sure each inch of skin, except for the eyes were covered as the CHO of Swat walked towards the car. His team trailing behind them, checking the cartons of apples. The CHO, Shawaiz Khan, greeted Rangeen, resting his body against the exterior of Umardaraaz.
"Yeh kon hain?" [Who is this?] Shahwaiz pointed at Azmaray.
Azmaray gulped, sweat dripping from his body as he kept his gaze averted from the man.
"Ladies hain ap tang na karein. Kaghaz dekho humara," [It's a lady don't disturb her. You check my documents,] Rangeen urged.
Shawaiz rubbed his chin, before inquiring once more.
"Tumhari kia lagti hai?" [What is she to you?] He questioned, slightly skeptical.
"Humari zouja hai. Sair ka shok hai isiliye Lahore ki hawa lagwanay le ja rahay hain. Ab nikkah nama dekho gai?" [My wife. She wanted to have a vacation so am taking her to visit Lahore. Now do you want to see our wedding certificate?] Rangeen said annoyed.
Noticing the annoyance, Shawaiz stepped away. Giving them the green light to move ahead. Finally out of Swat and onto the Motorway, Azmaray let out a breath of fresh air. Dozing off, God knows when. For when he woke up a few hours later with a numb behind, they were in the outskirts of Lahore.
"You is sleep for ten hours. We in Lahore. Have some apples," Rangeen pointed to the sack in between them.
Azmaray thanked him, biting into one. Relishing the crispness of the apple. Sweet juices running inside his dried throat. Bringing him to instant life.
"I have apple three times a day. Rangeen Khan have never seen the face of a single doctor". He informed with pride.
"Now where I drop you?" Rangeen continued.
"Heera Mandi". Azmaray whispered.
Seeing as it was almost morning anyways. He hoped that the woman he came to woo would be up. Searching in Rangeen's face for judgement, Azmaray was surprised to notice a smirk on the mans lips.
"Love eh? Acha hai. Piyaar mehlon mein nahi in tooti huwi galiyon mein aur chotay khwabon mein hota hai sahab. Acha hai. Aurat tou aurat. Phir baray ghar ki ya kothay ki. Bas dil nahi dukhana uska". [Thats good. Love doesn't bloom in palaces it's in these broken streets and small dreams sir. Its good. Woman is a woman. Be it from a brothel or a nice household. Just don't break her heart.] He advised.
Azmaray hummed in agreement, keeping the apple core in his pocket. He would throw it later in a dustbin.
"Destin-tion is here. Shaadi ki biryani zaroor khilana humko!" [Feed me your wedding food surely!] Rangeen Khan patted his back.
Hugging him, Azmaray jumped off the truck. Running into the narrow street as the sun began to rise. He would go back home, a married man. That was his vow.
OMGEEE!!!!!
ITS HAPPENING
What did Hooriya mean?
RANGEEN KHAN AND UMARDARAZ IS ICONIC DUO DONT @ ME
THOUGHTS & COMMENTS