In the heart of the radiant glow cast by twinkling fairy lights and an expanse of meticulously arranged flowers, Muzammil hurried into the opulent wedding house. The winter wedding season had officially unfurled its splendour, ushering in a flurry of celebrations. Tonight marked the commencement of a series of joyous unions and festive soirées. Vibrant hues adorned every corner, creating a kaleidoscope of colours that embraced the onset of a season filled with merry gatherings.
Muzammil hurried through the ornate doorway, greeted by the soft scent of incense mingling with the vibrant hues of festivity. His mother, draped in elegant silk, stood near the entrance, a mix of urgency and affection in her eyes as she handed him a neatly folded kurta and pants hidden in a bag.
"Quickly, beta," she urged, her voice carrying both concern and the excitement of the occasion. "The mehndi ceremony has begun. Change into this; you'll feel more comfortable."
With a nod, Muzammil whisked away to transform into the traditional attire.
Anticipation pulsed through Muzammil's veins as he swiftly walked through the doors of the house, encountering women carrying huge metal platters. Some folded with flowers, some with sweets, and yet others covered with shiny fabric, concealing their contents.
Thoughts of his fiancée danced through his mind, her laughter flooding his thoughts. In the whirlwind of the wedding hullabaloo, his eagerness to finally catch a glimpse of her surpassed the allure of the elaborate festivities. She had been tirelessly dedicated to her restaurant, and the prospect of seeing her after what felt like an eternity made his heart flutter with excitement.
After meeting, greeting, and asking an elder of the household, he had been shown a dark room in the corner of the top floor, totally empty. Tucked away from the prying eyes of people, he closed the curtains of the room and began undressing himself.
~
Saboor hadn't had a moment to breathe.
Running up and down the corridors of the bustling wedding house, beads of sweat trickled down her forehead and back, she had truly felt the essence of a lively wedding season.
In her hands was a suitcase, full of clothes gifted from the bride's family to the groom's. Such customs were not what she favoured, but the rules of this house were different.
"Aapa, ye kapdoun ka suitcase hai, kahaan rakhoun?" she asked the groom's sister, who was just walking out of the backyard, wiping her hands with a greasy tissue.
"Ye? Issay oopar rakh do naa, meray kamray ke saath waalay kamray mein rakh do. Wahaan aisa hi bahut saamaan bikhra pada hai, tumhein pata chal jaayega."
Saboor nodded and was about to climb the suitcase when the lady stopped her. "Khaana aik-dum laa-jawaab banaa hai, Saboor. Tumhaara bahut shukriya."
"Shukriya aapka, ki humein iss qaabil samjhaa," she said, shaking hands with her, and then moved on with the suitcase.
When the caterers selected by the groom disappeared unexpectedly at the eleventh hour, leaving them in a bind, Saboor had stepped in to save the day. She swiftly coordinated and arranged a sumptuous dinner daigh from her restaurant. The notion of delving into wedding catering had never crossed her mind before, yet circumstances had led her right into it.
Cautiously, she tiptoed along the lackluster corridor, adorned with neatly aligned rows of marigold flowers. She nudged the last door ajar, slipping the suitcase inside.
In an instant, someone crashed into her, slamming the door shut, plunging the room into darkness. She shrieked in fear, but her voice died down in her throat when she saw it was a man.
Filled with alarm and fear, all she wanted was to flee the room. Without glancing back, she reached behind, her hand fumbling desperately for the door handle, desperately seeking an exit.
"Shh, it's okay," a familiar, soothing voice reassured her, instantly quelling her fears as its warmth enveloped her.
"Muzammil?! What are you doing here?" she whispered.
It was in that moment that she realized he stood shirtless. The soft yellow glow from the fairy lights outside cast a muted illumination, outlining the contours of his strong, athletic shoulders and arms as they entered the room. Flustered, she instinctively covered her face with her hands, feeling a rush of embarrassment wash over her.
Peeking through her fingers, she glimpsed his silhouette, the tension of the situation mixing with her flustered emotions. Her cheeks flushed with heat, and she silently prayed for the ground to swallow her whole. In the awkwardness of the moment, she struggled to find the right words, her mind racing.
"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... I mean, I wasn't expecting—" Her voice trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. The room was charged with an odd energy, an unexpected intimacy lingering in the air between them.
He chuckled softly, a reassuring warmth in his voice. "No need to apologize. I mean, it's not that bad...now that I'm your fiancé."
In his eyes, she radiated an ethereal glow, an inner noor that surpassed any external radiance. Her choice of attire, a resplendent yellow anarkali, cascaded elegantly from her waist, gracefully trailing down to kiss the floor. The garment's thick gold borders shimmered even in the faintest light, adding a touch of opulence to her ensemble. A chiffon dupatta modestly veiled her chest, while her dainty hands delicately toyed with its fabric, adding to her enchanting allure.
"I'll leave..." she slowly mumbled, barely loud enough for him to hear. He shook his head.
He emitted a disapproving click of his lips before striding purposefully toward her. "And where do you think you're off to, hmm?" His voice carried a playful yet earnest tone, gently challenging her attempt to escape.
"You're trying to get away from me after dazzling me with this heavenly appearance?"
He leaned closer and closer, until their bodies had collided amongst each other and to the wall.
"Muzammil," she murmured, not having the courage to look up.
"It is so hard to control myself now," he mumbled, touching his forehead to hers. Her breathing was harsh, and so was his. Lack of breath, lack of restriction...
Kuch ho na jaaye.
"You're so pretty... you know what I want?"
"I want to take you right by this wall. Claim you as mine, touch you, love you, everywhere...."
She covered his lips with a trembling hand, and then, standing up on her tiptoes, kissed the barrier between them. He shut his eyes.
"Then marry me," she breathed, emotions pooling into her eyes, her pupils dilating. "Take me to your home and make me your wife." Muzammil kissed the hand that covered his mouth and slowly slid off his face, placing it firmly on his chest.
"Your home is here."
She leaned closer and leaned into his chest, collecting her thoughts and calming him down.
"I'll talk to mama about the wedding," he slowly said, pressing a kiss to her hair. "They'll come soon for a date."
~
That night, when Israa sat oiling Muzammil's hair, he caught her hand all of a sudden and halted it. Israa was perplexed.
"Muz-"
"Mama, please get me married. Go to her house, get a date."
"But mera baccha, didn't you ask for a lengthy engagement? What about-"
"Mama, I'm telling you; I'm counting on thin threads of patience."
Israa was worried, her brows furrowed together. And yet, she nodded and kissed her son's forehead. "I'll go," she said.
Later, climbing into the bed covers, Israa babbled about the concerns she had.
"He seems different, Mazhar, his eyes speak volumes to me. He is my son, but he sounds like... like..."
"Like a madman, "Mazhar completed. Israa reluctantly nodded.
"He's engaged to Saboor, it's not a sin that he's in love with her. Be glad he has let you know of his intentions. We do not want him to fall into shaytan's play, don't we?"
"So, what now?" Israa asked.
"Marry them, bring her home. Make it halaal for them," Mazhar said with a finality.
~
Meanwhile, Saboor was terrified of the phone call ringing on the screen. There was no ringtone, for she had silenced her phone, but the caller ID kept flashing on the screen. His behaviour that evening was something she had never witnessed, something she had never experienced. And they weren't married yet.
She was attracted to him, that she knew. But his affection for her was intense, too intense. She did not know what to feel about it. His eyes, his skin, his touch, it was engrained into her mind and heart. Even when she closed her eyes, she could picture him, inch by inch, touch by touch, and she did not want to let go.
She could not let this go on.
If only her mother was close, she would have talked to her, explained to her. Perhaps she could talk to Israa auntie, but how could she talk to her own mother-in-law about it? Aynoor was too young and muddled to hear her.
This was not fair.
This loneliness, this...one-sided passion, this suffocation was not fair.
~
Feroza was slightly alarmed when she heard Israa's words on the call.
"But bhabhi, marriage so soon?"
"The children are developing an understanding, it's better if we the them down in a halaal relationship. After all, the engagement was just to get them familiar with each other."
"Feroza bhabhi, don't you worry. I will love Saboor as my own daughter, just you do-"
"All that is fine, bhabhi, but how will be able to prepare things so soon? I must invite relatives from all over the country!"
Israa was confused. She had only asked for a wedding date. but Feroza was panicking as though they would have the wedding tomorrow itself.
"Bhabhi, do take your time, but finalize a date, please, even if it is for four months later."
As both the ladies put away their phone after the call, they were worried and equally perplexed.
Feroza couldn't shake off the worry that a rushed marriage might fuel rumors within her family circles. She dreaded the potential speculation that something scandalous had pushed her daughter into a quick wedding. Israa, on the other hand, was anxious about the possibility of an illicit affair if the marriage wasn't formalized soon, fearing it could harm the reputation and honor of their families.
As the confusion lingered, Israa paced around her room, her mind racing with apprehensions about the consequences of delay. Meanwhile, Feroza sat with a heavy heart, contemplating the societal implications of a hurried union for her daughter.
~
Saboor had been eagerly anticipating her meet-up with her friend Yashma, who had returned to the country after years abroad. She had taken a rare day off from the bustling restaurant where she almost always was, excited not just to reconnect with Yashma but also to regain a sense of normalcy in her somewhat friendless life.
Quickly, she gathered her dupatta from the chair and put it over her shoulders. Just as she was about to head out, her phone lit up with a message from Yashma, finalizing their meeting spot. She smiled at the phone. However, before she could step out the door, Feroza's urgent voice reverberated through the house.
"Saboor! Where do you think you're going?" Feroza's tone held a mixture of concern and irritation.
Saboor was irked. She had been telling since a week about this meet-up; at times, because of her bursting excitement, and at times, to make sure her mother didn't make up a plan and keep her from going.
"Ammi, I told you, I have plans to meet Yashma. She just got back, and I haven't seen her in years," Saboor explained, trying to hide her disappointment.
Feroza's expression turned stern. "Not today, Saboor. Muzammil, Israa, and Mazhar are on their way. It's important you are here to welcome them properly."
Saboor's heart sank, the anticipation of the long-awaited reunion with Yashma slipping away, and now turning into morbid hopelessness. "But Ammi, I never get time off, and Yashma won't be here for long. I really want to catch up with her."
Feroza stood her ground. "You and I both know why they are coming, Saboor. You will not move from here."
Reluctantly, Saboor abandoned her plans, her heart heavy with disappointment and a tinge of sadness. She could almost taste the bitterness of missed opportunities as she typed the message to Yashma, apologizing for the sudden change of plans.
The thought of seeing Yashma again had been a beacon of hope in the midst of her rather busy existence lately. Since Yashma had left for college six years back, Saboor had found it challenging to establish the same level of friendship and camaraderie with anyone else. Her absence had left a rather huge void in Saboor's life, one that she had hoped this reunion would fill.
And now, it was all gone.
As she pressed the send button, a wave of melancholy washed over her. It wasn't just about missing out on catching up with her dear friend; it was about missing out on an opportunity to feel a sense of normalcy again. Apart from her work life, she only had Muzammil, whom she chatted and talked with, and with the dark room incident from the other night, all the informalities had come to a thudding halt. She had stopped picking up his calls, and didn't reply to his messages until absolutely necessary. She wanted someone whom she could talk to about all of this, and right then, Yashma was the perfect option.
Or an opportunity missed. Yashma had newly completed her teaching degree after a prestigious course in Mathematics, and might be going back abroad to pursue a job. Her university was wondeeful; it provided her an eight-week-long internship in a high school, and even gave her job opportunities. Of course, she would go.
As Saboor sat with a forced smile, the atmosphere in the room felt suffocating. Her eyes darted between her parents and her soon-to-be in-laws, Muzammil, Israa, and Mazhar, engaged in polite conversation over tea. Despite the warmth of the gathering, Saboor's heart felt heavy with frustration and disappointment.
She struggled to participate in the conversation, her mind clouded with the lingering disappointment of missing out on meeting Yashma. Her attempts at small talk felt hollow and unenthusiastic, her responses curt and monosyllabic.
When the moment allowed, Muzammil discreetly gestured to Saboor, signaling that he wanted to speak with her privately. She led him to the terrace, but her usual enthusiasm was absent. A heavy silence hung between them.
"Saboor, is everything alright?" Muzammil's concern was evident in his voice as he observed her demeanor.
She looked away, unable to meet his gaze, a mix of anger and sadness welling up within her. "It's fine," she replied tersely, her tone revealing her frustration. Their conversation was fraught with tension, each word heavy with Saboor's fear and Muzammil's confusion.
"Why weren't you picking up my calls?" Muzammil's voice conveyed his concern, seeking answers. "You didn't even see my messages."
She noticed the cup of lukewarm tea that he had brought alone with him, which now stood on the boundary of the rooftop, cold and ignored. Taking her chance, she leaned forward.
"Aapki chai thandi ho gayi hai, main garam karke laati houn," she muttered, heading forward to pick the teacup, but a warm touch engulfed her wrist, causing her to halt.
Looking up in confusion, she saw his hand holding her wrist, his fingers clasped gently on her skin. As their fingers momentarily connected, an electric thrill coursed through her veins, leaving her breathless. She felt a tingle where their skin met, a sensation that lingered long after he released her hand. Their eyes locked, holding a wealth of unspoken emotions.
"Apni naaraazgi izhaar karo, chhupaao mat," he said, smiling.
She looked down and remained silent, but her heart was palpitating, jumping.
"You are so open to me, so transparent, and now...tumhaari khaamoshi chubnay lagi hai. Mujhay bataao...baat karo."
He brought her hand closer to him, and carefully, placed it on his chest.
"Tum yahaan, meray dil mein, buss gayi ho."
"Are you angry with me?" Muzammil's attempt to gauge her emotions only added to the tension.
"Saboor," he persisted, but she interrupted, her voice quivering.
"I'm not angry at you, I'm scared of you."
"Scared of me? For what?" Muzammil's confusion deepened, his worry evident in his tone.
"That day, I-" Saboor faltered, unable to voice her fears, her sentence hanging unfinished.
"Saboor, Saboor, Saboor..." He moved a step forward in her direction but she moved back, keeping away from him. They were alone once again. The last time, she was amused, but this time, she was afraid.
"Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?" His voice softened, trying to reassure her.
But Saboor, feeling overwhelmed, stepped back involuntarily. "Don't come closer to me," she said, her voice shaking, a mixture of fear and guilt in her eyes.
Muzammil's voice softened as he tried to ease the tension. "Achha, fine, I won't come near you now unless you let me." He raised his hands in surrender, taking a few steps backward.
Saboor remained silent, her gaze fixed on her feet, emotions swirling within her, the conflict within her heart palpable. Her mind raced with conflicting thoughts and fears, making it hard for her to articulate her feelings or make sense of the situation.
"Saboor, I understand your fears, but you don't have to worry," Muzammil began gently, his voice carrying a tone of reassurance. "Our parents are discussing matters related to our wedding, and there's nothing that could lead to any... illicit relation."
Saboor glanced up, her eyes meeting his, still clouded with apprehension. She struggled to find the right words, the fear gripping her heart tightly.
Muzammil continued, his words calm and understanding. "I respect your boundaries, Saboor, more than that, I respect your values when it comes to marriage and everything that matters to you. You're safe, and I want you to feel secure in that."
"I appreciate your understanding, Muzammil," Saboor started, her voice soft yet laden with uncertainty. "It's just that... these thoughts, they've been nagging at me."
Her gaze shifted downward, a mix of anxiety and vulnerability in her eyes. "Trusting someone, even you, feels scary sometimes. I'm not questioning your sincerity or our families' intentions, but... I have this fear that things might go wrong."
Saboor's voice trembled with gratitude and surprise. "Thank you, Muzammil. I never imagined... I mean, I didn't expect you to understand and help me like this. It's different from what I've experienced with many men in my life."
Her words held a raw honesty, revealing the depth of her appreciation for his uncommon understanding and support, something she hadn't encountered often.
Feeling a sense of warmth in his reassurance, Saboor took a tentative step forward, drawing herself closer. With a breath, she leaned in, her head finding a resting place on Muzammil's shoulder. It was a small, intimate gesture, a wordless expression of the emerging trust and the unexpected solace she found in his presence during her vulnerable moment.
~
As Saboor and Muzammil returned from the terrace, they found both sets of parents engaged in a discussion, their voices hushed yet decisive.
"We have considered all aspects, and the 8th of December seems suitable," Israa, Muzammil's mother, stated with a sense of finality.
"The nikaah function will take place at the bride's house," Feroza, Saboor's mother, added, looking towards Muzammil and Saboor. "And the wedding reception will be held at the groom's house two days after the rukhsati."
Saboor and Muzammil exchanged a glance, a smile tugging at the corners of their lips as they nodded in agreement. Both understood the significance of this decision and the traditions it symbolized.
"I have no problem," Muzammil confirmed, his voice carrying a mix of contentment and anticipation.
Saboor echoed his sentiment, her smile reflecting her readiness for the forthcoming celebrations. "Yes, we're both fine with this arrangement."
~
Saboor's decision to wear her mother's wedding lehenga wasn't an easy one. It was a maroon garment steeped in both fond memories and painful history. Despite the complexities of her relationship with her mother, the lehenga held a sentimental value that transcended their turbulent past.
With a mixture of emotions, Saboor carefully inspected the delicate threads and intricate designs of the lehenga. Each stitch seemed to whisper stories of her mother's journey, the struggles, and perhaps the little joys she had faced. It was a choice rooted in a desire to bridge the emotional chasm between them, to honor tradition despite their strained relationship. She gave away the dress to be made to her tailored fitting.
Alongside her mother's cherished attire, Saboor purchased jewelry that complemented the lehenga. She invested in pieces that intertwined seamlessly with the heritage of old fashion, a blend of vintage elegance and contemporary grace. The delicate balance between old and new reflected Saboor's determination to honor tradition while carving her path forward, with the blessings of her elders.
In the bustling markets, she browsed through displays of gold ornaments, each piece unique and different. Saboor wasn't really fond of a lot of gold, but again, like her mother, she made her zevar for a safe financial deposit. If an unfortunate day in her marriage came, she would gladly give away these ounces of gold to keep her house running and alive.
Throughout this process, Saboor was noticeably on her own. Unlike the scenes one might expect where parents accompany their daughters, guiding and supporting their choices, Saboor moved with quiet resolve. The absence of her parents saddened her, especially when she saw mothers pressing necklaces to their daughter's neck and telling them which one was good, or when she saw fathers curling up their fingers, saying "nice" at their daughter's choices.
But when Israa had realised how Saboor was shopping all alone, she kept away her chores and went to accompany her. Her son was getting married, but wasn't Saboor her daughter too?
One day, Saboor and Israa headed out to a market in a city a little farther from home. They sat in a boutique, sipping juice while the salesman displayed bridal sarees.
Israa shook her head vigorously. "Ye kya? Maine kaha tha na dulhan ki saree chahiye, walimay pe pehnne ke liye! Ye halki-phulki saariyoun ka kya karna?"
Saboor struggled to stifle her laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. Israa's animated expressions always amused her, especially when it came to important matters like choosing wedding attire.
The salesman, attempting to keep a straight face, quickly nodded and responded, "Ma'am, I understand completely. Let me show you some of our exquisite bridal sarees perfect for the walima."
As Israa examined the sarees critically, Saboor felt warmth spreading within her. Israa might not be her biological mother, but her care and love were no less than what a mother would offer. Saboor appreciated her presence, how Israa embraced her as her own, understanding her choices and desires without judgment.
"Saboor, beta, what do you think about this one?" Israa asked, holding up a light pink saree.
Saboor leaned forward, examining the saree Israa had chosen. It was a gentle shade of pink, adorned with intricate silver embroidery dancing along the edges. The fabric seemed to shimmer under the boutique's soft lights, creating an ethereal aura.
"It's beautiful, auntie," Saboor remarked, her eyes tracing the delicate patterns. "The color is so soft, and the embroidery is really elegant."
Israa nodded, her eyes twinkling with satisfaction. "I thought it might suit you, child. It's graceful yet not too heavy."
The shop assistant stepped forward, eager to assist. "This particular saree is made from a blend of chiffon and silk, ma'am. It's lightweight and has a subtle sheen, perfect for the occasion."
Saboor felt the fabric between her fingers, marveling at its softness.
Israa smiled, her gaze fixed on Saboor. "Try it on, let's see how it looks on you."
Saboor nodded and made her way to the changing room. As she draped the saree around her, the softness of the fabric enveloped her, and she couldn't help but admire how elegantly it fell around her frame. Peeking out of the room, she called Israa inside.
"Masha Allah, nazar na lagay meri bacchi ko," Israa murmured as soon as she stepped inside. She set her handbag aside on a chair and came forward, properly arranging the dupatta on Saboor's shoulder. Saboor blushed a deep shade of crimson.
"This...this is really gorgeous, my child! Look, don't tell anyone, not even Muzammil about this...but this is my gift to you."
"Auntie, there's no need for that-"
"Nahin, nahin, nahin, main abb tumhari ek nahin sunnay waali. Buss, I am giving this to you, and that's final."
Saboor stood silently, looking at the saree pooling at her feet. She then looked up at Israa, who awaited a response, and nodded. Israa came forward and placed a kiss on the side of Saboor's head, and the younger lady struggled to keep her tears at bay.
Perhaps her fiancé had inherited this habit of spoiling her from his mother too.