Judaai

01 |

What had I gotten myself into?

***

"Qubool Hai."

A chorus of hushed giggles erupted behind me, only to be silenced a second later by a stern Chup! (Silence!). Likely one of the many aunties who had shown up claiming to be distant relatives. There seemed to be no end to them.

On the other side of the thin off-white curtain separating the women from the men, a noticeable sigh of relief left the qazi's lips. As if a cloud of distress only visible to him had passed overhead, leaving the ceremony unperturbed. Grateful, he proceeded with the rest of the nikkah formalities.

Looking up through my mascara-coated falsies, I snuck a glance at the sight before me. From where I sat, I could make out three prominent figures beyond the gossamer veil. At the far right sat the qazi, hands raised in reverent prayer, a gesture which my father mimicked, sitting to his immediate left. From his silhouette, I could tell Baba's shoulders had relaxed significantly upon hearing my answer. As a matter of fact, the entire room seemed more jovial compared to seconds earlier when the tension in the air had been strangely palpable.

All in anticipation of one word.

My eyes flitted about. Searching.

Unsurprisingly, they landed on you.

You sat to the left of both men, suited in a beige sherwani— Ammi's choice— wine red embellishments complementing the intricate designs bordering my own lehenga.

You, a man who had been the subject of numerous giggling fits among my raucous sisters for the past month and a half. A man whose subtleties betrayed the very front he was trying to put up. I mean, even with the physical barrier between us, I knew for a fact you were sweating buckets beneath that fitted suit. And need I mention how imperceptibly your right hand shook as you took the pressed legal document and jewel-embossed pen from my father?

After signing your name, you looked up. And I, caressed by the heat of your gaze, lowered my own and waited for the document to make its way to the women's side.

With the same pen in my hands, the lingering warmth of your fingers muddled with the cold metal of the barrel, I looked over the contract. My eyes trailed the still-wet ink that flowed, twisting and turning along what was your handwriting.

Beside me, Ammi whispered gently, sensing my standstill, "Bismillah."

"Bismillah," I whispered to myself. A heartbeat later, my name was beside yours.

One word. One signature. That was all it took.

There was no going back now.

Astaghfirullah, why are you even having such thoughts?

Um, because this is like one of the biggest decisions in her life. Duh!

A decision she's thoroughly thought over and gave full consent to. Stop planting doubts in her mind.

The voices of my conscience settled into a nasty debate, metaphorically pulling me in two opposing directions. I teetered on the fence of uncertainty and beneath my dangling feet lay the pitch-black abyss that was regret.

A warm hand took mine, pulling me out of my inner turmoil.

It was your mother.

Auntie's soft hazel eyes brimmed with motherly pride. The same expression I'd always caught a glimmer of when she would joke about making me her daughter one day. At the time, I would have laughed off the matter entirely. A free-spirited girl like me and a relationship as restrictive and draining as marriage?

Thank you, next.

But naiveties of the past always have a way of washing up onto the shore of reality when we least expect them.

Auntie squeezed my henna-adorned hands, allowing a tear to escape down her cheeks.

I don't deserve this.

"Mubarak ho, Api!" 

("Congratulations, Sis!") 

My youngest sister Sana ripped my attention away from the sentiments of my mother-in-law. She sprang up from the circle of young girls and ensnared me in a hug from behind, having no regard for the state of her slipping headscarf or the furious look Ammi was casting her. "Sana, lower your voice!"

We heard the men chuckle at the mother-daughter outburst, my ears subliminally perking up at the sound of your increasingly familiar laugh.

Rich and forgiving.

Ammi's rosy cheeks flushed deeper. She was never fond of attention, always preferring to stay under the radar. Aware of this, Sana pouted apologetically, a trick she'd begun using on you as well, in an attempt to soften Ammi's mood. When she turned back to me, she pecked my cheek before pulling back. She looked like she was auditioning for the Cheshire cat. 

"Sooo, how are you feeling? Bet you can't wait to see Jeeju." 

(Jeeju, Jeejaji = brother in law)

Mischief drowned out the browns of her youthful eyes. 

"Bhook lagi hai,"  I gently peeled her off. 

("I'm hungry.")

Her face contorted into one of confusion bordering on disbelief but I ignored it, looking around for an exit. I wasn't the least bit hungry. No, I desperately needed some fresh air. A breather from all the chatter of guests. A moment to dispel the smothering thoughts that were burning inside me.

The rose garden outside seemed like my best shot at solitude.

But I would have never expected to run into you.

***

A/N: 

Hi beautiful readers! Welcome to another one of my stories (i will finish the others, i promise (╥_╥)). I thought a lot about how I wanted to depict this story, primarily what pov. I'm not really a fan of switching between pov's or tenses every other chapter so for now, I've settled on this. Let's see how long it lasts lol (ya'll know I'm about to change it up again). Me and my indecisiveness.   

Also, just a heads up bc my writing tends to be vague sometimes, here's the premise of the story or rather this chapter: our MC is looking back on memories as she "speaks" to the man who has since become her husband. Pls let me know what you think of the story so far.  What do you think is eating at the MC? Will she have a name? Why is she getting married? 

Stick around to find out!

Baiii!