Gunnah e Shab

17. Run • بھاگ

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.