Time soon passed and the day soon arrived for the long-anticipated wedding. The air buzzed with celebration, but beneath it all pulsed a tension that refused to be silenced. The sprawling tent stood like a palace of false promises, draped in silk, gold, and illusions. Fairy lights twinkled above like oblivious stars, unaware of the storm brewing beneath their glow. The aroma of saffron biryani, ghee-laden samosas, and rose sherbet danced through the venue, mixing with laughter, gossip, and the deafening beat of the dhol. Music pulsed through the venue, setting the stage for a night of dance, festivity, and endless memories.
Fazeela, however, was anything but festive.
She paced frantically across the hall, dupatta flying behind her like a battle flag. "Aanya! Where are the garlands? Has the nikah platform been set? And—ya Allah!—where is your father now?!"
Aanya, her lipstick slightly smudged from shouting at florists and shooing off nosy aunties, huffed, "Ammi, relax! Everything's under control!"
But Fazeela was far from convinced. Her stress had peaked somewhere between the missing mehndi cones and the late photographer. Qureshi Sahab, meanwhile, was on his fifth meltdown of the day, barking at decorators, scolding caterers, and muttering under his breath about time management and dishonor.
And then—like a bolt of lightning through the chaos—the drums exploded louder than ever.
The baraat had arrived.
The crowd swelled toward the entrance, craning necks and adjusting dupattas. The groom's side entered with a burst of wild energy—dhols booming, flower petals flying, and relatives dancing like their lives depended on it.
Saniya led the charge in a neon pink lehenga, flinging her bangles as she twirled, while behind her came the one-woman wrecking crew of every desi wedding: Rukhsana Khala. Clad in her usual black abaya and niqab—both doing absolutely nothing to mute her larger-than-life presence—she pushed past the crowd like a tornado on heels. And then… she danced.
If it could be called that.
Her arms flailed, her hips swayed, and her feet pounded the ground with all the grace of a bulldozer. Her abaya puffed like a parachute, spinning wildly as she did a half-squat move that made a poor child nearby drop his juice in fear.
Laughter erupted from every corner. Guests wiped tears from their eyes, some gasping for breath as they clutched their stomachs. Even the dhol players faltered, trying not to collapse mid-beat.
Fazeela, her patience finally snapping, stormed forward and bellowed over the music. "Rukhsana! Stop before you break the floor!"
The room erupted once more in laughter. Khala, oblivious to the chaos she had caused, gave one final dramatic twirl before Fazeela clapped her hands for silence.
"Everyone, please be seated," she commanded, straightening her dupatta. "The bride is ready to enter."
And just like that, the madness simmered to a hush.
The music dimmed. The chatter faded. All eyes turned to the grand entrance, the very air now holding its breath.
And then—Raneya appeared.
Draped in deep crimson and silence, she floated into the hall like a ghost of her own destiny. Her lehenga shimmered with gold embroidery, each thread laced with sorrow. Her dupatta, pinned just so, framed her face like a painting—beautiful, still, and tragic. The soft jingle of her anklets was barely audible over the murmurs of awe and the kohl-lined eyes that once sparkled with dreams now held a distant, empty look. Yet her posture remained graceful, each step toward the stage measured and controlled.
Guests gasped.
"She looks like a queen," someone whispered.
"Like a dream," said another.
Zaryab stood at the far end, suddenly breathless. He had seen her before—dressed simply, eyes wild with unspoken protests. But today, she was something else entirely.
She looked ethereal—like a dream slipping through his fingers, like poetry wrapped in silk. His heart pounded as she approached, her beauty rendering him speechless. But he failed to see the truth behind her lowered lashes—the silent plea of a caged soul.
"Mashallah, such a stunning bride!" Fazeela, her mother, beamed with pride, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Rukhsana Khala clapped her hands together. "Bilkul pari lag rahi hai!" She nudged the woman beside her. "Look at that poise. Such grace. No wonder Zaryab is mesmerized."
Guests whispered their admiration, a chorus of praises swirling around her. But Raneya heard none of it. Their admiration passed through her like smoke. Each compliment felt like a petal laid on a grave.
She approached the stage with the elegance they wanted and the numbness they didn't see. Inside her, a battle raged between dignity and despair. She was trapped, her body present but her soul drifting elsewhere, yearning for a life she had no say in.
Saniya, the groom's sister, approached with a gleaming tray, smiling as she performed the customary pre-marital rituals. She fed Raneya a sweet, playfully teasing her about the journey ahead, while another cousin slipped a silk scarf over her head in blessing. Raneya sat through it all, silent, unmoving, her heart beating in rebellion.
Then, silence.
The molvi cleared his throat, his voice echoing through the mic. The moment had come.
"Raneya bint Qureshi, do you accept this nikah?"
A lump formed in her throat. The room held its breath, waiting. Her heart screamed no, her soul fought to break free, but the weight of expectations crushed her resolve. She closed her eyes, drowning in the echoes of her parents' words—A good daughter never disobeys. Our choice is always right. A family's honor is above a girl's dreams.
Her lips parted. "Qubool hai."
A second time. "Qubool hai."
A third. "Qubool hai."
The words came out like a whisper, hollow and lifeless, as if uttered by a stranger inhabiting her body.
The crowd erupted.
Claps. Cheers. Applause. Flower petals rained like confetti. Somewhere, someone popped a soda bottle. Someone else shouted, "Selfie time!"
But inside Raneya, something withered and died.
Then came the rukhsati—the farewell. The moment every girl dreads and every parent pretends to celebrate.
The time had come for her to leave. The laughter had dimmed, replaced by the soft wails of women who clutched their dupattas, dabbing at their teary eyes. The air felt heavy, thick with emotion. Fazeela hugged her daughter tightly, her composure slipping. "Be happy, beta. This is your home now. Make it yours."
Raneya clung to her for a heartbeat longer. The scent of her mother's skin, the feel of her warmth—her childhood flashing before her—late-night lullabies, stolen bites from the kitchen, whispered secrets under the blankets. It was all slipping away.
Her father stood tall, suppressing his emotions behind a stern expression. "No tears, Raneya. Be strong, he murmured. "We have chosen the best for you."
Did you? she wanted to ask.
And then there was Aanya. She grabbed her sister's hand, mascara running down her eyes, "Please don't go," she sobbed. "Don't leave me alone in this house full of drama!"
It was hard to tell if she was genuinely broken or just trying to steal the spotlight again.
Raneya smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "You'll be fine without me." But she wasn't sure if she would be fine without them.
Zaryab stepped forward, offering his hand. He looked at her with awe, pride, and something like hope. He didn't see the storm within her. Only the illusion of the perfect bride.
She took his hand.
And as she stepped into the car, rose petals rained down at her, laughter and tears intermingling. The door closed, sealing her fate.
Through the tinted window, she saw her family—smiling, waving, believing they had given her everything.
She smiled back.
A perfect, hollow smile- a smile that didn't belong to her.