دل ہی تو ہے نا سنگِ خشت درد سے بھر نہ آۓ کیوں
— مرزا غالبؔ

٭
Chapter 13 : Qubool tou hai magar...

Cream covered the edges of her heart shaped lips. In a straight line. It marked the distance between the light dusting of freckles on the apples of her cheek, and the flesh of her lips. Lapping at it with the ends of her tongue, she hummed softly at the vanilla bean flavour. Swiping the rest of it on to her finger, sucking gently as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her fingers still around the crisp cream roll. Sinking her teeth in once more — eating her feelings before the make up artist would arrive.

Through the window, soft and elusive sunlight draped in over her cheek and the figure hugging blouse. It's deep maroon matched — in perfect contrast. Dream like swirls and flowers of gold and copper zardosi filled the front and back. The neckline sinking beneath her hair, a thin dori keeping it from slipping from it's place. Thick and beige, the shawl wrapped around her arms to keep it safe from stains fell on to the wooden arms of her chair as she stretched her figure. Twisting in place, flipping the edge of her kameez. Finding some form of joy in the boredom of the silent bedroom.

"Good morning!" The make-up artist slid into the room with her team, bringing an eclectic air of joy. "So sorry for running late, this place was almost impossible to find. No worries — we'll get straight to work now."

Before Golnar could offer an audible reply, the workers had cleared her table of the tray of cream rolls and tea. Instead wrapping a cloth on the vanity. Spreading out the array of brushes and tubes, pins placing her hair out of her face. A band wrapped around for extra safety. Chewing on to her last bite with a mournful edge she closed her eyes — squeezing them till there were flashes of hot red before her closed eyes. Not an inky darkness.

As the cold gel like texture of the primer was pumped on to her skin, a sponge dabbing it around, Golnar lost herself to the rhythmic touches. Their warm finger tips against her icy skin brought some colour back to her cheek. The heat from the flush slipping to her swan like neck. Golnar could feel it all. Tightening the grip she had on the arms of her chair, the tips of knuckles turning an alabaster pale.

Unbelievable.
Unrecognisable.

Breathing gently, her heartbeat crusading harsher underneath the ribcage, tremors slipping on to her skin with full force. Golnar felt everything and yet nothing. Stuck between shock and acceptance. Sucking on the skin she had bit on to, the pain reminding her of not loosing out to the sheer numbness of her heart.

With a broken reverie, Golnar prayer words she herself could not make sense of. Gulping down the tears that clogged the back of her throat, her nostrils burned with a venomous flair.

The absence of her mother kept ringing behind her ears like a broken alarm. Her heart, un-knowledgeable, kept beating, praying that she would return. That as she left the threshold of her father's palace, her mother would be stood behind her, a hand resting on her shoulder. Golnar yearned for that lost reassurance. An emptiness creaked in the chambers of her heart. Starting a fire of emotionless dependancy. Rubbing the bones of her wrist, running them down her arm covered in henna stains and the bareness of her skin hidden beneath the slightly coarse satin. She had her father, yet felt so alone.

How was she to deal with a husband?
There were no women to advise her on the topic, and as that became a truth she accepted, opening her eyes to stare at the reflection of her bridal self. Golnar let a tear fall on to her hand. A fire set ablaze. Though she breathed once more, offering a watery smile to the proud make up artist.

She had done without her for years.
Her graduation.
Her masters.
Now — her wedding too.

"Shukriya." Golnar whispered, helping the woman slide her nose ring into place.
[Thank you.]

It's diameter — made of a thin gold stem, with a single ruby attached to the chain clipped into the low bun — kissed her matte crimson lips. They airbrushed look of the red blush — though it looked almost peach and the swipe of a champagne highlight made the apples of her cheek shine. In a subdue manner.

Helped into the skirt, done in heavy thread and bead work with just a light sprinkling of green, Golnar thanked her helpers. Fixing the round tikka over her forehead, it's thick matha pati already covering the crown of her hair in it's grip. Marigolds wrapped around her bun to match the orange subtleties and the elaborate veil came to rest on top of her head.

The crown set.
The crowd in place.
The groom's party just entering the estate.

Golnar felt ready. As ready as she would have, given their situation.

Hatred, animosity, and a truckload of selfishness. The basis of her nuptials. Irritated her pride. Yet her hands were tied, even as she watched the groom's party from behind the windows in the corridor. Hiding behind the curtains to catch a glimpse of her husband to be's frame.

"Golnar bibi," the warm voice of Agha ji called to her, his hands wrapped around a tray as she turned to meet him.
[Miss Golnar.]

Like the rest of their workers he was dressed in a crème bosky shalwar kameez, a burnt orange waistcoat wrapped around his frame. His face, wrinkled with wisdoms and secrets offered her a short smile, his hands forwarding the tray in her direction.

"Sahab nai khana bheja hai, ap kha lein, qari sahab anay walay hai." He explained as she looked at him with questions in her eyes.
[Sir has sent food, you should have it, the officiant is about to arrive.]

"Muj-mujh sai khaya nahi jaye ga."
[I-I will not be able to eat it.]

Her stomach churned already with unease, the strong aroma of the thick spicy enriched gravy and rice only added to the turmoil within her being.

She wanted the day to be over — already.

Being a bride was tiring and all she wanted was her father by her side. An impossible wish.

For now, and perhaps for the near future.

٭

Darab twitched in his seat, tugging at the starched collar of his off white sherwani. The round gold buttons on it's front were only tightening around the sparse of his chest, gripping at his lungs harshly. Though it was all in his head. Yet the feeling was inescapable. Even as he sipped on the glass of juice, it's cool temperature washing the thin spears within his throat. His knees shook in a restless manner. The sword tied to his waist brushing against his thigh from over the thin shalwar. Even the leather shoes Husayn had got for him seemed a size too small.

Smiling to the crowd, for the past half an hour had been an annoyance. His sharp chin had dropped for a handful of times, barely brushing the front of his dress. The unruly beard that he had strictly forbade from being touched, hid the stabbing collar from the eyes of the passerby's. His siblings and mother though, seemed to have been enjoying the mingling session, passing cheeky air kisses and droning off in lengthy conversation. The son-in-law his mother so cherished, missing once again.

Darab coughed as his wife to be's cousin, and his best friend's wife walked on stage. Her perfume smelling sugary, overpowering the soft scent of the roses. Offering her nothing more than a formal smile, he steered his eyes towards the crowd. No matter how sheer her dress was, he would not stoop so low to eye the woman — or woman for that matter. At least not whilst he was seated on the stage of his own wedding. He in fact loathed the woman his best friend had chosen for himself. Meeting in the mountains of the US, the two had connected well, or whatever that was meant to be.

"Darab bhai you sure you wanna marry Golnar?" Golmina enquired, not failing to hide the vice undertones of her innocent teasing.

Darab blinked. Once and twice. Staring at her with his woody eyes pulled wide. Failing to understand the words she had just spoken to him, turning to his best friend who had appeared out of nowhere. Watching him shrug, Darab nodded, understanding that it was probably a topic not suited to the grand event.

"Darab qazi sahab aa gaye hai." His brother stepped on to the stage, dressed in a starchy shalwar kameez, the flower garland hanging from his neck.
[Darab the officiant is here.]

"Assalam u alaikum." He greeted.
[Peace be on you.]

Stout and pink, the officiant whose beard was whiter than the foam of the river that separated the two lands, sat on the chair beside him. His father-in-law, with the thinning hair and frowning forehead took seat beside him. Conversing with the man in charge in a whisper, their voices though mumbling. To him sounded like a drunken bubbling of words.

Darab flinched at the sight of the mellow white paper. It's edges painted in pink flowers with gold embossings, scribbles curved around the paper and dashes left blank.
For the signatures. He assumed. Melting from embarrassment beneath his skin, he scratched the skin of his ears in an attempt to make it look like that was the cause of their suddenly turning red. Not the fact that he felt ashamed at not being able to understand a single word. More so, over the fact that his wife's name was already curved with a sleek black pen.

His would be the imprint of his coarse thumb.

Darab swallowed thickly the humiliation, tilting his head into the direction of the kind faced officiant. Whose eyes — placed evenly across the rosy cheeks were full of belief. His voice soothing as he murmured the words to him. Stopping over each syllable, smiling to the crowd as a bunch of doves sunk low over head. A usual sight. Made unusual by the nature of the evening.

"Darab Hakim Naazim, kia ap ko Golnar Arbaz Naazim, jo ke beti hai Arbaz Naazim sahab ki, haq mehar pachis crore siqa raji-ul-waqt apnay nikkah mein qabool hai?"
[Darab Hakim Naazim, do you take— Golnar Arbaz Naazim, daughter of Arbaz Naazim, under the solemnising amount of twenty five crores— as your lawfully wedded wife?]

Silence stemmed into the air as all eyes turned to him. Watching with bated breath. Darab forced his lips into a pleasant smile, coughing, hiding behind his cocky arrogance the yearning for his parent's presence.

"Qabool ae." He threw his words with a farce kindness.
[I do.]

The swell of his stomach burned with the satisfaction of having fulfilled his purpose. The enemy had taken his bait, joy sparked his heart. Drowning out the shame he felt as he pressed his thumb into the fresh ink. Placing it next to her signature. His large thumb seemed out of place against the delicateness of her writing.

A contrast, so riveting it brought him to life.

What better way to seek revenge, than to turn your enemy into family. Poison him softly everyday. Until he became used to the bitterness of the poison.