B R I G H T lights shimmered in the tiny street. The house of the Jamal's was covered in golden fairy lights. With a maroon tent covering the street for extra space. It was clear that it was the brides home. For it was decorated like one. Hoor was inside her bedroom. She had just returned from the state-of-the-art saloon. Rehman had kindly sent her a driver for pick and drop. Everyone that had caught a glimpse of her, had been moved to say MashAllah.

The women all around the street prayed for their own daughters to have a naseeb like that of Hoor's. It was practically impossible for a woman of such a poor household to marry into a rich one when she was at home all day. It was true what they said.
"Joaray asmaanon mein bantay hain".

Hoor had opted to wear a burnt mustard coloured short shirt with loose bell bottom pants. The shirt had golden gotta work on it. With some pastel pink and blue bead work. The duppata was plain and had the same work as that on the shirt and trousers. She was going to take a heavier dupatta aswell. It was tradition. And she was not one to break traditions. Since the event was just downstairs, Hoor had decided to wear plain golden khusas. Her hair in a bun  covered in jasmines. And two thick gajray covering her slender wrists. She was a vision.

The dress came with a handbag made of the same cloth. And was tied with a drawstring. Her hands as of yet were free of Henna. And she could not wait for them to be covered. If there was one thing she loved more than cooking, it was having henna applied on her hands.

Hoor roamed her room, fiddling with her fingers. Mind full of anxiety. She just wanted to be done with everything. Her hands were turing cold by the second. It seemed that it was all happening too fast. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself down. To remind herself of the days that were to come. The sense of fulfillment that she had wished for, for most of her life.

She looked out of her window. It opened into the street. Seeing the women dressed in their embroidered chiffon clothes, exit their homes and make their way to hers made her happy. These were all people that were happy in her happiness.

Suddenly there was a loud sound of footsteps rush up the stairs. A knock sounded on her door.
"Kon hai?" Hoor asked from the other side of the door.
"Mein. Darwaza kholo". Ali replied.
Hoor opened the lock of the door, opening it wide. To allow him to step in.
"Chalo. Waqt ho gaya hai," Ali gave her a tight lipped smile.
He took out the colourful fancy dupatta that was on a small table in her bedroom. He alongside a few of their distant relatives held it over her head. Leading her downstairs slowly.

"MashAllah!"
"SubhanAllah!"
"Allah nai tou tumhay waqai Hoor di hai!" Were just a few of the praises that fell onto Hoor's ears as she saw her daughter enter their courtyard.
"MashAllah. Mubarak ho beta," Jahan-ara kissed Hoor on the forehead. Placing her on the wooden swing. It had been decorated with flowers and their scent tickled the nostrils of the bride as she sat down. Her head held low due to the shyness.

"Chalein rasam shuru kartay hain," Jahan-ara fondly smiled at the guests. Placing a plate of mithai and mehndi on the low height wooden table. She signalled for all the females to gather. As the men all left to give them privacy.
"Arrey pehlay dulhan ki ammi karay na!" One of their neighbours spoke.
Everyone else simultaneously agreeing.
"Bilkul!" Jahan-ara smiled.

She first put a beetle leaf on Hoor's right hand. Putting some oil in her hair and putting a thick blob of mehndi on the leaf. Feeding her a piece of patisa Hoor's favourite. Circulating money on her head to ward of any evil eye off of her. This step was repeated by all the women. Young and old. Married and single. Everyone took part wholeheartedly.

Later as Hoor was having mehndi applied on her hands by one of her acquaintances, the girls brought out the dholki. Sounds of music immediately circulating the air.
"Chitta kukar banaray tay
Chitta kukar banaray tay

Kashni duppattay waliy
Munda sadqay teray tay!"
And ofcourse no Punjabi wedding was complete without the playing of tappay.
Hoor looked at the design on her hand. Falling in love with her mehndi.

Her eyes however, stumbled across a tiny detail. It was a place where lines were overlapping with each other forming a "M". She wiped a bit of the line to make a "R" unfortunately, she was late. The mehndi had already stained itself in a dark maroon shade. Deeper than the shade of fresh blood.

N E X T M O R N I N G
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R E H M A N H O U S E, D H A, LHR
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Mustafa was dressed in a black shalwar kameez, with a dark blue waistcoat on top. All the men, beside the groom were wearing it. The groom was in a black prince coat. Raees and Mustafa had taken all responsibilities of being the grooms brothers. Which was expected, seeing as they had all been friends since a young age.

"Arrey yeh bid ki tokri gaari mein rakhwao!" Mustafa guided a servant to his own car.
"Rizwan keh kamray ki setting ho gai hai na?" Inside the home, Raees was busy having the room decorated.
Today was the nikkah and baraat. Everyone was ecstatic. Except the groom.

Rizwan was inside his bedroom. Pacing the length of it. Frustrated at what he was going to do. Rumaisa had told him to not worry. And that she would do everything. Today was the day of the wedding but she had vanished. He had no idea where he was.

"Rizwan beta nikalnay ka time ho gaya hai," Rehman walked into his bedroom.
"Ji abu. Bas nikaltay hain," Rizwan smiled at him.
Rehman walked towards him. Patting his shoulders, a proud smile on his face.
"Beta aaj mein bohat kush hun. Yeh din bhi aahi gaya. Ab jaldi aajao," he waved at him before leaving.

Rizwan sighed as his father left. He tried to call her once again. It was of no use. She would just not pick up. He sighed. Looking out of the window, he saw his childhood friends enthusiastically get everything ready for him. His heart was heavy. He had no idea what to do with his life. Should he go on with the wedding or should he back out and hurt everyone dear to him?

T W O H O U R S L A T E R
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J A M A L H O U S E, ANDROON LHR
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Hoor sat inside her parents bedroom. Her duppata weighed her head down as she sat in anxiousness. It was to be expected however. She was a bride. She was sitting, already tired of the days event.

Hoor was wearing a red anarkali, it had a boat neck with tilla work. The rest of it was also covered in the metal wire work. The fitted sleeves were covered in gold embellishments. With a full flowing gharara underneath. The multicoloured duppata covered her head giving a glimpse of the jhumar she wore.

It was around thrity minutes later when the moulvi entered the bedroom. With her father in tow. His face full of worry. Hoor brushed it off, thinking it was because he was marrying his daughter off.

"Hoor binte Jamal, kia aapko Mustafa bin Kamal sai yeh Nikkah qabool hai?" The man questioned. Leaving Hoor stunned. She did not what to do. Within an eye blink, her arm was gripped forcefully by her father. Whispering in her ear.
"Qabool hai bolo!" The harshness in his voice something she never expected.
Just like that, without her being in her senses, Hoor gave her consent. Tying herself to the man her father worked for. She became Hoor Mustafa. A bride who had no idea regarding what had happened.

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