My feet are resting in the middle of a jungle green blanket of meadow. The sun is shining brightly just above my head. The southwest wind is chilly despite the burning sun, making the hair on the back of my neck stand. I look around to find that I'm in a different place. An entirely different place from where I was born and brought up. I'm in a place where the trees grow taller, the branches grow stronger and the leaves grow denser. I have seen this place before, not in real life but in pictures. I turn around and find a wooden name board that has carved 'CORNWALL PARK, AUCKLAND'. 

A huge wave of exhilaration washes over every bone and muscle of my being, reading the name board. My feet lose the touch of the green meadow beneath me as I jump out of sheer felicity.

I'm finally here. I'm finally in my dreamland, New Zealand. I run around like a kid who discovered that her school has closed temporarily due to heavy rain, giving her more time to wrap her small sleeping figure with a fluffy blanket, keeping her warm whilst the pitter-patter rhythm of raindrops sings lullaby to her.

I run around with no direction, following where my legs are taking me without any complaints, my arms spreading out and capturing the sunlight that hits me.

I continue to run around the vast park that has only my mad presence. I stop on my tracks as I see a red telephone box in front of me. I frown as I try to collect the familiar box out of my vague memory, taking steps closer towards it. Standing in front of it, I ran my fingers over the red metal rails of the booth slowly. I raise my head to see a white board that says Mayfield Lavender on top of the booth.

"What?" I ask myself loudly. "What the hell is this doing here? This is supposed to be in London, what the fuck?"

I stand at my spot for a few minutes, trying to interpret what is going on. I then shrug my shoulders, putting away the mysteries aside and open the door of the inviting red telephone box and enter it. I stand at my spot and twirl happily and look out of the glass windows with my forehead and nose pressing on it with my hands on either side of my face. I open my mouth and blow hot air on glass, making a patch of fog before writing 'Parisa was here' on it, purely inspired from Shawshank Redemption, with my finger.

Taking a last look at it, I turn to open the door of the booth. But I can't. I try to open it twice and thrice but it is vain. I continue trying to open it with all my energy but still, I can't. I'm trapped. 

"Open the door!" I scream, banging the door. "Open the door, open the door, open the fucking door!"

"Pari, open the door, girl!"

I jolt up with beads of sweat rolling down my forehead and neck even though the fan is at high speed. My chest heaves up and down as I try to calm myself from the dream I just had. It was scary.

"Open the door. What is this girl doing?"

Another scary thing is behind my door, banging by screaming my name on top of her lungs. I look beside me and see Kritika is writhing in discomfort with closed eyes as her beauty sleep is getting ruined by my mom. I look at my phone for time and it shows 5:08 a.m. 

Why is she calling me this early? 

"Girl, open! It's your wedding. Do you want to be late on this day, Parisa?" my mom asks from the other side of the door.

My eyes widen to the realization. "Oh shit! It's my wedding."

I jump out my bed and walk towards the door, opening it. I open the door to see my mom, her face telling she's done with me vividly.

Don't worry, umma. I'll be leaving this place today itself!

"Why did you wake me up this early? The nikkah is at 12:00, right?"

"Ugh, it's at 11:00 a.m.!" my mom says annoyingly. "Did you pray Subh*?"

I shake my head only to receive a smack from her. 

"It's your good day. Offer prayer to Allah and make dua* to give you a happy married life and to be blessed with healthy and beautiful kids."

There there. I haven't stepped on the auditorium and my mom is here, imagining me popping out her grandchildren!

Since it is morning and I don't want to waste my energy quarreling with her, I nod my head before closing the door on her face. 

I'll pray to Allah for myself. If she wants grandchildren that look like her son-in-law, let her pray. I don't want it!

I brush my teeth, take wudu* and offer two rakaʿah*s of Subh to Allah, praying for my independence and happiness and seeking forgiveness if I'm doing anything wrong.

━━━━━━━━»•»❀«•«━

Around eight, we all arrive at the auditorium where my beautician is waiting for me, probably to dump buckets of white paint on me according my mother's request. Badr said she would join me at the auditorium when I asked her to come with me. 

I enter the bride's room and see my wedding dress on display, waiting for me. In my culture, the groom's family selects the dress for the bride. It has been a tradition for thousands of years. Many may say it's good but according to me, it is a cretinous idea because the bride can't even say no to the dress if she doesn't like it. It's like no one gives a damn about the girl's like despite the fact that it is her "big day."

But I let out a sigh of relief when I see my wedding dress. It's a beautiful dusty pink lehenga* with simple gold and rosewood zari work at the bottom. The sleeves are full with the same pattern of work at its ends. The rosewood net veil with a gold border to go with the dress is just exquisite. I thank Cyrus' mother silently for picking up such a beautiful dress for me. 

"Ok, everyone out. Time for the bride to get ready," the beautician announces, making my mom and Kritika go to the next room to get ready.

After two hours of tug and war with my beautician, I'm all set as a bride. I went bandy words with the beautician when she was about to put a whole bottle of Lakmé foundation and apply eye liner and dark kajal under my eyes. I hate doing makeup on my eyes. I didn't allow her to put fake eyelashes on me since I don't need it. My eyelashes are longer and thicker and are beautiful as they are. The only makeup I allowed her to do was a small amount of Ponds BB Cream and matte rosewood liquid lipstick. 

My hair is braided to the side, parted in the middle with a few strands of curls falling on both sides of my face. A simple gold nethichutti* in the middle of the hair parting, an antique choker and a tight waist chain to highlight my curves are the only jewelry I'm wearing from my bridal trousseau. I'm looking simply beautiful, just like how I want. 

But I'm sure of one thing. When my mom and relatives see me, they are going to go haywire because the lehenga my in-laws bought for me is not the usual type my family is familiar with. This type of lehenga is that of a separated blouse and a long skirt which shows my belly just above my navel. At first, I was a bit hesitant to wear it. Not because I thought about my religious modesty but because of my muffin belly. Well, holding up your breath flattens your belly is not a myth though. 

The door of the bride's room opens and comes in my mom and all lady boomers of my family, including those four cousins. 

"Let me se- Ya Allah*! What is this?"

As expected my mom becomes numb, seeing her daughter showing off her belly on her wedding day. Hearing my mom, her sister and cousins all follow her path, screaming and gasping and keeping their hands on their mouth to show that they are shocked to the core. 

Fucking dramatic nincompoops!

"How do I look?" I ask my mom, raising my brows confidently.

"What happened to the piece of clothing there?" she asks, pointing to my belly. "Dolly, did you cut it?" my mom asks the beautician who's standing next to me and wiping the lipstick smudge off her hands with a tissue.

Hearing my mom's acquisition, Dolly defends herself by shouting at my mom, "What? Why would I do that? Your daughter didn't even allow me to do my job properly. Look at her face! If this is what you and your daughter wanted then why did you call me this early? You could've done this on your own!"

"Dolly, then what is with this outfit?" my mom asks, walking towards me.

"How do I know? Ask your in-laws, I'm going. You can put my fees into my account," saying that, Dolly exits the room along with her assistant, who finds it difficult to carry the heavy makeup set, following her.

"What did they do? Why can't they just buy a good and proper one?"

"Looks like they don't have any dheen*!"

"How will you go out like this?"

"What will people say?"

Questions rise one by one to which I just stand and smile at them. I turn around and look at myself in the mirror, finding myself lost in my vanity. Kritika enters the room, pushing and elbowing my relatives to make a way for herself towards me. As she comes to the front and sees me, her mouth is unhinged with eyes as wide as saucers. 

Kritika is looking beautiful as always. A simple, maroon, cotton sari with a black sleeveless V-neck blouse makes her look out of the world. Her wavy hair is neatly tied up in a tight bun which is wrapped with a single string of jasmine flowers. A pair of heavy black metal earrings, a set of black silver bangles on her both hands and a black bindi* with a shade of dark red lipstick is enough to make her look like an Indian Goddess. 

Did Mohsin see her? I hope he is alive after seeing this beauty!

"Woah!" she yells heartily, making my mom and relatives stop their tantrum and look at her. "You look stunning, Pari!"

"Stunning?" my mom asks, raising an eyebrow. "Did you see her dress properly, Kritika?"

Kritika takes a double look at my mom and asks, "Yeah, aunty! That's why I said she's looking stunning. Take a look at your daughter, aunty. Have you ever seen a Muslim bride that is so gorgeous like this ever before?"

"But Kriti-"

"But what, umma?" I cut my mom off. "But what? Yeah, you all can see my belly but what are you going to do about it? Are you going to make me change the dress? If so, what will my in-laws think? What will they say? What will people say, umma?"

I throw questions at her and her old school gang by batting my eyelids. My mom interprets my questions and the last line hits her right in the gut that she nods her head before saying, "Let it be anything then. We can't do anything since they gave it to us. People will start talking if we do anything to that two straps of clothing."

"Exactly!" Kritika says, clapping her hands, the jingling noise of her armful bangles echoing the room. She comes near me and takes my hands in her.

"Girl, you look fucking hot!" she whispers to which I wink. "Fuck them, you look beautiful."

"I know, right? Fuck them! Also, you look absolutely gorgeous. An Indian Goddess straight out of a mythology!" I whisper back, both of us erupting into laughter. 

"The groom is here!"

Some lady shouts from outside the room, making me halt my laugh and my body stiff. My cousins run outside to catch a glimpse of the guy who's going to marry me. They have been on tenterhooks ever since my mom described how his son-in-law looks. She may have exaggerated a bit since the blood of puffery runs through her veins.

Sensing my shortness of breath, Kritika looks at me with worry in her eyes. She takes my hands and squeezes it softly while I look at her and pass a small smile. 

"Don't panic," she says, her voice as soft as velvet. 

I nod my head, taking a few breaths to calm myself from having last minute jitters. 

"The guy is so handsome!" One of the four cousins comes crying, her minions following her with wide eyes. 

"Really? Let me see," my relatives say simultaneously and exit the room along with my cousins.

"We will come back after the nikkah is over. Be ready," my mom says before exiting, leaving me and Kritika alone.

"Where is Badr?" Kritika asks me to which I shrug my shoulders before sitting down on the vanity chair. 

"Pari? Kriti?"

Again, speaking of the devil, here comes Badr. We both look at her as she steps into the room. She's wearing a grey color, long, full sleeves anarkali with silver sequence embroidery neck work. She's wearing the same heels as yesterday, still unable to balance. She looks pretty but the thing that defines Badr is absent. Her black round eyeglasses are missing from her pretty face and are replaced with grey eye lens. She's looking really beautiful but since we don't like hyping her up, we look at each other before Kritika asks her, "Did you get cataracts overnight?"

I guffaw hearing her remark while Badr's smile drops and gives us her death stare. 

"Shut up! I look good," she says confidently before dragging a chair and sitting next to me. "You look wow, Pari."

"Thanks, Badr." I smile.

"Seriously, Pari. You look really pretty. Even without all that gold covering you look amazing. That lipstick shade suits you so well. I really like how your hair is set. Oh, those curls! Did they spray your hair? What foundation did they put? What color is this lipstick? I want to buy one," Badr tells in one breath, making me and Kritika stare at her weirdly. 

"Over?" Kritika asks her. "Over, Miss. Korea?"

I laugh over the nickname Kritika gave Badr. Kritika never misses a chance of joshing her. Even though I get bored of pulling Badr's leg, Kritika doesn't and that's what all the fun is about. 

"Why are you guys like this?" Badr asks, pouting. "My compliments were genuine. Parisa does look amazing as hell!"

We laughed at her, seeing her cute and innocent face. It's just the face that screams innocence though. 

"Yeah, we know you meant what you said. Also, you look pretty, Badr. You always are!" I say to which she blushes like a ripe tomato. 

"Yeah. Did you send your pic of this style to your boyfriend? I'm sure he will be taking the next flight to India to make you Mrs. Korea," Kritika resumes to poke fun at Badr again to which Badr blows raspberry and fails to come back with snaps. 

I laugh at their puerile argument before standing up from my chair and looking at myself in the mirror. As I continue to stare at the beauteous reflection, my mind goes to the event that is taking place outside this room. I take a look at the rusty, tilted clock that is hanging on the wall and see the time is 11:23 a.m., meaning the nikkah is going on.

Other than me, Kritika and Badr, everyone is witnessing Cyrus exchanging his vows with my father on behalf of me, repeating the maulvi* who's reading out recitations from the Holy Quran loudly. Since we don't have any objections from any sides, my father seals mine and Cyrus' bond, making thousands witness the ceremony. We are now husband and wife. Just a thali around my neck by him is all it takes to announce us as a married couple officially. When that chain falls around my neck, I will be his wife. I'll be his habibi. 

"Pari, you good?" Kritika asks me from behind.

"Pari?" calls Badr.

"Am I doing the right thing?" I ask them back only to get silence as the answer to my question. "Am I?"

Before they can answer, my mom and her sister barges in, making my chest jump to my throat. 

"Parisa, it's time."

━━━━━━━━»•»❀«•«━

Mera sajna mileya
Sajna milan vadhaiyan
Ni sajna doli leke aaunga
Ni vehra sajaya

The wedding anthem that is supposed to be emotive, saccharine and soul-stirring plays on the background as I take steps to the stage slowly. My brother, two cousin brothers and uncle hold a flower canopy above my head as I take steps like an elegant lady, just like my mother wants. But the actuality is that I'm trying with every iota in me to not trip because of the heavy lehenga skirt. To top it off, high heels! 

Mohsin winks at me and mouths 'All the best' to which I let out a small chuckle before mouthing 'Thanks. I'll return it on your's and Aisha's wedding'.

Kritika and Badr follow me, making sure I have got balance and not trip over and embarrass myself. I hear the cousin squad passing jealous comments and hearing that, I smirk at the thought of them drooling their jealous asses over my husband. My mother is smiling and giving hands to the familiar faces she sees in the midst of the chaotic throng. I hear whispers and gasps from the people on both sides as I walk down the aisle, probably to the ludicrous fact that I'm showing off my belly. 

Well, treat your eyes to my muffin belly boomers!

I keep my eyes on the ground till I reach the stage, not looking at my relatives, distinct cousins, oldies of my family, in-laws and above all, the guy I can address as my husband.

As I reach the flight of stairs of the stage, I see my father waiting with his hands holding out for me. For some reason, I get emotional all of a sudden, a tiny drop of tear that glistened due to the camera flashes, slipping from my right eye. I hope the photographer didn't click that moment. I don't want my wedding album to be a cliché dramatic album like my parents and aunties. 

"Masha Allah." I hear my father saying under his breath, taking my hand and climbing up the stairs.

I notice his eyes getting teared up to which I feel a small crack in the bottom of my heart. I squeeze his hands to remind him that I'm still his daughter, his Pari. As if he gets the message, he smiles at me wholeheartedly as we reach the stage. He leans forward and kisses my forehead before directing me towards my now husband, Cyrus Hamid. 

Finally, I look at him. I literally feel my breath stop for a split second seeing the guy in front of me, wearing a plum color, velvet sherwani with dupion silk pants of the same color. His hair is brushed backwards, exposing his forehead with a small low man bun. He trimmed his beard, making him look like a goddamn desi snack.

No wonder Riya came crying seeing this guy!

He's a bit more bulky than I saw him a month ago, making me appear so tiny in front of the people. Even though I'm 21, people often mistake me for a 17 year old girl. It's a manufacturing defect, who else to blame and what can I say? 

I divert my gaze from him before he can catch me gawking at him. Cyrus' mother comes to me, smiling widely. 

"Masha Allah, you're looking very beautiful. The dress suits you so well," she says and makes me stand next to Cyrus. 

I look at the people who are here to witness both my nightmare and the first step to my dreams. I look at Kritika and Badr who are standing at the side. They gesture to take deep breaths, inhale and exhale slowly as I can to calm my jittery nerves. I gulp and lick my lips, forgetting about the lipstick completely, more like I don't care. I feel my legs are jelly-like, making me want to plop myself down on the wide white sofa behind me. 

Inhale and exhale. Inhale and exhale. Inhale and exhale. 

As I'm taking deep breaths to keep myself serene, my husband opens his mouth and says softly, "Glad you didn't make yourself look like a cakey Annabelle."

I look at him and squint my eyes. "Excuse me?"

He chuckles and says, "I was a tad worried that you would apply your warpaint to our wedding. Aren't brides over here usually primed up like a whitewashed Christmas tree? Or as I said before, like the horror doll, Annabelle?"

I look at him for a few more minutes to which he gives me an eyebrow flash before looking straight at the guests, keeping a smile on his lips. I may hate my fucked up society but this guy over here forgets the root of his blood and it's time for a reminder.

"I don't know about them but I certainly know one thing about you," I say, smiling at the camera. 

He smiles and poses like me as per the photographer's request. "What is it?"

"Don't move. One, two, three, smile!" the photographer counts and clicks the button, capturing the fake smiles of the bride and groom who have already started their war.

"If makeup makes them look like Annabelle, then you don't even need that to look like Chucky. Both inside and outside."

"Beautiful!" The photographer says once he checks the photo he just clicked. "Beautiful couple!"

Hearing me, Cyrus looks at me, his lips flat and his eyes turn darker. Sensing his gaze on me, I look at him and pass an eyebrow flash.

He smirks, seeing me imitating him. "Feisty!" He takes a sharp breath and remarks, "I'm impressed, habibi."

Oh, trust me. You're gonna regret marrying me, my husband.

My tongue is twitching to say that to his face but I stay quiet. If I counter attack now, then this obscured cross sword is going to continue until everyone knows the real deal. And that's definitely the last thing I want to happen. 

What if he walks away right now? I know it is less practical but what if he changes the decision of taking me to New Zealand with him? My sallies can wait till tomorrow, the waiting is worth it.

Until then, pay no heed to this 5'10 piece of niggling shit, Parisa.

╰★╮

Subh- morning prayer for Muslims

Dua- supplications

Wudu- Wudu (or Wudhu) is a cleansing ritual or ablution that is an important part of purity and cleanliness in Islam before performing worship.

Rakaʿah- A rakaʿah, is a single iteration of prescribed movements and supplications performed by Muslims as part of the prescribed obligatory prayer known as salah

Lehenga- a full ankle-length skirt worn by Indian women, usually on formal or ceremonial occasions.

Nethichutti- a piece of ornament worn on the forehead and gives a complete look to the bride.

Ya Allah- Ya Allah means Oh, Allah! and is used as if to say "Oh My God!"

Deen- Deen is an Arabic word with three general senses: judgment, custom, and religion.

Bindi- a decorative mark worn in the middle of the forehead by Indian women, especially Hindus.

Maulvi- (especially in South Asia) a Muslim doctor of the law.