I haven't eaten my lunch yet. I'm on a hunger strike against my parent's master plan of marrying me off before I find the true meaning of my life. My eyes are puffy and my nose tip is reddish with the tear stains patched on my cheeks.

The mere thought of marrying a guy I haven't seen or met wells up my eyes even more as my jaw clenches out of anger. As much as I hate the whole idea of marriage, I know that a day will be coming at the doorstep of my askew life, knocking the door with wedding bells and folklore Muslim songs.

It's not like I want to stay a bachelorette. I want to be in love, marry someone who loves me as much as I love him, go through motherhood and have a family of my own. But it's just that I don't want it to be this early. I don't want an arranged marriage in the first place because the whole idea of that makes me nauseous. Marry someone who you haven't seen or met before. Seriously?

I know I'm asking for way too much when I say I want to stay single till my 30s because in our religion, it specifically says that every person must have a better half, the sooner the better. But the cases where these better halves become the worst nightmares are increasing day by day, needlessly.

I clench onto my stomach after hearing a loud grumble. My stomach is begging for its pill but my mind is filled with capsules of stubbornness and ego, that makes me turn my nose up at the rumble. My mom and Mohsin haven't come asking me to eat because they know I will be seen in the kitchen eventually, wolfing down mom's appetizing lunch. They know that whatever happens, I will not give up food. But today, I'm going to prove them wrong as it's my life they're talking about, they're toying with.

Another hour passed swiftly with my stomach craving more and loudly and me ignoring it with every fibre of my mulish being. I see an Instagram post of my former classmate, who is doing her PG at a prestigious Canada university. She's in a pumpkin field in Vancouver with her Canadian buddies, smiling at me through the phone screen. As long as I stare, her smile turns into a smirk for me. She's in Canada, living the best of her life while I'm here, troubles piling up each day in my room of long lost happiness.

My lips curve down as my heart feels heavy with jealousy. But I know being envious is not going to do any good because she's a bright student who has supportive parents. And these two are exactly what I'm lacking as an aspiring international student.

My cell phone slips off my hand and lands on my duvet as I hear my father's voice from outside. I jump on my feet and lunge to get to the door, to ask him something that is haunting me for a few hours.

"Where is Pari?" I hear my dad, asking from the other side of the door.

I press my ear to the polished wooden door, waiting to hear my mother's response.

"She's on a hunger strike, in her room." The annoyingly deep voice of my mom says.

"Again? This time for what?" asks my father.

Before mom can answer, I open my door making my parent's head snap towards me. My father's jet black eyes widens as he sees my bloodshot ones. Before he can say or ask anything, I ask him, "Are you going to marry me off?"

My father's eyes go back to normal as he sighs.

"You scared me, Pari. I thought it was something else," he says.

"Aththa, answer me!" I demand.

"Lower your voice!" my mom hisses to which I purse my lips instantly, a habit I developed, more like my mom made me develop from a very young age.

"Yes. A good proposal has come and we are looking forward to it," my father says, adjusting his specs.

"But aththa, I-"

"If it's about America or Canada, Pari, you can go back to your room. After eating something, if your hunger strike is over." My mother cuts me off.

"Aththa..." I trail off, my voice breaking at the end.

Dad signs before taking steps to me. He takes my hand and guides me to a chair at our dining table. We settle down, him sitting across from me with umma standing next to him. He asks me to wipe off the tears which I obey.

"Pari, sweetheart, you know how tight we currently are, right?" he asks me to which I give a small nod. "When you said about your dream of going abroad, I tried to make it come true, for you."

His words make me look at him sternly, catching me off guard. My fiddling fingers come to a halt hearing him.

"Yes Pari, I did. I went to- what is it called?"

"S-Santa Monica?" I ask him to jog his memory with the name of the study abroad consultant agency I'm in contact with.

"Yes. That one. I went there. I enquired about everything. They said you can get into a university in any foreign country with your present marks. But it's not the marks, Pari," he says and takes his specs off.

"Then what?" I ask.

"It's about money. It's all about money," he says after a long sigh.

I knew it. I knew it when he reminded me about our financial struggle at the beginning of this conversation.

"You need to have 30 lakhs in your bank account as a reliable source you can depend on. And then the university fee, the tuition fee, hostel fee and many more. Sorry Pari, your aththa doesn't have that much money. The only money I have saved is for you, for your marriage. I'm sorry sweetheart," he says, shaking his head.

Then use that money for my studies!

I want to tell that to my dad's face but I can't as I see his face. He has worked so hard to save up for my marriage- for the function and most importantly, for dowry. His eyes are constantly apologizing to me to which I feel a pang of guilt. Maybe I'm dreaming too much like my mom says. My dreams are too high that not only makes me, but also my parents deject.

"With that, people will talk, Parisa," my mom says, making my eyes fall on her sorrowful face. "You don't know the people around you. Everyone has evil eyes and tongues that they will go around and spread unwanted rumors about you. No girl has gone to a foreign country alone from our family and it is for sure that your uncles will create a ruckus if we allow you to go."

"But umma, why are you thinking about others? Why are you so concerned about what they say?" I ask.

My dad shifts in his seat and takes my hands in his.

"Pari, sometimes you have to give an ear to what others say because there is a possibility that their words alone can end your future, forever."

I still don't understand what they are trying to say. Why are Indian people concerned about other's words? Of course, people will talk but that's all they can do when you concentrate on yourself and give your best IDGAF attitude to them. Giving these people unwanted attention is what makes them not stop themselves from being rumormongers. Maybe mom and dad are right from a parent's point of view, but from Parisa Azeez's view, they are just being dumb.

"You understand what we said?" my dad asks softly, caressing the back of my hand.

I nod my head. I don't know if I'm certain to give an accurate answer so I just nod. But inside, the dreams I built every day and night are collapsing. The fountain of my dynasty is trembling, just like my heart that is weeping.

"Now I'll say something else," my dad says to which I frown.

"Is it something related to marriage?" I ask cynically.

He gives me a tight smile and a nod to which my shoulders hunch.

"Aththa, please!"

"Hear me out girl," he says, catching my attention.

Seeing me sitting still, my dad gets that I'm ready to listen to him. He looks at my mom and smiles at her to which she keeps her hand on his shoulder. He turns back to me and opens his mouth.

"Yesterday, we got a proposal for you. A very good one, something we can't even imagine about. The guy's family is good and their reputation is also nice. They have been in Dubai for 30 years. The guy was born and brought up in Dubai."

"Wait, I'm marrying an Arab?" I ask, my face twisting in confusion.

My parents let out a belly laugh before my dad saying, "No. They are Keralites only but were settled in Dubai for the past 30 years. His parents are retired teachers of a famous school there. Now the guy's parents are settled here and he is working in New Zealand but right now, he's here on his leave."

New Zealand? New Zealand! NEW ZEALAND! My eyes widen in sheer happiness hearing my dreamland. New Zealand- my dreamland, where I want to get a job, where I want to get settled, where I want to breathe my last.

"He's an architect there. He joined just a year ago."

"No. It's two," my mom corrects dad.
"It's been two years. The matchmaker said it."

"Two? What's his age?" I ask.

"He's 27."

"27? I'm just 21," I state.

"So? Me and your dad have an age gap of 11 years. This is nothing," my mom says.

My mom then goes on naming her siblings cousins and their age difference with their spouses. Her voice becomes inaudible as the word New Zealand starts ringing in my mind. Thoughts about my future in New Zealand come out of nowhere to which a visible creese forms on my forehead.

I have applied for a University there but haven't heard from them yet. New Zealand has many job opportunities so maybe I don't really have to go for further studies if I can get a job with my marks. But only if I get there, right? Maybe I can marry this guy and-

"Do you want to see his photo?" my dad asks, breaking my train of thoughts.

I look at him for a few seconds before shrugging my shoulders lightly. A part of me doesn't want to see the guy who is a marriage proposal but the other part of me wants to see the guy who works in New Zealand.

My dad chuckles, mistaking my nonchalant shrug as shyness and calls for my brother to get the photo from his diary. Mohsin walks up to us with the photo in his hands, the white back with the logo of a photograph studio facing me. Before giving dad, he takes a look at the guy and I find him goggle-eyed.

"Woah! He is way out of Pari's league," he says to which I shoot him a death glare. But another part of me becomes more anxious to see the face of this said man.

Dad takes the photo from his hand and holds it out to me.

"Take a look."

My shaking fingers that are sweaty take the photo from dad's hold. I slowly turn and take a look at his photo, my eyes falling on a young fine handsome face. The moment I take a look, a weird sensation forms in my stomach. And no, it isn't the grumble. It is something, something I'm not too familiar with.

My eyes run through the guy's face. Dusky, tall, well built and has a perfect masculine body like 1998 Brad Pitt, upturned eyes like Ian Somerhalder but in black, pointed nose like Harry Styles and full lips like Jensen Ackels. His jaw, a perfect one like my 2013 superman, Henry Cavill. But one thing, he isn't my Regé-Jean Page!

What the fuck? Features of a foreigner but belongs to India by color? I'm gonna marry a brown Greek God that is partially Arab?

Mohsin is right. This guy's way too out of my league. I'm sure this guy will say no as soon as he catches a glimpse of me. This guy is too handsome to be real.

"What's his name?" The question rolls off my tongue without me realizing.

"Cyrus Hamid."

"Cyrus Hamid," I repeat it, the name passing from my lips slowly and softly.

Unique name.

"Do you like him?" my brother asks.

Well, I obviously love New Zealand. And about this guy...

"I don't know. I can't tell you about it now," I say as I give the photo back. "How can I like him just by seeing his face? I should know his character and personality too, right?"

"Well then, be ready tomorrow. They are coming to see you, Parisa."

━━━━━━━━»•»❀«•«━

I don't know how my mom expects me to eat right after my dad puts a bomb on me and walks out. They are coming tomorrow. That guy and his parents are coming to see me tomorrow. More like to assess if I reach up to his as well as their expectations, which are obviously high since his beauty is at the peak.

I literally cringe at the mere thought of what is going to happen tomorrow. I don't want to doll up and present myself as a mannequin that is about to get purchased. That tradition, which is the first round of marriages in India, appears nonsensical to me. Maybe meeting alone at a restaurant and having lunch may lighten the heavily awkward situation since it tackles off boomers aka parents.

"Put something on your face," my mom says as I wash my hands after eating lunch due to her never ending compulsion.

I look at her as I close the faucet and dry my hands on the cotton pants I'm wearing.

"For glowing skin!" she says to which I roll my eyes and go back to my room, ignoring her nagging.

I lay on my bed staring at the off white ceiling above me, thinking about the proposal, about New Zealand. The benefits of marrying the said Cyrus Hamid is a long list, a list of my dreams. No matter how hard I try, I cannot see him as a human, a man that is coming to see me tomorrow and if he likes and only with my consent, ties a knot around my neck that symbolizes me as his wife for the rest of my life. I cannot see him as a guy. Instead, I can only vision him as a golden ticket to my dreams, dreams that are slowly and steadily rebuilding in me.

Maybe arranged marriage isn't that bad. Wow, I'm a fucking hypocrite!

He may be the one, the one in the sense through whom I'm going to make my dreams come true. And this guy is indeed a golden ticket. BINGO!