Thirteen Years Ago
Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days — it had taken them that long to finally place a date on their wedding day. For two years it had been a castle in the cold air of Lahore's winter. It was pushed further and further away from conception every two weeks as a result of Aryan's elder brother's disappearance. He had, in a fit of rage abandoned his family and left for the United Kingdom. With no signs of his early returns, Aryan had been confused. Myra had convinced him to take his time, for it did not matter wether they held the wedding the day after or the year after, so long as he could reassure her it would be them getting hitched, she did not care.
Then as the plans began to see the light of the day, two years later — their masters done and sorted. His elder brother, Alamgeer, returned back to Lahore. In a haste his marriage had been fixed and with that taking place Myra's own was pushed back. Though it seemed to the people around her that she was not worried about it, she in truth was. Myra was confused for the most part. Unable to understand how things would go on. The only silver lining was that there were no signs of cancelling the ceremonies planned for them — Aryan and Ayaan, along with Ayaan's bride. In that moment she could care less about the thunder of her day, Myra just wanted to be married.
Her fingers pressed against the dainty work of threads and beads on the front of her deep maroon shirt, the nine yards of her heavy skirt trailing behind her as she stood in front of him. Myra smiled softly at her face in the mirror, her skin had been painted gently a porcelain and the resplendent blush on her cheeks — just the beginning of a red, on the hints of carnelian. Though she doubted, they required any. Myra had been blushing like a woman crazy all day long, the leg pulling and cheesy texts from Aryan were too much. Painted nails and fingers covered in henna were wrapped in the gold rings with gems studded in the centre. Her hair curled softly, and a centre piece parted the two.
Myra puckered her lips, brushing the deep red lipstick on them. The coral tinted highlight streaked all along her collar bones, the deep neckline hugged her breasts. A thick gold necklace rested against her long neck, the veil lay discarded on top of her bed as she awaited her mother's arrival to set it on her head. Myra's heart beat softly against her ribs, the tingles on the end of her nerves were fried and meshed into one stronghold. Her ears buzzed with life, blood rushed to them and seeing them turn a blood red almost had her melting — keyword: almost.
"Myra you look so—" her mother walked in, wrapped in gauze, she smiled at her daughter — at a loss of words.
"So what?" Myra frowned, over thinking.
Did she look like a dwarf? Or did she resemble one of those faces overly done with a foundation ten shades to light, she frowned. Picking up at her skin Myra scoffed — she should have told her make up artist to contour better. It suddenly seemed to horribly streaky, done without good blending. Dripping her brush into some coral blush she smoothed out the lines, ignoring the bright chuckles of her mother who seemed to not want to speak words of truth.
"You look perfect Myra. Everything about this look is so perfect." She explained, digging a pin into her hair as she spoke.
"Ow—okay. I trust you but if I turn up looking like a clown in my wedding pictures—"
"Beta I said this look is perfect. Doesn't mean you won't resemble what you are!"
"Are you sure you're my mother?"
"Oh a hundred percent. I can recall the labor pains you gave me very well — to this day!" She beamed.
