Khwabeeda-e-Ishq

Chapter 5| Threads Of Choice

🖤"Sometimes choices are simple, sometimes they’re stitched together quietly."🖤

••••

•||"Threads of Choice: the first turn."||•

For a heartbeat too long, Zain forgot where he was. The chatter of relatives, the clinking of cups, the faint aroma of cardamom tea — it all blurred in the background. All he could register was that brief glance, the kind that slipped past every wall he’d built for himself.

Calm down, his conscience muttered dryly. You’re staring like a boy who’s never seen a girl before.

He blinked, leaned back, forced his expression into neutrality. If anyone looked his way now, they’d only see the same stoic Zain — the man who sat with his hands clasped, silent, detached. But inside, his thoughts were anything but steady.

Across the room, Hoor sat quietly beside his mother, her gaze lowered again, her fingers tracing the embroidery at the edge of her dupatta as if the threads themselves could save her from this suffocating attention. She hadn’t spoken a word yet. She didn’t need to — her silence carried more weight than the conversations filling the room.

And yet, Zain’s mind kept circling back to that single look. Her eyes—a clear moss green—caught the light for a fleeting instant, and he swore it was enough to undo him.

The elders, oblivious to the silent current between them, carried on with polite exchanges.

---

They were guided to a quiet corner of the lawn, benches neatly arranged, far enough from the living room to feel "private" but still in full view of anyone watching. The whole setup was absurd — a single meeting, a few polite words exchanged, and then they were expected to silently agree to spend their lives together.

In such setups, the girls barely dare to lift their eyes, fingers nervously twisting at their dupattas, while the men sit rigid, pretending that speaking or even looking at them would somehow be scandalous. Everyone around seems to think this is perfectly normal — blind tradition dictating blind compliance.

But really, what sense did it make? Islam never asked for this awkward performance. It encouraged clarity, conversation, and understanding before stepping into marriage. It was people — culture, habits, expectations that turned it into a charade. A tradition where boys and girls pretend, elders nod in approval, and everyone convinces themselves this silence could somehow build a future.

And then we wonder why it all feels so wrong.

They sit in silence for a couple of minutes, the kind of quiet that seems to stretch on just to remind them how ridiculous this whole setup is. Zain clears his throat once, controlled, careful enough to catch her attention without giving anything away.

She flinches slightly, fingers twisting at the edge of her dupatta, before glancing up at him. "You… you want some water?" She asks, voice soft and hesitant. He nods, composed, though he’d never admit that a part of him had deliberately cleared his throat just to get her to look.

He asks, "Your name?" And immediately regrets the mundanity of it, as if drowning in that same glass of water would have been preferable. His conscience doesn’t let him off easy: Really? That’s your big move? Asking her name?

"Hoor… Hoor-e-Haya," she mumbles, letting the words trail softly.

Zain nods once, letting the silence settle around them again. It’s a small start, but it’s a start nonetheless—and yet, the weight of expectations presses down, reminding him how absurdly serious everyone expects this single meeting to be.