In the quiet recesses of the heart, there exists a mystery that has confounded men for centuries-a creation so delicate, yet so resilient, that even a mere glance, if harsh, can unravel her.
She weeps not just with her eyes, but with her very soul...
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"Do you, the daughter of Azad Iqram and Noor Jahan, accept this marriage, with the agreed haq meher of 20 lakhs?" The Kazi's voice had echoed softly through the mosque, steady and clear.
It was Friday, the day held in reverence and anticipation, now weighted with the significance of this union. The mosque, a sacred sanctuary, had stood serene, the sky outside awash in deep orange and soft pink hues. The atmosphere had imbued with a quiet solemnity. The arrangements had been simple yet respectful, with around 25 guests seated on the soft carpets, their heads had been bowed in prayerful silence.
"Qubool." When she had whispered, the words were meek, soft and quivering, her voice barely a audible.
It was the moment she had been brought to; the moment that had tethered her life to another's. A life-altering decision wrapped in a simple word—a word that would change her forever. Her hand had trembled gripping the pen as it carried the weight of her entire future.
Nazlae, the bride was a vision of traditional elegance, draped in a rich maroon saree that shimmered under the soft lights of the wedding hall. The golden dupatta delicately framed her face, adorned with intricate embroidery that caught the eye of everyone present. Heavy jewellery dangled from her ears and neck, complementing the kohl that lined her large, expressive eyes. Her lips were painted in a deep red, contrasted against her golden tan skin, completing a look that was both regal and modest.
The hall where they now were, buzzed with muted conversations and the soft clinking of cutlery against porcelain. Amidst the elaborate decor and the sea of familiar yet distant faces, she sat on the stage, her head bowed under the weight of uncertainty. The intricate patterns of her mehndi seemed to blur as her hands gripped the edge of her dupatta, the delicate fabric crumpling beneath her trembling fingers.
Beside her, the presence of a stranger—now her husband—felt overwhelming. His scent, a mix of cologne and something distinctly unfamiliar, filled her senses, intensifying her discomfort, and making her skin prickle with unease.
The weight of these thoughts pressed heavily on her heart, making her breath hitch, the time ahead stretching into an endless void of unknowns. Her eyes remained downcast, the glittering jewellery on her wrists jingling softly as she tried to steady herself, to find a fragment of composure amidst the storm of emotions raging within.
She was a bride, resplendent in red and gold, but beneath the layers of silk and tradition, she was just a girl—uncertain, fearful, and silently hoping that somewhere in the midst of this orchestrated union, she would find a sliver of solace.
A soft, almost hesitant whisper broke through the haze of her thoughts. "It's time, honey," her mother murmured.
Her heart jolted a sharp, panicked rhythm that echoed the sudden, crushing reality of the moment. The gravity of her situation, which she had been trying to keep at bay, now surged forward with relentless force, making her breath catch.
