The Eid We Met

Prologue

Prologue

The rhythmic clapping of qawwali singers filled the air, their soulful voices echoing through and weaving around the chaos in Isahaq's mind. The music, once slow and melodious, picked up an intensity that seemed to match Isahaq’s frantic heartbeat. He charged through the corridor like a madman, oblivious to the grandeur around him.

The sprawling poolside wedding hall was a vision of opulence: fairy lights crisscrossed overhead like a glowing, makeshift sky, their warm hues casting a magical glow on everything below. The navy pool in the center sparkled, its surface scattered with delicate flowers that floated lazily, creating an almost dreamlike contrast to the tension boiling in his chest.

Crystal chandeliers sparkled above, and gold-accented pillars framed the scene, but he didn’t have the luxury of pausing to admire the lavish decor. His mind was consumed by one thought, one name: Maha.

His eyes barely registered the towering floral arches framing the entrance, or the intricate gold and white drapes cascading from the ceiling. The soft glow of lanterns lining the pool’s edge and the sound of laughter mingling with the qawwali only added to his growing sense of urgency. His heart raced faster than the tempo of the tabla in the background.

Amidst the excited, beaming faces standing all around, his one was a sharp contrast of pure worry and apprehension.

“Move, move, move,” he muttered under his breath, narrowly avoiding colliding with a guest who turned just in time to glare at him. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for the unsuspecting waiter he slammed into.

The clatter of the thankfully empty tray hitting the marble floor made him wince, but he didn’t stop to apologize, forgetting all his usual manners amidst the storm raging inside his heart.

From somewhere behind, Zamar’s voice rang out: “So sorry, bhai! My bro’s in a life-or-death situation. Lemme help you with the tray.”

The brief exchange barely registered in his mind, too focused on the task at hand. Isahaq’s palms were clammy, his chest heaving. His hands trembled as he pushed forward, his hoodie damp with sweat from a mix of anxiety and exertion.

Blurred faces turned to gape at him—some in confusion, others in outright judgment at the glaring contrast his outfit and demeanor was compared to the dazzling Desi ensemble around him—but he couldn’t care less. Strangers threw disapproving side-eyes at the man running through the festivities dressed in black sweatpants and a hoodie, wildly out of place in the sea of embroidered kurtas and sherwanis.

Dodging people left and right, Isahaq kept moving forward, eyes scouring every face only to be met with disappointment.

A little kid followed him around, asking something along the lines of if he was a ninja while a nosy auntie yelled from the side,
“Beta, is this how you dress for a wedding?”

Once again Zamar came to the rescue, sprinting close behind and replied on Isahaq's behalf, “He's not here for fashion advice aunty!”

Another woman let her own opinion known, “And what's with the running? Is he here for a marathon or to steal something! This is a wedding not an action movie.”

“Who complains about free entertainment? Just have jalebis and mind your business aunty.” Zamar shot back but he immediately scrambled away when he noticed the lady’s sharp kohl rimmed eyes glaring at him.

“Beta, the biryani isn't served yet, slow down.” An elderly lady in a wheelchair called out towards them and then turned to whisper to the woman standing beside her, “No one runs like this except for the biryani.”