Dhaagey: The Ties that Bind Us

55. no more secrets

Author's Note: Onwards we move, I giggled a lot writing this one because of the photoshoots that go along with it, hehe. 

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The first event of her wedding began, rather fittingly, not with poise or quiet anticipation, but with utter, delicious chaos.

Not the biting kind, no, this was the kind that bubbled over in bursts of laughter, in too many people talking at once, in misplaced flower baskets and suddenly missing jhumkas and half-hearted scoldings from elders who knew, deep down, that this mess was inevitable and perhaps even cherished. It was the kind of chaos that could only bloom in a house too full, and hearts fuller still.

Of course, Maa Begum had tried to avoid the chaos. So had both her mamis, in their own efficient, bustling ways. They had drawn lines in the sand with all the solemnity of age-old commandments – the bride and groom would not see each other before the ceremony, they had decreed, as if it were gospel. The girls would stay upstairs, the boys would remain in the other wing. Boundaries. Separation. Discipline. Respectability.

But any hope of propriety had long since been lost to the wind, buried under the collective, theatrical groaning of cousins who insisted, loudly and in unison, that "no one does it like that anymore!"

In the end, the elders had succumbed. Begrudgingly, but also lovingly.

They had made them promise to behave well in front of guests. A promise that was heard, nodded at, and promptly forgotten the moment someone turned on music and someone else started dancing in the middle of the courtyard.

It was barely past noon, the guests were still hours away, but the entire household was already dressed to the nines, a riot of yellows and whites and golds, sunglasses pushed up into perfectly coiffed hair, iced coffees in hand, each of them too excited, too loud, too alive.

There was a professional photographer darting around the space with a camera the size of a small child, directing people into poses with all the urgency of a man who knew he was seconds away from being ignored entirely. His assistant ran behind him with baskets of petals and a folded reflector. And in the corner, beneath the shade of one of the parasols, Maa Begum stood with her dupatta pinned neatly, arms crossed, clearing her throat every two minutes in a valiant but futile attempt to get them to behave.

The courtyard had been transformed into something utterly magical, as if the very bones of the haveli had been wrapped in celebration. It wasn't just beautiful. It was alive. Everywhere Meerab looked, marigolds bloomed in reckless abundance, scattered like golden confetti across the chevron-patterned floor, tumbling in thick waves from oversized baskets. They were threaded into garlands that framed the wooden archways, draped around windows, and cascaded from the canopies like molten gold. The scent of sandalwood mingled with turmeric and something sweeter, maybe the sheer joy in the air, or maybe the gajar ka halwa someone had sneaked early from the kitchen.

Cream-coloured parasols edged with mint green stood like sentinels around the space, softening the sun's glare. Bells chimed faintly in the breeze, hidden somewhere in the marigolds. And at the centre, still and regal, was the carved fountain, lotus-shaped bowls stacked like relics from another century, catching the light so perfectly.

Meerab felt like she had stepped into a painting.

Fabric swished around her ankles with each step, a gentle whisper of luxury. The off-white and dull gold gharara moved like water, the fabric so soft it felt like it would melt under too strong a touch. Tiny vines embroidered in thread-of-gold twined up the panels of her kameez, and mirrorwork caught the light in brief, breathless flashes. Every inch had been chosen with care, every thread sewn with attention. Her dupatta was a sheer veil of sunshine, flowing behind her.