A Delightful Tragedy

04. Traitor?

U M É M A' S P O V

"Memi, voice your consent. Everyone's waiting." Azra's soft whisper tickled my ear, her tone both nervous and encouraging.

"Qubool hai," I murmured. (I accept.) I repeated it twice more, as tradition requires.

And just like that, I was married. Me—a married girl. How did it come to this? Why did I let my life take such a drastic turn? The answer was simple: it was all because of me. I had chosen this path.

"Pass the Asri, Mira," my mother urged, nudging Almira, who was standing beside her with a mirror in hand.

(Asri- mirror.)

The Ruksati isn't even today—this ceremony is only for signing the Nikah Nama, and yet it feels as if my world has already shifted. And just so we're clear, this wasn't some forced, arranged ordeal. If it had been, Fahad, my brother, would never have allowed it. No, this was my choice. I was the one who had been adamant about marrying Shariq, though that determination now felt like a distant memory.

(Nikah Nama - Marriage agreement)
(Ruksati - Departure ceremony of the bride)

The cushion beside me dipped as Azra placed the Asri on my lap, part of the ritual we were performing. Her gaze flickered with confusion, clearly struggling to understand my sudden decision. Of course, she would be shocked; how could I even begin to explain?

(The "Arsi Musaf" is a traditional Muslim wedding ritual performed after signing the Nikah. A veil is placed over the bride and groom's heads, and a mirror is set in their laps so the groom can take a first look at his bride through her reflection.)

The veil covering my face, irritatingly itchy against my skin, was lifted slightly to allow my new husband his glimpse. Custom dictated that I keep my eyes lowered—ladylike, demure, the ideal bride. But in reality, I had no interest in looking at him. His presence became unmistakable when his breath fanned across my face. I kept my gaze fixed downward, resisting the urge to claw his face for putting me in this situation. I watched him take a look in the mirror, and when I caught my own reflection staring back at me, I rolled my eyes—both at my reflection and, indirectly, at him.

"Won't you say something to me?" I whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. He only shook his head in response.

"Of course, you must be too ashamed of yourself," I muttered bitterly, my voice laced with resentment. His expression barely changed, though he glanced at me briefly before removing the veil and walking away, leaving me alone with the mirror and that infernal, scratchy veil. A sigh escaped me as a single tear traced down my cheek. I knew no one had forced me, yet here I was, feeling trapped by my own choices.

Suddenly, a kerchief extended into my line of sight. I looked up, glaring at the one who held it out.

"Who said I was crying?" I snapped, my tone defensive.

"Just wipe your tears," came his quiet response.

"Shut it, Shariq!" I hissed, snatching the kerchief from him. I wiped my face while keeping my gaze on the mirror, as if refusing to look at him would somehow erase his presence. Once I had regained my composure, I pushed the veil back from my face, setting it atop my head like a crown of thorns.

When I finally lifted my gaze, realization settled heavily upon me. Shariq wasn't just a stranger or my mother's best friend's son; he was now my husband. The word sounded revolting even in my thoughts. Husband? The term felt foreign, awkward—like a costume that didn't fit.

How could I endure this? This man had spent years making jabs, picking arguments, and belittling me whenever we crossed paths by some unfortunate coincidence. Would this torment be my life now? No way. There's no chance I'd stay married to him forever. I'm just twenty-one, for heaven's sake! I couldn't help but silently vow that I'd find a way out.