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Shaadi Ka Ghar (Shaadi ka Ghar: a home where a wedding is taking place. Can also refer to the home of a bride or groom)

Shaadi Ka Ghar (Shaadi ka Ghar: a home where a wedding is taking place. Can also refer to the home of a bride or groom)

Interintellect Essay Contest Winner: By Mashal Waquar

The room was as messy as you would expect a Dulhan’s room to be. Makeup and cosmetics, perfumes, incense oils, oud, bakhoor, mukhamariya, variations and layers on layers of amber, vanilla, bergamot, honey, saffron, and roses on the dresser. Bangles and boxes of gold, 22K and 24K, tastefully collected and pridefully passed from generation to generation through the women of the Qureshi household. You wouldn’t see a bride sign her nikkah papers without the whole family gifting gold in one form or another. The styles of jewelry changed over the years, but the intention remained the same – financial stability for the daughter of the family leaving home, and a last resort, God forbid if misfortune was to befall on the couple, as a way out.

There were garlands of jasmine and marigold and roses, both dried and fresh, from weeks of preparation and celebration adorning the corners of the mirror. They added a melancholic sweet scent throughout the room, smelling of new beginnings, bittersweet endings, and lots and lots of tears. It wasn’t a Desi wedding without the waterworks. A clothes rack on the other corner of the room, rows and rows of fancy Desi outfits inside their protective sleeves. Embroidery, dyes, hand stitched woven fabrics, organza, silk, ajrak, jamevar, anarkali frocks, flappers, saris, lehengas, ghararas, and stylish culottes – no effort was spared in preparing the most chic collection for their beloved bride. There were mattresses on every corner of the floor, to accommodate most of the extended family that had flown in from all corners of their bloodline – from Texas to Karachi, it was a big fat Pakistani wedding in Dubai after all. The beat of the dhol playing and the sound of everyone singing dholki melodies could be heard in every corner of the house, adding to the symphony of the chaos that filled the house . 

Where can it be? I whispered to myself, going through the drawers, one by one. A packet of green mehendi cones and a few black ones, courtesy of Zoya, delivered fresh from Meena Bazaar, for the event tonight.

Mehendi wasn't just auspicious, it's what tied the event together. I need to find these cones. Uff Allah, why did mama have to keep them so carefully in her manic organizational state instead of keeping them right where I could find them? The claps and the dhol were intensifying. They were playing Mere Nehar and singing its ballads. I want to be down there, but instead I’m having to rummage one drawer after another, in search of the cones.

The Mehendi ladies are definitely going to charge us extra for how much we’ve delayed them.They’ve literally been waiting here since 5 pm. It’s 8 pm now and it’s not even their fault our guests are arriving late. Plus, Mahira needs to get hers done first. She’s the Dulhan. Her color needs to be the deepest, darkest, sanctimonious red. The red of true love and companionship, the red of togetherness and forever.  The red that’ll make sure everyone is reminded of what a perfect bride she is.

Ah, found it. Right where I figured, inside mom’s treasure box in the center drawer, neatly tucked away in a soft brown paper bag, inside a plastic bag. I grab it and open the bag, carefully taking a cone out. I pull the thin needle out of the tiny end of the mehendi cone. It smells fresh. Earthy, sharp and pungent, handmade with organic henna leaves, cloves, and natural oils. This will last longer than those emergency cones. The longer it takes for the color to appear on her hands, the deeper the color will be. We’ll remedy and use more tricks here – heating toasted almonds and warming the hand over the heat and perhaps some vix too. Maybe not the vix today. It’s not the day to take chances. 

I’m oddly nostalgic, the room, the messiness, the familiar smell – not too long ago, I was in her place and she was in mine. In our roles and responsibilities reversed, there’s a certain serendipity, a certain charm. Shaadis bring everything all at once. The drama, the messiness, the trauma, the protectiveness, the love, the changing of cycles, the coming of age in our parents eyes, the true achievement, and an end of their parental responsibilities. The start and end to one and other and so many together, alone. 

I take a deep breath and keep the cone on the dresser, taking it all in. I didn’t have a moment to myself during my Shaadi, and now it seems like I don’t have a moment to myself in hers either. Tomorrow at this time, we’ll be back home, tired and emotional laughing about what a wedding it was. I smile to myself. So many memories in this room, we shared a bedroom for 8 years since we moved to Dubai. It had been eight years since I graduated, and four since she got her degree and started working. My baby sister was all grown up. How time flies. And with that, I take the cone and smile as I rush down the stairs. They’re singing the final verses to Mere Nehar. I quicken my pace to join in the cacophonies, to sing to my heart’s delight. It’s a Shaadi ka ghar after all.