Muffled cries

Amidst the vibrant hues of marigolds and the sheen of silk garments, Ahmad Farooq sat motionless in his family's living room—a tableau of tradition that seemed almost alien to him. The rich tapestry of wedding decorations whispered stories of age-old customs, while the embroidered sherwanis bore silent witness to the union soon to be forged in their threads. Ahmad’s deep brown eyes, usually pools of contemplation, fixated on a golden tassel dangling from a nearby cushion, swaying like the pendulum of his uncertain future.

The hushed rustle of fabric announced Amina’s presence before her voice reached out to Ahmad, warm and expectant. “Ahmad, could you help me with these invitations?” Her hands, adorned by the faintest traces of past mehndi celebrations, extended toward him with a stack of creamy envelopes, the scent of fresh cardstock mingling with the aroma of incense that permeated the room.

With a nod too slight to stir the air, Ahmad accepted the task. His fingers, normally steady and sure, now hesitated as they brushed against the smooth surface of the invitations. Each name he etched in elegant Urdu script felt like an echo of his own name, being carved deeper into a destiny not of his choosing. The curling letters were a dance of ink and expectation, each stroke a tacit acquiescence to the unwritten laws that governed his life.

As he worked, a rebellious thought teased at the edge of his consciousness, daring him to imagine a different scene—one painted with strokes of mutual choice and undisguised affection. But the canvas of reality was unforgiving, and the colors of what-could-be bled away into the corners of his mind, leaving him with the stark black and white of his impending arranged marriage.

Amina watched her son, her vision blurred by the dual lenses of maternal love and cultural conviction. She saw the reluctance in his shoulders, the inner conflict that furrowed his brow, and wished she could draw it out, wrap it in the soft cotton of understanding, and wash it away in the waters of familial duty. Her hand reached out, not just to comfort, but to bridge the chasm between her world and his, even as it widened beneath the weight of unspoken words.

The pen hovered above the cream cardstock, Ahmad's grip on it faltering for a moment as the sound of his brother's voice filtered through the air, mingling with the scent of marigolds and sandalwood. Hassan strode into the room, his presence as commanding as the embroidered patterns on his shalwar kameez. With each step he took, the festive fabric whispered secrets of age-old customs, reverberating against the walls adorned with strings of light.

"Mother, have you confirmed the caterer for the biryani? It must be from Haji Sahib’s kitchen; nothing else will match the grandeur of the occasion." Hassan declared, his words laced with an authority that left little room for objection.

Amina nodded, her hands busy arranging a garland of jasmine, "Yes, son. Everything is being prepared as we have always done."

Ahmad felt the weight of their expectations press upon him, suffocating like the thick summer heat of Lahore. They spoke of dishes and decorations, but what rang in his ears was the resonance of a life predetermined, each detail another link in the chains of tradition that bound him.

His fingers trembled slightly, betraying the turmoil that roiled beneath his stoic exterior. Each name he inscribed was a silent testament to his yearning for a different kind of bond—one forged from the raw elements of love and choice rather than the cold, unyielding ore of duty.

The room seemed to close in around him, each stroke of the pen a reminder of the narrowing path ahead. The mirror across the room caught fragments of his figure, slicing his reflection into slivers of a man split between worlds. For a fleeting second, he met his own gaze in the glass—a silent observer to his internal struggle.

"Remember, Ahmad, we need to ensure the invitations reach every relative. It’s about maintaining our family’s reputation." Hassan reminded, glancing over at his younger brother with an expectant eye.

"Of course." Ahmad murmured, his voice barely rising above a whisper, as if fearing it might crack and spill his hidden desires onto the mosaic floor.

He dipped the pen back into the inkwell, watching the black liquid pool at the tip, a visual echo of his thoughts coalescing into a dark drop ready to fall. Would there ever come a day when he could let those thoughts drip freely from his mind, forming words of defiance rather than submission?

With each name penned, he felt as though he were signing away pieces of himself, parceling out his identity to meet the ceremonial demands of his culture. Yet, within him burned the feeble flame of hope, flickering with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he would find the courage to hold a mirror up to tradition and demand to see more than just a reflection of the past.

The steady cadence of the ceiling fan was eclipsed by Amina's soft footsteps as she approached Ahmad, her presence a balm to the charged air around him. Her hand, warm and assuring, came to rest on his shoulder—a silken weight that carried the gravity of her love. Ahmad's muscles tensed beneath her touch, simultaneously craving the solace it offered and resisting it.

"Ahmad, my son..." Amina began, her voice a melodic whisper that was at odds with the clamor of emotions raging within him. "You are the heart of this family, always remember that." Her words, meant to soothe, instead tightened the knot in his stomach, manifesting an unspoken question: could the heart of a family beat to its own rhythm?

He managed a nod, a subtle dip of his chin that belied the chaos of his thoughts. "I know, Ammi." he replied, the term of endearment for mother escaping his lips like a sigh. His gaze fell upon the half-addressed invitation in his hand, each stroke of his name a tether to expectations he longed to escape.

Before the silence between them could deepen into a valley of confessions, Fatima burst into the room, her youthful exuberance casting ripples across the stagnant air. She brandished a glossy bridal magazine with the triumph of a treasure hunter claiming their bounty. "Ahmad bhai, look at this!" she exclaimed, flipping through pages adorned with lavish gowns and vibrant floral arrangements.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Fatima said, her eyes alight with naive excitement. Ahmad wrestled a smile onto his lips, a practiced curve that masked the dull ache in his chest. He leaned in, feigning interest as Fatima chattered about the latest trends, her words flitting around him like butterflies he couldn't grasp.

"Very nice." he murmured, the syllables tasting of cardboard on his tongue. The vivid images of bejeweled brides and opulent settings were stark against the canvas of his own desires—simpler, quieter, real.

Her laughter filled the room, a melody untainted by the complexities that clouded his mind. If only he could share in her joy, unburdened by the reflection that awaited him in the mirror—the image of a man bound by tradition and duty, where the glimmer of his own aspirations was but a flicker in the dark.

"Are you excited?" Fatima asked, her head tilted in curiosity, unknowing of the turmoil within her brother.

"Of course." Ahmad lied, his voice a hollow echo of expectation. As she continued to point out decorations and designs, he felt the weight of the world pressing upon his shoulders, a silent spectator to the parade of what should be happiness, yet in his heart, there was a longing for something more—a journey of self yet to be embarked upon.

Ahmad’s hand moved in a steady rhythm, the flourish of his script embellishing each creamy envelope with a guest's name. The gold ink glinted under the soft light, each stroke a testament to the celebration that loomed ahead. But as he reached for another card, his motion stilled, his gaze inadvertently captured by the mirror propped against the far wall.

In the glass, his reflection stared back at him, a silent sentinel framed by the vibrant chaos of wedding decorations. His deep brown eyes locked with their own image, and Ahmad found himself tracing the familiar yet foreign contours of his face. The mirror, once a simple fixture, now felt like an arbiter of truth, reflecting not just a face but the visage of a life intertwined with expectation.

"Will you even recognize me?" he whispered to the reflection. There was no answer, only the echoed question hanging between the man in the mirror and the one holding the pen. In that moment, Ahmad grappled with the notion of identity—how it could be molded, willingly or not, by the hands of tradition.

The contemplative silence was shattered by the unmistakable timbre of his father's voice, calling out from the depths of their home. A summons that could not be ignored. With a reluctant glance away from his mirrored counterpart, Ahmad hastened to complete the task at hand. The invitations, now addressed, formed a neat stack that stood as a paper monument to his impending nuptials.

His fingers brushed over the last envelope, sealing it with a sense of finality. Yet as he tidied the stack, aligning each corner with meticulous care, his mind roved through the maze of doubts and questions that had taken root. He pondered the unknown terrain of his future, each thought a step on a path veiled by mist and apprehension.

With the invitations squared away, a semblance of order imposed upon the tangible, Ahmad allowed himself a final fleeting moment of hesitation. He glanced back at the mirror, at the young man who looked poised on the cusp of a great divide. Then, with a breath drawn deep into his lungs, he rose to answer his father's call, leaving behind the echo of introspection for the reality that beckoned.

Ahmad stepped into the adjacent room, a space where the air seemed saturated with the scents of marigolds and sandalwood—a sensory testament to the upcoming festivities. His father Abdul was perched at the edge of an ornately carved settee, leaning forward as he animatedly discussed the ceremonial details with a family friend whose face was a mosaic of wrinkles and knowing smiles.

The voices, rich with excitement and expectation, swirled around Ahmad like the vibrant kites that danced in the skies during Basant. Yet, to him, they were distant drumbeats, a rhythm dictating a march along a path not of his choosing. Each word spoken by his father, each laugh shared with the family friend, felt to Ahmad like another brick in the walls closing in on him, the weight of tradition pressuring him like the heavy summer air before a thunderstorm.

He hovered by the doorway, half in shadow, half bathed in the warm glow of the late afternoon sun that streamed through the jaali window, casting intricate patterns upon the floor. The light seemed to mock him with its freedom, able to shift and play across any surface, while he stood there, anchored in silent turmoil.

"Ahmad, come join us." Abdul beckoned without turning, his voice carrying the command of a patriarch accustomed to obedience.

As Ahmad moved closer, his presence drew a temporary pause in the conversation. His father's eyes, mirrors of his own, met his gaze—and in them, Ahmad searched for a reflection of understanding. But the furrows of concern on Abdul's brow betrayed a different expectation.

"Is everything alright, son ?" Abdul's inquiry cut through the din of arrangements, a simple question laden with layers Ahmad dared not peel back.

Ahmad's heartbeat quickened, a trapped bird fluttering against the cage of his ribs. He hesitated, caught in the liminal space between truth and duty, his mouth a prisoner of unspoken words. Then, as if on autopilot, his lips curved into a semblance of contentment, a mask so often donned it had almost become a second skin.

"Yes, Abbu, everything is fine." he managed, his voice a low hum that barely concealed the tremor of conflict within. His affirmation was a pebble dropped into the vast lake of his father's expectations, causing hardly a ripple in its surface calm.

Abdul nodded, satisfied with the answer or perhaps choosing the comfort of ignorance, and turned back to the discussion at hand. The conversation resumed its flow, and Ahmad let himself be swept along by the current of their words, an invisible spectator to his own life's orchestration.

His smile, still plastered on his face, was as brittle as dried rose petals scattered among wedding finery. It was a fragile shield against the onslaught of doubts that churned beneath the facade. And as he stood there, listening yet not hearing, Ahmad felt the ghostly touch of introspection brush against his consciousness, whispering of reflections and identities yet to be reconciled.

As the murmur of voices coalesced into a tapestry of wedding plans, Ahmad’s attention waned, drawn inexorably to the family portrait framed in ornate wood on the wall. In that frozen moment of smiles and closeness, the people he knew best wore their joy like a garment tailored for public display. Ahmad's deep brown eyes lingered on his own image among them, a figure captured with a grin that didn't quite reach those same eyes which now studied the scene with a hollow yearning.

The room felt smaller, somehow, as if the walls leaned in with each mention of the upcoming nuptial, eager to hear their parts in the tale of tradition. The laughter and happiness in the photograph seemed to mock him with its promise of unyielding continuity; an inheritance of roles he was bound to accept yet felt estranged from. His reflection in the glass pane of the portrait bore witness to this inner dissonance: the expected groom, entwined in familial legacy, and the man within, silenced by decorum and duty.

A whisper of silk brushed against his arm as his mother adjusted her dupatta while discussing flower arrangements, pulling Ahmad back from his reverie. He offered a nod at appropriate intervals, the motions practiced and empty, like the echo of a distant drumbeat long after the festival has ended.

Eventually, the weight of the moment pressed upon his chest with such force that breathing became a conscious effort. "I—I need some air." he murmured, his voice barely above the rustle of paper as another page turned in the bridal magazine. His father glanced up, a flicker of concern etched into the crinkles around his eyes, but before any questions could form, Ahmad was already easing out of the room.

The door clicked softly behind him, sealing away the sounds of his family's bustling preparations. Alone in the quietude of his own space, he found solace in the solitude. The sparse furnishings and the neat stack of books on his desk were mute companions to his inner turmoil. There, in the dimming light of late afternoon, Ahmad sat on the edge of his bed, a lone figure grappling with the enormity of a life mapped out by others.

His gaze fell upon the small mirror propped on his dresser, stark in its honesty. It held no pretenses, reflecting the contours of his face, the vulnerability in his furrowed brow, and the resolve hardening in his jaw. The fading sun cast long shadows across the room, painting his features in a chiaroscuro that mirrored the duality of his existence.

He contemplated the path laid out before him, one paved with expectations and sacrifices, wondering if the footprints he'd leave behind would ever align with the direction of his heart. And in that quiet hour, Ahmad grappled with the echoes of a future not yet his own, wrestling with the notion of donning a mask so complete, it might devour the essence of who he truly was. With each passing moment, the yearning for a life chosen, not assigned, grew louder in the silence of his mind, echoing off the walls of his being, demanding to be acknowledged, to be lived.

To be continued...