I leisurely scrape off the remains of my dried mehndi in the washbasin and examine the stain on my hands. The rich, rust-hued patterns, adorned with delicate floral motifs cascading up to my elbow, create a striking contrast against my honey-colored complexion and maroon painted nails. I position my hand under the light fixture and examine the pattern again. Finally, I move over to the window and tilt it towards the sunlight to look at it one last time.

A resounding thud against the bathroom door startles me, nearly causing me to lose my balance and fall into the toilet. "You're going to be late for your appointment," Afshi yells. "I know you're stalling."

I sigh heavily and pull the door open, fully knowing that I cannot evade the torture that is to come.

"Can you hurry up, please?" Afshi says demandingly. "She won't be able to reschedule you."

"That's fantastic news," I declare with enthusiasm, hope brewing in my chest. "Why don't we just skip the appointment and go get some jalebi?"

Afshi gives me a look.

"Roosa, you're getting married today. We can't just skip your beauty parlor appointment, which, by the way, was arranged by Prince Rafay."

"I don't understand why I can't just do my makeup at home," I complain. "Considering the colossal amount of sweat I'm producing, it'll probably melt off anyway. It's better not to waste the beautician's time and effort."

This entire week, I've felt like an anxious wreck. Sleep has been scarce and I've managed to consume any food or water. There's a constant sense of panic gnawing at my chest that I just can't shake off. The closer my wedding day got, the more agitated I felt. Today was definitely an all time high. I've been sweating profusely from the time my Haldi ended last night to right now.

"You're about to become royalty," she whispers sharply as we finally leave my house. "You can't arrive at your wedding looking like a disheveled creature."

"Don't insult my amateur makeup skills," I mutter, frowning.

We go to the parlor on foot since it is only a ten-minute walk from my house. As we pass through the bazaar to get to the next street over, I hear whispers amongst the shop owners.

"I hear she's marrying him for his money," the kapray baichnay wala on the right says. "Joke's on her because he's a nasty bastard. I wouldn't marry him even if he gave me his mehel."

Another says, "Forget the money, it's for status. Her father went from being head physician at Rashid Jahan to being a mere dispensary owner."

I keep my head lowered for the sake of avoiding confrontation, but inwardly I'm seething. Do people truly believe I'm that shallow, that I'm marrying him for money or social standing?

My cheeks feel hot by the time I reach the end of the bazaar. I knew some people were jealous, and some were pitiful, but I didn't know they were accusing me of such horrible things.

If only they knew why I was doing this.

But they can't, so I continue to keep my head down and walk through the streets quickly, pulling my dupatta across the lower half of my face to shield it from view.

When we reach the parlor, a wave of nausea threatens to overcome me. The grandeur of the place is excessive to the point of repulsion. The door—I don't know if I should even call it that, perhaps 'brick' might be a more appropriate term—is a garish gold color with elaborate patterns etched into it. Massive jewels adorn the handle. I'm almost afraid to touch it, for fear of tarnishing it.

Apparently, Afshi doesn't care about the value of the door because she grabs the handle and pulls it without hesitation.

When I step through the entrance, it's almost as if I'm in a different world. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a soft, luxurious glow over the spacious room. The seating in the parlor is, most definitely, fit for nobility. Plush velvet chairs with gold trim and ornate gilt-framed mirrors are positioned at every station, embellished with the same stones that decorate the entrance. The air was suffused with the delicate fragrance of jasmines and roses, adding to the sense of luxury and indulgence that permeated the space.

I'm too distracted by the grandeur  of this establishment to notice the short, plump woman with silver hair approaching me.

"Come and sit a spell, dear," she says, pulling me towards one of the many empty chairs. "I hear royalty is in the house?"

"I would rather you not call me that," I say gingerly.

"My apologies if I have offended you," she says sincerely as she pulls my silk dupatta off and takes the clip out of my hair.

"No worries." I sigh. "It would just be nice to meet someone who didn't have a pre-existing notion about my motives for marrying that privileged, devilish man, Rafay."

"Prince Rafay," she scolds gently, but I see the corners of her lips lift up slightly. "And don't worry, my job isn't to judge people, it's to transform people." She holds out her hand. "Pari."

"Mahroosa," I say, shaking her hand. "Your parlor is better suited for aristocrats, rather than a mere commoner like me."

Pari gives a tinkling laugh. "I may or may not be employed by the Court of Mir as a royal beautician." I freeze, realizing how openly I just disrespected the Prince in the presence of one of his workers. As if I need to worsen my current predicament with more complications.

"Not to worry, my dear, your secrets are safe with me. Converse as freely as you please." She begins to section off my hair and curl it.

"I passed on the Prince's message to Afshaneh," Pari says, answering my unspoken question about how Afshi knew of my appointment.

I look from her to Afshi. "How do you two know each other?"

They share a glance. "Pari and I go way back," Afshi says, picking at her nails, as if she doesn't want to continue this conversation.

I decide not to comment on it, since I don't want to have a confrontation on, what might be, my last day seeing her.

Four grueling hours of hair pulling and face prodding later, I am finally at a caliber at which I can be called a bride. Pari whirls my chair around towards the mirror, as she had me facing away from it while working her magic.

The reflection staring back at me is unrecognizable. Her big doe-like eyes look alluring, a stark difference from their usual innocent, child-like demeanor. Eyes lined with kajal and eyelashes coated in a charcoal-black paint-like substance, she looks like an empress of seduction. Her luscious red lips, the color of laal mirch, look inviting and provocative, as if beckoning the entire world's attention.

I pray fervently that girl in the mirror isn't me.

"I feel as though I'm dressed for a performance at a brothel," I lament, a hint of hysteria creeping into my voice.

Afshi smacks my head. "I highly doubt a dancer would show up to a brothel in such an extravagant bridal gown," she says, gesturing to my spectacular crimson wedding dress.

"Yes, because they would probably show up naked," I mutter under my breath, turning and twisting in various positions to get a full view of myself in the mirror.

As much as I despise being dressed beyond recognition, I have to acknowledge Pari's amazing work. She's transformed me into a formidable, invulnerable bride, rather than a shy, timid one. Surely, this will give me the courage to face the hours to come.

My fingers glide over the handiwork on my shaadi outfit. The cascading, floor-length blouse is intricately adorned with delicate embroidery and glittering beads across the bodice, neckline, and sleeves. The pure gold kaam contrast beautifully against the rich crimson color of my dress. Underneath is a voluminous champagne-gold lehenga, its opulent layers cascading like liquid sunlight. Its luxurious fabric drapes around me like a regal train, enveloping me in an aura of elegance and grace. Despite its majestic appearance, it poses a challenge to navigate, its heavy magnificence a testament to the richness of the occasion. Afshi did an incredible job with the design, as did the person who tailored the dress.

As much as I'd love to deny it, I feel like a princess.

Afshi asserts my thoughts by saying, "All that's left is a crown."

I frown, not wanting to accept the reality of my situation. "There has to be some law that allows me to deny the crown, right? I shouldn't be obliged to adopt the title of a princess if I don't wish to."

"Actually, there is no ruling regarding denial of royal status, however, there are benefits that come with being married to the Crown Prince."

My ears ring as that deep, husky voice echoes through the room. The most unpleasant chill runs down my spine, leaving me extremely uneasy.

I've only ever heard that voice during national announcements concerning tariffs, traffic rules, and many more mundane things. It was the only indicator of the Prince's existence and well being.

I don't dare turn around or look in the mirror for fear of making eye contact with him. Pari and Afshi are silent, neither brave enough to speak in the presence of royalty.

"I'd jest about it being bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, but you're probably desensitized to misfortune, given the events in your life." I hear Afshi gasp behind me.

My eyes widen as the weight of my words sink in. What possessed me to say that? What possessed me to even engage in conversation with him?

Mortified, I open my mouth to apologize, but the prince beats me to it.

"I believe, in my case, that I would gain bad luck from looking at the bride in general, but you're probably desensitized to bestowing misfortune on people, given your father's situation, no?"

His unexpected retort leaves me stunned. "May I remind you—"

"Pari, did you get a chance to hem my kurta?" Rafay interrupts, not caring for my opinion.

"Yes, Your Majesty, it's behind the front counter. Try it on and let me know if it still needs fixing," Pari says.

I hear some rustling, the sound of something dropping, and a curse. "Did you have to keep it in such a cluttered area? It could have been ruined," Rafay says indignantly.

"If I kept it in the backroom, you would've never been able to find it and I wouldn't have been able to get it for you, since my hands are full with another client," she replies coolly.

I widen my eyes in astonishment. She has some nerve to talk to the Prince in that manner. However, I am more shocked at the apology Rafay mumbles.

Clearly, Pari is a significant figure in his life, otherwise, he would've never apologized.

Which brings me back to the enigma of how Afshi and Pari know each other. I don't recall Afshi ever mentioning her or even acknowledging this exorbitant parlor. Nevertheless, this isn't a conversation to have right now.

I keep my head down in fear of meeting gazes with the djinn behind me, as if doing so would turn me to stone. It's as though my body possesses an instinctive alarm system, for I can sense his menacing presence behind me. I keep my back turned to him, not wanting him to see me cringing in apprehension. My heart pounds like the cacophonous beat of a thousand drums, all banging with different rhythms. I had taunted him with such bravado earlier, so where did all that courage go?

His hand reaches out and places something on the crowded marble vanity in front of me. A metallic clink sound resonates as it makes contact with the surface.

"Something old," he says quietly in my ear. I can feel his warm breath against the side of my face, my nose picking up a slightly minty scent. My legs and knees feel unstable, as if they are about to collapse.

When he finally leaves, the dense atmosphere dissipates. I inhale deeply, not realizing I had held my breath for a prolonged period of time. My searching eyes fall upon what he left me. Among the scattered hairpins and cosmetics, lies a single gold chudi.

I pick it up and hold it up to the light to inspect it for some type of concealed poison or harmful weapon. 

I take a deep breath and slip the bangle on with trepidation, not moving a single hair on my body. Once I'm satisfied with the low probability of it causing me harm, I hold out my hand to scrutinize the design. The delicate filigree etched throughout adds a touch of traditional charm, making it a timeless piece of adornment.

Albeit it being pretty, I'm not impressed. If he thinks jewelry is going to alter my impression of him, he is sorely mistaken. 

Words to be Defined

Jalebi - a type of South Asian sweet that is orange/yellow in color and coated in syrup. It resembles a mini funnel cake. 

Kapray baichnay wala - clothes seller

Kajal - a type of black eyeliner commonly used in South Asia (a.k.a kohl)

Laal mirch - red pepper/spice

Shaadi - the main wedding event

Kaam - detailing/embroidery (also means work, but just not in this context)

Lehnga - a traditional South Asian skirt, often embellished with kaam

Kurta - men's shirt (South Asian attire)

Chudi - bangle