I fumble with my bracelet and take in the living room around me. A metal Ayatul Kursi hangs above the fireplace. The walls are a soothing cream colour and the floors are covered with an intricately patterned rug. I squint at the chandelier dangling precariously from the ceiling beans and begin to count the precious stones on it.

I sense Safiya's gaze spearing into my soul as she debuts into the living room with a tray bearing steaming hot cups of chai.

Oh yes, I am in the middle of an interrogation.

"You suddenly showed up at our doorstep last night. What do you expect us to think?"Safiya whisper-yells.

"That I had a long twelve hour flight?" I offer, hoping to get some semblance of pity.

Her husband Hasan, who happens to be my brother-in-law is changing into his work clothes upstairs. I did not want him to be a part of this conversation.

"Did you have a fight with khalah jaan?"

Zaroon and Sara-our spectators remain politely passive, sipping tea from porcelain cups.

"No, I told you! I wanted a break."

"Don't make me call up naani and get my answers from her." She threateningly picks up her iPhone and punches a few buttons for effect.

Sara sighs when I remain quiet, "It's Salim, isn't it?"  She guesses and I discreetly give her a secret look that sisters-in-law must decode.

Safiya catches on, "The one whose family is into export business? He's filthy rich, what about him?"

"I feel like I'm being pressured to get married by everyone at home. I just wanted to get away for the time being." I state calmly.

"You're talking about Salim?"

" I guess he's the current prospect—Can I excuse myself to take a shower now?"

Safiya remains quiet as I take another sip of tea and put my cup away.

"Do you have an ongoing relationship that you haven't told us about?"

I stare at her in disbelief but she waits for me to respond, "You would be the first to know if that's the case, trust me."

"Then what's the issue with Salim,did you give him a chance and speak to him?"

"No."

"You are being unreasonable then," She shoots back. Zaroon gestures for her to calm down.

The conversation, comes to an abrupt halt when we hear the pitter-patter of Hasan Jija's footsteps.

He is sporting a well tailored suit and crisp white shirt, adjusting his olive green tie around his neck. He notices the hush and glances at our group dubiously.

I nibble on a biscuit while Safiya goes over to hand the insulated tiffin carrier to him.

"I'll be back late today, Khuda hafiz."

"Khuda hafiz," we call out after him and we hear the door shut.

My cousins are still looking at me and Safiya is prepared to resume where we left off.

"I think I am still having a jet lag," I say, surreptitiously sliding out of my seat.

Safiya scoffs and mutters something under her breath. I hear the speculations continuing as I hurry upstairs, skipping two steps at a time.

Hasan is a the director of a trading company, serious with cause and stays late at work almost everyday. He seems to be minting money at this point, after his purchase of this beautiful manor in London consisting of three master bedrooms and three independent guest suites.

I stubbornly chose the makeshift-attic room on the roof of the house. It wasn't the most luxurious but it was a cozy, intimate space that seemed to exist in its own world. The sloping ceiling, lined with wooden beams and soft, golden lighting, gave the space a snug and welcoming feel.

The walls were adorned with old family photographs from back in time, a B & W picture of Hasan's parents from Hyderabad and a faded photograph of our family in Lahore. I stood by the picture and breathed in the scent of nostalgia and dusty memories.

The image depicts a stately family, resplendent in their finest attire, posing in the grand courtyard of their Gulberg manor.

The patriarch of the family-my late grandfather, sat regally in a plush, velvet armchair. He wore a crisp, white sherwani, adorned with delicate, gold embroidery, and a matching turban wrapped elegantly around his head. A gold watch chain dangled from his waistcoat pocket.

To his right is my naani, a statuesque woman with a kindly face and a gentle smile. She wore a stunning, maroon saree, intricately patterned with silver thread and precious gems. A delicate, pearl necklace adorned her neck, and a sprinkling of diamonds on her ears and wrists added to her radiance.

My aunt aka Khalah jaan and her husband Musa chacha-stand stiffly behind the couple, him in a pale green Pathani Sherrwani and Khalah jaan, carrying her her favourite delicate chiffon saree with matching jewellery. She has sunglasses perched in her hair and she is squinting from the sun. My aunt is a stylish woman since the nineties and its is obvious that I inherited her fashion sense if not her pale complexion.

Their children, Zaroon and Safiya sit on the pyol, with me in the between of course. We are surely dressed in our finest clothes purchased for Eid. Zaroon,wearing a miniature versions of his father's sherwani, while Safiya is politely smiling in an emborided kurti set.

I am for some reason-in a gaudy pink frock with roses on the hem. I plop down on the bed and continue to scrutinize my picture. 

The youngest and most pampered child in the family is now warring with her loved ones over marital proposals.

My six year old self gazed back at me with a mischievous smile.

"Why did you grow up?" I sigh and fall back on the bed.

The door creaks open and I shut my eyes.

The bed dips next to me and I recognise that it is Safiya who is patting my hair, "Are you pretending to be asleep?"

I open one eye, "I was pretending to be unconscious, actually. Fainted out of undue trauma from marriage discussions."

She smiles and takes my hand, "I will never force you to do anything you don't like. You know that right?"

I sit up and fold my legs under me, "Now, these are words I like to hear. Can I please take a few months time before you all continue with this search? Please, please?"

"What difference will it make,Nazu? Naani called today morning. She wants me to put some sense into you. They think we are the bad influence over you."

"You're not, I'll speak to her!"

"I don't need you to take my side. I want you to think about your life. I got married at twenty-one. You kept putting rishtas off because you wanted to study and work. And I supported and vouched for you. Now I'm asking you to give a chance to a proposal, won't you do it for me?"

"I will—but can I get a few months? I'll spend time with you guys and enjoy this time as a spinster. That's all I'm asking for. I'll look around this city and have some fun. Then I'm all yours."

She is searching my eyes for deceit and I give her a firm smile and take her hand for a professional handshake.

"Something about you is different," She mutters and I shake my head vehemently.

"It's probably my layered haircut. I'm just the same."

She finally lets out a smile and grips my hand, "These few months while you're here-I'll protect you from naani and this proposal."

"This is core sisterhood." I decide to appreciate this leap of faith.

"But—-" she squeezes my hand, " Don't play smart with me. You can fool Zaroon, not me."

"Ow." I say, retracting my fingers and examine the pastel teal manicure on my fingers, "I thought you ruined the polish but it's alright."