A day before my wedding day, questions I have spent pretty much all of life mulling over circle my mind. Questions about the many factors that shape who I am, the many factors that influence the roles I have adopted and the way that I perform them. It is unfortunate, I ponder, that I have rushed through life mostly putting on a performance in order to serve the people around me. Don’t get me wrong, I do believe my life should be a source of joy and comfort for whoever interacts with it but why has this belief exhausted all my energies far more than I perceived? Regardless, the night before possibly one of the biggest milestones of my life, seems like an appropriate time to rethink my life and maybe formulate a plan to rebuild it. Thinking of the new role in my life sends my heart beating a mile a minute and knots that will surely never cease their tightening. 

 

Yellow string lights encircle the imposing yet wondrous house that has always appeared to me as the protective solid curve of a womb around a baby fetus. Situated in one of the most posh neighborhoods of Lahore, this house has been the core of my existence no matter how far I have moved away. From the first steps of a stumbling baby to the first painful tumble of a hyper young adult on the cold marble deep green steps of the spiral staircase, I have bloomed into the epitome of a self assured woman. Or I hope at least. Snapping out of my introspection, I look down at my bright yellow dress stained with splats of orange Chicken Korma and pale green mint chutney, creating the peculiar shade of a culture dancing amidst its innocent celebration. Today marked the initiation of a full blown week of Pakistani wedding festivities. The juxtaposition of the echoes of religious hymns and sermons in my house today with the tip tap of multiple feet to the beat of rhythm tomorrow awakens slight astonishment in me. Nevertheless, the duo of spiritual salvation and musical celebration prove to be a comforting one when it comes to transitioning to the daunting phases of life. My thoughts compel me to smile down at my stained yellow dress once more and direct the wandering thoughts to my impending nuptials. In light of them, the atmosphere in this family home of mine has been full of love, quite similar to that of a mother’s I like to presume. My presumption stems from the rather complex relationship I have grown to share with my mother, one that reeks of selfish decisions and a guilt inducing game of blame that I am no longer interested in playing. 

Jolted from my contemplation once again, nestled under the many blankets strewn over my bed, the phone begins to call for my attention. Amna, please send me your passport details. Need them for the application x. My heart springs up to my throat and like the screeching of a hasty car at a red light, my breath suspends.