SHOCKS AND WEDDING'S

                                    

                                          
ABIDAT 
Three months. Just three months had passed since July, and life had gone from mildly chaotic to completely unrecognizable.
August had been surprisingly uneventful—or at least, uneventful compared to what came later. I spent most of it juggling school and brainstorming what I proudly dubbed Abidat’s Bold Culinary Revolution™. Starting a home bakery business wasn’t just a passing whim; it was my master plan. Though, to be fair, it wasn’t entirely my idea.
I’d brought it up to Armaan one evening, casually mentioning it during one of our “not-dates.” I’d expected a polite nod or maybe some mild encouragement. Instead, he’d shocked me by offering to invest. Not just offering—insisting.
“I believe in you,” he’d said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Naturally, I’d accepted, my excitement bubbling over in a very undignified squeal. Since then, our relationship had shifted into something even I couldn’t define. It consisted of late-night phone calls that blurred into early mornings, more not-dates, and an ease I hadn’t anticipated.
Meanwhile, Baba had been conveniently absent on one of his business trips, which saved me from his usual interrogation about everything and anything, especially Armaan. Though his silence on the promise Mama had mentioned still gnawed at me.
I’d confronted Mama about it once, unable to resist. Her response? She’d waved me off, muttering in Arabic, "La atakallam ‘an haadhihi al-ashyaa’. Eidhi’jii al-shourba wa laa tas’ali marra okhra!” ( “I’m not talking about these things. Stir the stew and don’t ask me again!”)
So much for clarity.
Then September arrived—and with it, the day that would flip my world upside down.
I say that with as much joy as a child with constipation.
It started like any other lazy weekend. I was in bed, indulging in my three favorite things: custard, My Story Animated binge-watching, and a party-sized bag of cheeseballs. My outfit? Comfy joggers and an old sweatshirt that had seen better days.
The peace shattered when my door flew open.
Instinctively, I screamed, half-choked on a mouthful of cheeseballs, and hurled a pillow at the intruder.
“Nice to see you too, Abee,” Khalifa said dryly, catching the pillow mid-air.
Standing in my room were three people I hadn’t expected to see anytime soon: my cousins Khalifa, Aliya, and Salim.
As if that wasn’t enough chaos, Aunty Siddiqa’s high-pitched Arabic exclamations could be heard echoing through the house.
Aliya tackled me in a hug, her enthusiasm uncontainable. I awkwardly patted her back, my mind racing. You see, cousins are a peculiar phenomenon. They’re either your best friend or your worst snitch. Considering my reaction I would say she's the latter.
Khalifa, with his towering frame and perfectly tailored jallabiya, sat at the edge of my bed like he owned the place. Salim, ever the mature one, settled into the armchair across the room, his expression mildly amused.
“So, what’s the occasion? Aunty Siddiqa didn’t suddenly decide I’m the favorite niece, did she?”
“Not quite,” Khalifa said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I’m getting married.”
I blinked, certain I’d misheard. “You’re…what?”
“You heard him,” Aliya chimed in. “Say mabrook!”