You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.

— Oscar Wilde

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"I'm going to be one of those women cursed by the angels and sent to hell."

The smell of henna isn't something she has ever liked, nor the sight of it on her skin she has ever admired. The last time she ever colored her palms with it was now so lost in time that it is impossible to recall. Back in those days she was naive and dumb to reason, following whatever everyone else followed.

But things are different now, so is she, with her own free will to like or dislike without considering the popular or the folly of in-fashion. Traditions have always been her enemies, even now-- people worship them like God is supposed to be worshipped.

The delicate design in deep orange-brown shades crawl up her fair hands to a little above her wrists before disappearing under the sleeves of her red bridal dress. She hasn't ever fancied red bridal dresses either, nor the gold jewelery meant to laden the woman like a prize on display. Her choker actually feels like choking her and her head jewelery might just rip off her hair and leave bald patches in their places, she fears.

Life has gone full bull-mad mode on her only within a span of last few days. How unfair. There must be people somewhere happy and laughing-- she wants to be those people. Her free will of liking and disliking has failed to save her from the inevitable this time.

"Why do you say so?" Firozeh asks her.

The rumbling of the clouds in the distance is dull and frustrated, as if the sky relates to her and is complaining too. She tugs at her choker to loosen it a bit and fans her face with her hand, dragging her dress after her all around her bedroom before pulling apart the curtains and opening the long wall windows to let the air in. The rain that is falling is rabid as if in anguish, like the hot sandstorm of emotions within her body-- her heart feels seared. Her sanity is a mush and the last threads holding her resolve are close to breaking. Where is escape?

She looks out to the horizon bathed in all melancholic shades of gray, appearing like some stubborn, petulant child. How the nature mirrors her mood, she wonders. The world seems the same to her as in one's nightmares or graveyards, but where you're stuck and cannot wake up, and that drains your tranquility to fill the cup of devil. She must be on the receiving end of fate's wrath, but for what sin?

"Because I'm not going to be a good wife to my husband." She turns around to face her best friend and smiles ironically. "Mother says when you break your husband's heart, the angels curse you. The cursed ones go to hell, don't they?"

Firozeh only stares at her with a sad hue in her dark orbs.

"Why don't they mention punishments for husbands who break their wives' hearts?" she complains. "Why is that less talked about?"

"How has he broken your heart?" her friend argues.

"By marrying me."

"You agreed to this."

"I was made to."

"You didn't care back then."

"Because back then, I didn't know the truth about him."

Firozeh sighs and shakes her head at her in dismay, as if disappointed in her. The embroidery on her pine-green dress glitter as she walks towards her, twinkling like stars. She doesn't know how she's carrying this heavy dress with ease. She has difficulty lifting even her finger.

"He's a good man, jaan. Give him a chance at least."

She scoffs and starts taking off her bangles, trying to get rid of any excessive jewelery she can. "Every man is a good man when you don't know him enough. Would you have married him were you in my shoes?"

"I'm already married."

"But if you weren't?" She fixes her eyes. "Or would you have married my brother were he an empty pocketed, no-good-to-earn man with an ex and a child?" she dares.

Ferozeh pinches the skin between her eyebrows in exasperation before she parallels her stare. "Yes, I would have. Because I didn't marry your brother for his looks and riches and you know it. Mughis is a man with a good heart and I love him for that."

She goes back to taking off her bangles with disinterest. "Even if I believe somehow you miraculously fell in love with my oh-so-serious and uptight brother, love isn't something to pay your bills and make life easier." She tosses the bangles to the bed and meets her gaze again. "And even if it did, I, for one, do not love the man I'm forced into marrying. The rational and logical part of me can never accept this concept. I've to be insane to take such risks, especially with a secondhand man who comes with a luggage. Not to mention whose father has disowned him."

Ferozeh gives her a sympathetic look, this time faraway and disheartened, as if she doesn't recognize her. "This is the most disrespectful thing you can say about him. What has become of you? Look at you," she gestures with her hand towards her, "you were never like this."

She refrains from scowling and breathes deeply through her nose. All the years of running through the hospital wards with tight patience and plastered smiles have taught her enough about how to stay in balance even when on your toes. She has saved many lives; she can save her own too.

The first thing upon arriving at Dublin airport will be to get rid of her aesthetically unpleasant wedding ring. It definitely isn't up to her standards-- too cheap for her. Her man has zero taste in fashion, she gathers, and cringes mentally. But then, that man might just afford so much. Why didn't her father pay him to at least get a good ring and save their shame?

"You don't understand me, Ferozeh," she dismisses the conversation with her sister-in-law, her so called best friend, who has always been closer to her than her own sister, but not this time. "You've sided with my family on this and not me. But I don't blame you." She gives her another smile, sardonic now. "My family is your family too. I should've known you'd stand with your husband than me when time comes."

"No, jaan—"

She shakes her head and cuts her off. "I can't be upset with you for choosing lala (brother) over me; he's your husband. I only want someone to understand me too. I did agree to marrying Aurang because mama and baba wanted me to-- because if my marriage made everyone happy then why not? But no one told me all these things about him I'm only learning now: his father disowning him, poor economic status, ex wife, a child, and what more. I didn't expect you people to do this to me. I don't deserve this." She starts undoing the veil from her hair. "Did the world run out of men? Could baba and Mughis lala find no other guy for me?" Her hands fall back to her sides limply. "Only if God could even pity me over my condition..."

"Afsha," another voice speaks and she looks towards the door to find her older sister standing at the threshold with a tender expression. "What about your marriage upsets you so much?"

"Everything," she spits, her expressions instantly colored by newfound rage. "You, most of all, Parisha."

"No, zaar." Parisha steps into her room, elegantly carrying her dress, like Ferozeh, and unlike her. "What upsets you are all the materialistic things that you cannot find in Aurang. But I too approved of him for you only out of his goodness."

"You are not my mother."

"But I'm your sister. Isn't that something?"

"I was the one getting married, not you. I should've chosen a husband for me myself, not everyone else."

"We did ask you, do you deny now?" Parisha dares her with her eyes, those brown orbs marbling under her own emotions, mirroring hers. "You weren't interested whoever he is as long as mama and baba permitted you to follow your dreams. But now when you finally bother knowing who he is, you're blaming all of us."

She rips away the veil from her hair and throws it to the floor before striding towards her sister, fisting her hands. Every drop of her blood in her veins bubbles with frustration.

"Because by God, I didn't expect everyone in the house to be so dumb to marry me to a beggar."

"A beggar with piety is better than a king astray."

She arches one eyebrow and chuckles humorlessly. "Is he really?" Her voice hardens as she gets into Parisha's face. "Why didn't you marry one such beggar then, huh? Why did you choose a pompous husband for yourself who dresses you in money and gold? So you can feel better than me?"

"Behave yourself, Afsha," Parisha grits. "Don't forget your manners in your grieving. I understand you're angry and upset, but that doesn't give you the right to insult others. You agreed to marrying Aurang--"

"I didn't know he's used material!" she snaps.

"Banafsha!"

Parisha raises her hand. For only a fraction of a second worry grazes her before she defiantly raises her chin, challenging her. But Parisha stops herself the last moment, curling in her fingers and lowering her hand back down, staring daggers at her.

"Pari." Ferozeh steps forward and touches her elbow. "What are you doing?"

"You're asking me?" Parisha barely manages to hush her voice; it's strained like a taut guitar string. "This girl has no shame. She's so blinded by the worldly glitters that all she needs in a man is his credits!"

She keeps her face passive and her jaw clenched in front of her sister's outburst.

"Tell me, Afsha," Parisha holds her gaze again, "would you choose someone who's rich over someone who respects you and can love you?"

She crosses her arms as her eyes flick between Parisha and Ferozeh critically.

"Why, sister? Nufail is rich, does he not respect you and love you?" she taunts before referring to Ferozeh, "Our family is rich. Does lala not love you and respect you, Roz?"

"Every case is not the same," Parisha argues.

"Yes, certainly. Like you both had to get lucky in this regard but not me. You both get rich and good-to-the-heart men but I cannot. Mind telling me why?"

Parisha covers her face with both hands and turn her back to her. "I need patience, my Lord."

She rolls her eyes and undoes her choker, taking it off too. "You know why mama and baba put up this condition of getting me married before allowing me to go to Dublin?"

Ferozeh looks at her helplessly, silently pleading with her for something she cannot give up or let go. Parisha doesn't bother facing her again and begins to walk out of the room.

"For baba's political reasons, and mama because of her older children getting so out of her hands that they chose their life partners themselves without even consulting their parents," she hisses and Parisha halts midway. "Because they were afraid I might do the same, so they decided to slaughter my free-will."

Her sister clicks her tongue and threw her a mocking look over her shoulder. "No, zaar, you're mistaken here. It was the fear of your blind free-will that could've slaughter the shame of our family which compelled them to take this decision. So you better own your faults instead of finding flaws in others. Because this fire within you might burn us all, Banafsha."

She feels a volcano explode inside her skull. She's perfect, always had been. What does she even lack? Beauty, money, status, lineage, career-- she tops all. She has gotten everything in life. She's every man's dream. How can her sister pinpoint faults in her? It must be only her jealousy. Does her own parents not trust her enough?

Parisha exits her room without waiting another second. Ferozeh follows after her, stopping only a moment to cast her a fleeting glance before leaving her alone.

She's left heaving in rage, vision getting blurred once more from her tears, but she furiously wipes at them and slams her bedroom door shut. She picks up her dress and walks towards the window again, staring out at the sky-- it's darker than before.

The faded outlines of deep gray clouds merge to form one body, seemingly forming a large blanket enveloping everything. It looks powerful, dangerous, and destructive. As if to prove its strength, lightning clashes the air strikingly before a maddening roar of thunder splits her eardrums. Such fury, she thinks. Anger indeed is a demonic emotion.

"Aurang Idris," she tastes his name on her tongue, then frowns as if it tastes bitter. "I, Banafsha Humayun, will destroy you." She sends him a silent promise.

Are the angels cursing her to the hell right now?

She chuckles at the thought and closes the window.

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