The heavy mahogany doors of the study felt like the entrance to a courtroom.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of expensive cigars and the suffocating weight of "duty."
Y/nâs father, politician Hashmi, sat behind his desk, his spine as straight as a bayonet.
Opposite him sat Major Iqbal, in charcoal suit he wore seemed to carry the same authority.
He sat with one leg crossed over the other, a glass of amber liquid untouched on the side table. He looked like a man who had already won a war he hadn't even started fighting yet.
âTumhe pata hai maine tumhe yahan kyun bulaya hai,â (You know why Iâve called you here,) her father began, his voice echoing in the silent room.
Y/n stood by the door, her fingers digging into the fabric of her lawn dupatta.
âAbba, meri parhayi ka kya? Mere exams aanay walay hain,â (Abba, what about my studies? My exams are coming up,) she argued, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and fury.
Her father didn't even look at her.
"Iqbal, mere dost, mere bhai... Hamare khandaan naslon se is mitti ke satoon rahe hain. Mein is rishte ko mazeed mazboot karna chahta hoon. Mein tumhein apni beti ka haath deta hoon, nikkah ke liye. Us ki hifazat aur meri viraasat ke liye tum se zyada qabil-e-bharosa koi doosra mard nahi hai."
(Iqbal, my friend, my brother-in-arms... our families have been pillars of this soil for generations. I want to solidify that. I am offering you my daughterâs hand. There is no man I trust more with her safety and my legacy.)
Y/nâs eyes snapped to Iqbal.
She expected him to look shocked, or at least uncomfortable.
Instead, he slowly turned his head to look at her. His gaze was slow, scanning her from her frantic eyes down to her clenched fists. He looked... bored.
âMajor sahab toh mujhse umer mai bahut bade hain!â (The Major is double my age!) y/n burst out, losing her filter.
âYeh nikkah nahi, saza hai. Yeh... yeh toh bilkul 'Uncle' lagte hain!â (This isn't a marriage, it's a punishment. He... he looks like a total 'Unc'!)
The room went deathly silent. Her fatherâs face turned a shade of purple y/n had never seen.
âY/N! Badtameezi ki hadh hoti hai!â (There is a limit to insolence!) her father roared, slamming his hand on the desk.
âInse maafi maango! Abhiiiiii!â (Apologize to him! Now!)
Iqbal raised a hand, silencing the politician.
He finally spoke, his voice a deep, smooth baritone that felt like velvet over gravel.
âRehne dein, Hashmi sahab,â (Leave it, Hashmi sahab,) Iqbal said, his eyes never leaving y/nâs face.
A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
âBachpana hai. Abhi duniya dekhi nahi hai innhone.â (Itâs childhood. She hasn't seen the world yet.)
He stood up, his towering height making the room feel suddenly very small.
He walked toward her, stopping just inches away.
Y/n refused to back down, tilting her chin up even as her heart thundered against her ribs.
âToh... main 'Uncle' lagta hoon?â
(So... I look like an 'Unc'?) he asked, his voice a low murmur meant only for her.
âbhudhe,â (oldie) she muttered under her breath thinking he wouldn't understand.
Iqbalâs smirk widened. He leaned in, his scentâa mix of tobacco and sandalwoodâinvading her senses.
âZuban bohot chalti hai aapki. Dekhte hain nikkah ke baad bhi yehi tevar rehte hain ya nahi.â
(You have a sharp tongue. Letâs see if these airs remain after the Nikah.)
He turned back to her father, his voice regaining its professional coolness.
âHashmi sahab, rishta manzoor hai. Agle mahine ki tareekh nikaal lijiye.â (Hashmi sir, the proposal is accepted. Pick a date for next month.)
âLekinââ (but) y/n tried to interject.
âKhuda hafiz, y/n,â( bye y/n) Iqbal interrupted, walking past her.
He didn't look back, but she could feel the weight of his decision settling over her like a shroud.
Her father sighed in relief, but y/n stood there, burning with a rage that felt suspiciously like a spark.
She hated his composure, his "Unc" energy, and the way he looked at her like she was a puzzle he had already solved.
The memory of that day burned in y/nâs mind as she sat on the floor of the haveli weeks later, the cold henna being applied to her skin.
The "Uncle" had finalized their fate with a single sentence, and now, as the dhol played, she was preparing to become the property of the man who had turned her "No" into a challenge.
The air was thick with the scent of crushed henna leaves and expensive oud, a heady mixture that signaled the beginning of a union y/n never asked for.
The courtyard of the ancestral haveli was a sea of marigolds and shimmering lehngas, but for y/n, it felt like a gilded cage.
She looked down at her palms, intricate patterns of Mehendi staining her skin a deep, promising crimson.
To her father, this was a strategic allianceâa way to bind two powerful military legacies.
To her, it was an interruption of her dreams and a forced tether to a man who lived in the shadows of war and silence.
"Dulhan ko toh dekho" (Look at her), one of the cousins whispered.
"haaye dulha sone ki kadhai min qasmat lakh ke aaya hai" (The Majorâs luck is written in that gold embroidery.)
Her heart was a drum of rebellion.
When the last stroke of the paste was applied, she didn't sit still like a docile bride.
Fuelled by a mix of spite and the rhythmic beat of the dhol, she rose.
She wanted to prove she wasn't just a trophy; she was alive.
She stepped onto the center of the floor.
Her movements were graceful but heavy with unspoken defianceâa shy, swaying dance that drew every eye.
The circle of women cheered, their bangles clinking in a frantic rhythm.
For a moment, she forgot the "Uncle" she was supposed to marry.
She forgot the "Major Sahab" with the cold eyes and the sharp uniform.
She didn't notice the shift in the room.
She didn't see her father nodding toward the entrance where a tall, imposing figure stood.
Major Iqbal didn't belong in this world of glitter and song.
He stood there in a charcoal-grey kurta, his presence cutting through the celebration like a blade.
His gaze was locked on her.
He watched the way her dupatta caught the light, the way her eyes were closed in a rare moment of peace.
He had expected a crying girl; he found a storm wrapped in silk.
As the music reached a crescendo, y/n spun one last time and opened her eyes. The breath left her lungs.
The "crusty" Major was looking at her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
Panic flared. She immediately stopped, the bells on her ankles let out a final, dying chime.
In a reflex of modesty and sudden shyness, she raised her hands, covering her face with her henna-stained palms.
He walked toward her, the crowd parting like the Red Sea.
His footsteps were deliberate. When he reached her, the height difference felt like a mountain standing before a flower.
"Itni jaldi ruk kyun gayi? Raqs toh abhi shuru hua tha," (Why did you stop so soon? The dance had only just begun,) he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a traitorous shiver down her spine.
Y/n didn't move her hands.
"Aap yahan kya kar rahe hain? Yeh auraton ki mehfil hai," (What are you doing here? This is a gathering for women,) she snapped from behind her palms, her voice muffled but sharp.
He chuckledâa rare, dark sound. He reached out, his large, calloused fingers gently wrapping around her wrists.
He didn't pull; he waited for her to yield.
Slowly, he lowered her hands from her face, forcing her to look at him.
Before she could protest, a loud, mischievous voice rang out from the crowd of aunties.
âMajor Sahab! Rukiye! rukiye! Yeh ek purani rasm hai,â (Wait! This is an old ritual,) the eldest aunt announced, stepping forward with a glint in her eye and giggling.
âAapko apni dulhan ki mehendi mein apna naam dhoondhna hoga. Aur agar aap nakaam rahe, toh dulhan jo maangegi, aapko woh karna padega.â
(You must find your name in her henna. And if you fail, you must do whatever the bride asks.)
Iqbalâs eyes flickered with amusement.
He looked down at y/nâs small hands held captive in his. Her skin was warm, the mehendi still slightly damp in the crevices of her design.
"Toh... kya shart hai aapki?" (So... what is your condition?) he asked, his gaze lifting to hers.
"Agar main haar gaya, toh kya maangengi?" (If I lose, what will you ask for?)
Y/n narrowed her eyes, her "Enraged Bbg" energy returning.
"Mera dakhila. Sheher ki sabse bari university mein. Aur meri azadi," (My admission. In the cityâs biggest university. And my freedom,) she whispered defiantly.
Iqbal tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "Manzoor hai." (Accepted.)
He turned her palms upward.
The light of a hundred candles danced on the intricate swirls and floral motifs.
The crowd went silent, leaning in.
Iqbalâs thumb traced the line of her life, his touch lingering longer than necessary.
He was methodical, his soldierâs eyes scanning the "I-Q-B-A-L" hidden expertly by the artist in the garden of vines on her skin.
Minutes passed. Y/n held her breath, praying heâd be as blind as he was old.
Suddenly, his grip tightened ever so slightly.
He traced a tiny leaf near the base of her thumb, then a curve near her lifeline.
"Mil gaya," (Found it,) he whispered.
He didn't just point to it.
He leaned down, his breath ghosting over her palm, and pressed a lingering, soft kiss right over the spot where his name was etched.
The room erupted in cheers and "Masha'Allahs," but y/n felt like the world had tilted.
Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Main jeet gaya, y/n," (I won, y/n,) he said, looking up, his dark eyes now burning with something softer but also there was a glint of teasing, something more dangerous than his usual coldness.
"Lekin aapka dakhila phir bhi hoga. Humari biwi parh likh kar humein 'Uncle' bulaye, yeh zyada behtar lagta hai."
(But your admission will still happen. I prefer it if my wife is educated when she calls me 'Unc'.)
He let go of her hands, but the warmth remained, branded into her skin deeper than the henna itself.
He turned to leave, pausing only to look back over his shoulder.
"Mehendi ka rang gehra charha hai. Lagta hai mohabbat dono taraf barabar ki hogi."
(The color of the henna is deep. It seems the love will be equal on both sides.)
As he walked away, y/n stood frozen, staring at her hands.
She definitely hated him.
But as she looked at the spot he had kissed, she realized that "Uncle" was going to be much harder to fight than she thought.
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Disclaimer- All characters, names, and settings belong to their original creators, including Aditya Dhar and the rights holders of Dhurandhar. I claim no ownership over them.
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