When the Universe Speaks
The winter air in November had a kind of stillness to it — as if waiting for a decision to be made.
In our family, the living room was full of soft murmurs, trays of sweets, and a tension that often came with marriage proposals. My cousin Aleena, the eldest of four sisters, sat quietly in her peach salwar kameez, eyes lowered, fingers playing with the corner of her dupatta.
“He’s a good boy,” said Uncle Rahim, her father, for what must have been the tenth time that week. “I’ve seen him grow up right in front of me. Same gali, same mohalla. Feels like one of our own.”
His voice held that tone — that sense of pride laced with urgency, the way fathers speak when they think they’ve finally found the 'perfect' match for their daughters.
The boy — Arsalan — ran a mobile repair shop just a few shops down from Uncle’s general store. He was soft-spoken, polite, and his family lived decently. But something about him never sat right with me.
Every time I saw his Instagram DP, I’d get this strange feeling in my gut. His photos were filtered, overly edited, and still somehow tired — like someone trying too hard to hide something.
“Marzi toh ladki ki hoti hai, but the boy’s family seems good,” whispered my aunt, Khalajaan, as she quietly handed me the tray of chai to pass around.
That evening, the boy’s family came over. His mother, two sisters, his bhabhi, and two little nieces filled up the sitting room with their loud laughter and flaring perfumes. His father had passed away a few years back, but his mother, Nusrat Begum, was clearly the decision-maker.
As we served dinner, everything felt fine on the surface — polite smiles, a few compliments, some awkward laughter. Until we offered the last few rotis.
“Oh, don’t bother,” Nusrat Begum said to her daughter with a tight smile, brushing her hand away. “I’ve already eaten enough.”
Her tone wasn’t thankful — it was taunting.
Then, with her dupatta carefully pinned and her eyes scanning the room like a hawk, she added,
“Humare ghar mein toh sab kuch itna banta hai na, poora katora bhar jaata hai. Khaane ki kami kabhi nahi hoti.”
There it was. The first crack in the mask.
She went on — proudly — telling us how she sends entire autos full of gifts to her daughter's in-laws during Eid, how her elder daughter-in-law brought a nine-lakh car in dowry, how she keeps her kitchen stocked like a wedding hall buffet.
All the while, Aleena sat silently, watching her would-be mother-in-law with unreadable eyes.
When it was time for them to leave, something strange happened — or rather, didn’t happen.
No gift for Aleena. No flowers. Not even the traditional token cash elders often give during such meetings. Nothing.
“She didn’t even bother with a small bouquet,” I whispered to my mother, who gave a tight-lipped nod.
That night, after they left, the real discussion began.
“She’s not marrying him,” Khalajaan said firmly, placing the empty tea cups back on the tray. “I won’t send my daughter to a house like that.”
“But he’s a good boy,” Uncle Rahim tried again, half-heartedly this time.
“His mother doesn’t want a daughter-in-law,” she snapped. “She wants a chef. A servant. Someone to feed her pride while she boasts about what her other bahu brought in dowry.”
We all sat there, stunned for a second. But no one argued with her. Because deep down, we all knew she was right.
“I knew it,” I finally said, breaking the silence. “There was something off. I kept praying she wouldn’t end up with him. I just… felt it.”
Khalajaan turned to me, eyes tired but warm. “Maybe the universe listens to the right prayers.”
And that was it. The rishta was called off — quietly, with dignity, without bitterness.
Aleena never cried. She didn’t sulk. In fact, the next morning she smiled a little more freely.
Because sometimes, when your soul says no and you’re brave enough to listen, the universe answers with a better yes.
#story
