They reached Ayodhya, and as they crossed the bridge, Halima's eyes drifted to the Sarayu River below, the mesmerizing beauty of the landscape capturing her gaze. As Raza rolled down the car window, the fresh air mixed with the distant sound of temple bells, drawing her into the aura of this ancient city. He pointed out the Babri Masjid in the distance, partially visible from the bridge, standing as a quiet witness to the past and present.
Raza took in the scene around them. In a country where people seemed to be at odds over temples and mosques, he and his grandfather had always dreamed of a different Hindustan-one focused on education and development. It was 1988, and he was filled with hope for a future of progress and unity, unaware of the looming changes that would one day sweep across Faizabad and Ayodhya.
Their family shared a deep bond with the Thakurs, who had long been dear friends, and they were here once again to attend a wedding in Ayodhya. With a faint smile, Raza turned to Halima and asked, "Halima, kya tumhe pata hai humare Ayodhya ki history ya phir iska doosra koi naam?"
(Halima, do you know the history of our Ayodhya or any of its other names?)
She glanced at him, then turned to the bustling marketplace outside the window. "Mujhe Laaj ne bataya hai, uski amma bhi yahin ki hain... Ayodhya ke doosre bohot se naam hain," she said, her voice soft but confident. "Jaise ki Mithila, Awadh, Saryu Puri aur Kosala."
(Laaj told me about it. Her mother is also from here... Ayodhya has many other names. Like Mithila, Awadh, Saryu Puri, and Kosala.)
Raza's eyebrows raised, amused and intrigued. "Accha, toh ye batao ki Kosala naam kaise pada?"
(Oh? Then tell me, how did it get the name Kosala?)
Halima pondered, looking thoughtful as she tried to recall. "Umm... mujhe yaad aa raha hai, rukiye," she murmured, and he chuckled at her expression.
(Umm... I remember, wait.)
"Yaad aa gaya! ," she declared with a spark of excitement, and he gestured for her to continue. "Kosala ek kingdom tha Ayodhya se pehle. Ye Raja Dashrath jo Ram ji ke abba the," she explained.
(Kosala was a kingdom before Ayodhya. It was ruled by King Dashrath, who was Lord Ram's father.)
Raza tried to stifle a laugh at her choice of words, and even the driver glanced back, eyebrows raised, at her use of "abba."
"Abba?" the driver repeated with a grin.
She noticed Rahim's laughter and turned to him, asking with a playful frown, "Toh kya kahun?"
(So, what should I call him?)
Rahim chuckled and replied, "Bhabhijaan, 'father' keh sakti hain aap ya phir 'Pitaji,' izzat se."
(Sister-in-law, you can say 'father' or perhaps 'Pitaji'-with respect.)
They all shared a laugh, but Raza couldn't shake a pang of uneasiness and Jealousy as he observed the hint of friendship between Halima and Rahim, a bond that made him realize how unfamiliar yet endearing this side of her was.
"Gaadi chalane par zyada dhyaan do, Rahim," Raza commanded firmly, his gaze sharp. Rahim's face paled as he realized his mistake, quickly apologizing and grasping the seriousness of interrupting a conversation between husband and wife.
(Do concentrate on Driving,Rahim.)
Halima, feeling the sting of Rahim's words, turned to Raza. "Inhi jaise log hote hain jo humare desh ko bhasha aur jaati se baant dete hain. 'Pita' kaho ya 'abba,' dono hi izzat se kahe jaane wale lafz hain."
(It's people like him who divide our country over language and caste. Whether you say 'pita' or 'abba,' both are words spoken with respect.)
Raza simply smiled at her spirited defense, admiring the quiet strength in her voice.
"Accha ye batao, Sarayu nadi kaha jaa kar Ganga se milti hai?" he asked again testing her knowledge, raising his eyebrows with a playful smile.
(Alright, tell me, where does the Sarayu river meet the Ganga?)
"Sarayu shuru hoti hai Himalaya ke Mansarovar se," she replied confidently, a small smile of pride on her lips."Yeh mai aapko bata rahi hun, shayad aapko pata ho ya nahi. Aur aapke sawaal ka jawaab hai-Bihar." She ended with a hint of pride, showing him a playful, cute attitude that made him chuckle at her innocent charm.
(The Sarayu begins from Mansarovar in the Himalayas.-I'm telling you this, though you may or may not know it. And the answer to your question is-Bihar.)
"Maana padega, tum hoshiyar toh ho," he said, gently patting her head with affection and she smiled looking at him.
(I have to admit, you're quite clever.)
"Toh tumhe itihaas pasand hai?" he asked, curious to know her interests.
(So, you like history?)
She nodded, a spark of excitement in her eyes. "Ek itihaas aur dusra ganit, mujhe bohot pasand hai," she admitted, her innocent enthusiasm shining through as she looked at him.
(History and mathematics, I really like them.)
"Yakeen hai paas ho jaogi?" he asked, amused by her confidence.
(Are you sure you'll pass?)
She nodded with conviction.
"Phir meri ek khwahish poori karogi?" he continued, a hint of mystery in his tone. Halima's face showed surprise, unsure if she should agree.
(Then, will you fulfill one of my wishes?)
"Ji, bilkul," she replied eagerly, hoping to please him. Like many women, she believed that saying yes to her husband's every wish would make him love her deeply, and she wanted nothing more.
He smiled, the warmth in his eyes growing more as he spoke. "College ka imtehaan dena, History Ya Mathematics ki Lacturer bano, main tumhe support karunga."
(Give the college exams, become a lecturer in History or Mathematics, I'll support you.)
"Ya Allah, mujhe toh padhna hi nahi hai ab!" she exclaimed, a touch of sadness crossing her face at the thought of more studies.
(Oh God, I don't even want to study anymore!)
He chuckled and gently patted her head. "Abhi result aana baaki hai. Achhe se soch lo."
(The results haven't come yet. Think carefully before the results come.)
As they reached the Haveli, Halima stepped out and stared up, awestruck by the grand structure before her. Raza, however, simply watched her, a mix of amusement and tenderness in his gaze.
The Thakurs welcomed them warmly, and as special guests, Raza and Halima were given a room of their own. Members of the Thakur family had decided to separate the men and women into different rooms for the three days of celebration, preserving the customs for these grand gatherings.
Some members, however, chose to stay in separate rooms for personal reasons, and the family respected their choices without objection.
Now, Raza and Halima found themselves alone in their room. She felt a bit uneasy; it was her first time attending a wedding outside her village. Back home, her parents never allowed the girls to attend weddings held far from the village. This new experience left her feeling slightly awkward, unsure of what to expect.
"Dopeher ke khaane ka waqt ho gaya hai. Tum fresh ho jao," Raza said, settling himself on the sofa in the corner of the room.
(It's lunchtime. You Freshen up first.)
Halima freshened up and returned to the room. She opened their suitcase, took out her makeup box, and carefully got ready. A few minutes later, she stood before the mirror, adjusting her appearance.
Raza stood up and walked over, watching her through the mirror. "Ho gai tayyar?" he asked softly.
(All set?)
She looked at him through the mirror and replied, "Haan, chalein?"
(Yes, shall we go?)
They left the room together, stepping into the lively air of the house. Shivam Thakur, the youngest son of the Thakur family, approached and took Raza with him, guiding Halima to the room where the women of the family were gathered for lunch.
Tonight was the Haldi function, and only a few guests had arrived so far. The air was filled with excitement, and the colors of celebration danced in the atmosphere.
Before Halima left his side, she stole a glance at Raza, who was looking at her with a quiet, protective concern. She noticed the softness in his gaze and felt a wave of uncertainty settle in her heart.
"Humare bhauji log bohot acchi hain. Bhauji ko keh do tension na lein aur andar jaayein," Shivam reassured her with a warm smile, as Raza nodded in agreement, a hint of a smile on his face as he moved toward her.
(Our sisters-in-law are really nice. Tell her not to worry and go inside.)
"Jaao andar, bohot si auratein hain, sab bohot acchi hain. Jaldi hi seheliyaan ban jaayengi. Radha bhabhi bhi ander hongi, Shivam ki bhabhi. Hum sab saath mein padhe hain. Kisi se pucho ki Radha bhabhi kaun hain, aur bata dena ki Raza ki biwi ho, thik?" Raza said, his voice both reassuring and firm.
(Go inside, there are many women there-all very nice. You'll soon make friends. Radha bhabhi, Shivam's sister-in-law, will be there too. We all studied together. Just ask someone who Radha bhabhi is and tell her you're Raza's wife, alright?)
Halima, her heart fluttering with nerves, nodded as she listened to his words, but her eyes betrayed her unease. She murmured, almost to herself, "Mujhe pata hota ki yahan aisa hoga toh main na aati. Main kisi ko nahi pehchanti." Her voice was tinged with sadness and a touch of pout.
(If I'd known it would be like this, I wouldn't have come. I don't know anyone here.)
Raza's gaze softened, sensing her discomfort. He couldn't help but smile at her vulnerability, his eyes warming with affection. He noticed the dupatta slipping ever so slightly from her head, and, without a word, he reached up and adjusted it with gentle care. His fingers brushed against her hair with tenderness, as if to shield her from the unfamiliarity around them.
He had been the one who'd told her not to put the shawl on, knowing it would feel too formal in the festive, daytime atmosphere of the wedding. Though he understood her unease, he knew that they'd have separate spaces-men in one area, women in another-and that this small moment of discomfort would soon pass. It reminded him that he couldn't protect her from everything, but he would always find a way to ease her burden, even if it was as simple as adjusting a falling dupatta.
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