With just a week left for the engagement, preparations began in full swing. There was a blend of anxiety and excitement in the air. Though we were thrilled to be entering this new chapter, we were also silently praying that nothing should go wrong now—not after all the hurdles we had crossed. We both had endured emotional roller coasters, ego clashes between families, and societal pressures, and finally, the moment was arriving that would tie us together officially.
Despite the leftover tension between the families about whose "side" was more important, we focused on what mattered most—us. The engagement day finally came, and we exchanged rings in a small, beautiful ceremony at home with a gathering of just about 30 close people. That moment, when I looked into his eyes while placing the ring on his finger, felt like we had won a long, exhausting war. The world around us faded, and all that remained was the silent promise of being there for each other, no matter what.
We would laugh like kids at the smallest things—me teasing him about the ring size and him joking that he’d go speechless during the ceremony. Our eyes sparkled with dreams, our hearts held silent prayers, and every moment felt magical. For us, this engagement wasn’t just an event—it was the beginning of a shared destiny, hard-earned and deeply cherished.
However, post-engagement, a new wave of chatter began. Out of ego and jest, some of Raman’s friends and even family members started teasing him—saying that if Rabia becomes an IAS officer, he would end up being a joru ka ghulam. Questions about his career and identity started circling around him. Though Raman always appeared supportive and understanding, I sensed that these comments lingered somewhere in the corners of his mind. He never spoke to me about them directly, but I could feel a small, invisible crack beginning to form—the first subtle frictional part in our otherwise strong bond.
Still, we were engaged. We were officially each other's, and for that moment, nothing else mattered.
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