LIFE
my not-so- feudal lord BY ZEINAB MASUD
I sat up there in ivory bridal regalia and the Beach Luxury Hotel buzzed with excitement. I was getting married. People were gliding in and out of a huge banquet hall. Some stared at me in amazement, some
Henry the VIII’s in-laws and less than at the average glitterati Ka-
to be up there on the stage with me but irritated at the four hun-
he didn’t like them but because the head count was so astro-
with relief (finally it was happening). My husband looked happy dred people who also happened to be there. We had had many an
impassioned debate about this. And I had had glimpses into the mind of the man I was about to marry.
“I don’t like big weddings,” he had said. I thought this meant
a mere three hundred instead of a thousand but no, he meant
twenty people and something fun to drink. I shed tears and plaintively wailed, a feminine heap of helplessness. “My nearest
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and dearest have to be there, they have been waiting for so (em-
barrassingly) long.” And so the head count went up, more than JULY 4-10 2010
rachi wedding.
I was pleased to see our guests drifting in and out of the huge
room where Sohail and I greeted the world as man and wife. I
suspect Sohail wanted to kill some of them not so much because nomically high for him. But he did smile with gritted teeth and a steely glint in his eyes (translation:if I see you in a dark alley
one day I may wring your neck). Luckily our guests did not no-
tice; they gushed over my lace ‘jora’ and were impressed with the punctuality with which the bride and groom appeared and dinner was served. This prompt serving of food may have been because my father was scared that we may change our minds and so
he wanted to hasten our rukhsati. Dear ole dad, it’s been a while
since I wrote a piece about his entertaining antics. But back to