The Marriage Proposal Mix-Up

In the heart of Gulab Nagar—a town where news travels faster than a scooter with a flat tire—lived a young man named Shani. At 26, he was what you might call selectively ambitious. He could nap for eight hours straight without interruption, debate the best chai spot in town for hours, and had once written a 10-page essay on why socks are overrated. But when it came to jobs? He preferred to “explore his options.”

His mother, however, had other plans. Her mission was clear: marry Shani off before he started talking to the ceiling fan again.

One bright Sunday morning, she stormed into his room, armed with an ironed shirt and determination.

“Up! We’re going to meet a girl today. And no, you can’t wear that stained T-shirt with the cartoon parrot.”

Shani groaned, pulling the pillow over his face. “Ammi, love is like Wi-Fi—it should connect automatically. Not forced.”

“You can’t even connect the TV remote properly,” she shot back.

An hour later, after much arguing and one emergency eyebrow trim, they arrived at Mahnoor’s house. The atmosphere was polite, the tea was sweet, and the samosas were golden. Mahnoor was quiet but kind, with a smile that didn’t try too hard. Shani, for once, tried to behave like a human who’d read basic social etiquette.

Then, the doorbell rang.

In walked Faizan—Shani’s childhood friend, self-proclaimed philosopher of life, and expert at showing up late to everything except snack time. He strolled in wearing sunglasses, despite being indoors, and immediately headed for the snack plate.

“Am I late? Or just fashionably dramatic?” he announced.

Mahnoor’s father blinked. “And you are?”

Shani panicked. “Oh, that’s my cousin! Faizan Ahmed. He’s, uh… a software engineer. In Canada.”

Faizan nearly inhaled a samosa. He shot Shani a look that said What did you just do?, then smoothly adjusted his sunglasses. “Yes, very true. I build apps. Very important apps. Like one that tells you when your tea is cool enough to drink.”

Impressed, Mahnoor’s parents nodded. “Very modern profession!”

Just as the tension eased, the youngest brother burst in, pointing at Faizan.

“Wait—you were here last week! For Ayesha’s rishta! You said you were her brother’s friend!”

Silence fell like a dropped plate.

Faizan froze mid-bite. Shani turned the color of overboiled beetroot.

His mother whispered, “We brought a repeat guest to a marriage meeting?”

Mahnoor’s parents exchanged glances. The father cleared his throat. “So… you’re the rishta tourist?”

“No! I mean—yes, but not on purpose!” Shani stammered.

They were kindly but firmly escorted out before dessert.

Back in the rickshaw, Shani turned to Faizan. “Why were you even here? I told you to come after the meeting!”

Faizan shrugged. “I got hungry. Also, your mom said there’d be samosas.”

That night, Shani’s mother called every relative, neighbor, and distant family friend. By morning, the story had spread like spilled chai—everyone in Gulab Nagar knew about the boy who brought a fake Canadian cousin to a rishta, only for him to be exposed as a serial matchmaker crasher.

Shani braced for shame. But then, three days later, his phone buzzed.

It was a message from Mahnoor:

“Honestly, that was the most entertaining rishta I’ve ever been to. You seemed kind. Want to get chai sometime? Just you. No samosas. No cousins.”

Shani smiled—a real one, not the stiff “I’m-here-for-marriage” smile. He typed back:

“Only if we go somewhere that doesn’t serve samosas. I think they’ve caused enough trouble.”

And just like that, from the wreckage of confusion, samosa-related sabotage, and one very overconfident lie, something real began—not with a perfect moment, but with a laugh.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t start with a grand gesture.

It starts with a mess. And a really bad lie.