#chooriyan

[suesheroll]

,

[sugarcandydoll]

my fav part abt being a desi dolly is having to watch bollywood movies & indian soap operas & eating pakistani food & wearing pink chooriyan & payal with ghungroo & pretty mehendi & listening to bomb af music hehe ♡🪔💕

[kafi-farigh-yusra]

In another world, I would work in a book shop and own a small home beside a chai ka dhaaba. I would love journaling and would have a small group of friends, each one different from other but totally getters. I will get up at sunrise and contemplate my whole life while sun brights this world. I would smile at everyone who speaks to me and compliment strangers. I will read Faiz and Mohsin in barish and listen to QB and Atif in nights. I would go to long drives and see the stars shining in the absence of sun knowing someone will always be there to replace someone. I would wear jhumkay and chooriyan as constant and will totally be a mashriqi larki with pak drama vibes. I would live life and not just spend it.

-Yusra.

[rantsandsunsets]

its the matching chooriyan and last minute runs to get mehendi. its the cute eidi envelopes and the smell of biryani. its meeting your family eid and everyone sitting together on the dinner table. its the dawats and the mithai’s and the first glass of coffee after a month of not having one. its the fit checks with عید مبارک written and missing the people who were there last eid, but aren’t here today. its just a feeling of happiness and calmness and just…chirpy

[husn-e-bahar]

Batti baal ke vaneray utte rakhni a Batti baal ke vanerey uttay rakhni a Kittay bhul na javay chann mera Haye ni, Batti baal ke vaneray uttay rakhni a. Us nu changi trah gali di pehchan ae Raat Haneri te mera mahi anjan ae Raat Haneri te mera mahi anjan ae Bua khol kay, Ni bua khol kay mein chori chori takni ae Ohnu Puchna pavay na ghar mera Haye ni, Batti baal ke vaneray utte rakhni a. Ghut ghut chooriyan mein chann layi rakhiyaa Dudh nu ubaal ke te jhal diya pakhiya Dudh nu uval ke te jhal diya pakhiya Kadi vehndi a Kadi vehndi a te kaday uth uth nachni a. Agey lang na javey chann mera Haye ni, Batti baal ke vaneray utte rakhni a Pheria ne kangia te kajala v paya ae Ajey vi paronay naio bua khadkaya ae Ajey vi paronay naio bua khadkaya ae Ni mein akhiya Ni mein akhiya buay val rakhdi a Aakey mudh na javay mahi mera Haye ni batti vaal ke rkhdi a. Galli bhul na javay chann mera Haye ni, Batti baal ke vaneray utte rakhni a

Batti Bal Ke Banere Utte Rakhdi Han by Shamshad Begum Bhangra (1959)

A woman waiting to see her beloved

[shrimpbiryani]

This song has a special place in my heart. I love the piano reverb in it. I got into it during the winter of 2017-18 which was really the peak of my life thus far. I felt like the central character in the universe at that time lol

[chaandkeeroshni]

Mama Baba sent dheeeer saari eidi including kapray chooriyan shoes 😭🥹🥹🥹💔💞🥹

17.04.23

[thandabanda]

Day 308: Bangles Eid preps are underway y'all! © 2021 Art by Umer, All Rights are Reserved. #photography #365days #365daychallenge #project365 #ontario #canada #nikonlovers #photooftheday #photolovers #artbyumer #shotonnikon #nikonphotography #instagood #likeforlike #follow4follow #bangles #bangles #chooriyan #desi #southasian #eidpreperation (at Brampton, Ontario) https://www.instagram.com/p/COeWbU4rzLJ/?igshid=17d5tjxo3h1a1

[youngdinosaurcandy]

Another client happy! @annieshahmakeup bought jewellery from us for all three functions for her sister’s wedding💫 Thank you so much hun for trusting us to provide the jewellery to you💫 we can’t wait to see your third look 💕💕 If you have any enquiries or would like to purchase any jewellery from my page then please do not hesitate to contact me on insta or WhatsApp me on 07534924121 #njewells #happyclient #alhumdullilah #designerjewelery #jewelry #luxuryjewellery #luxurylifestyle #instajewellery #kundanjewellery #semipreciousjewellery #customisedjewellery #picoftheday #asianbride #bridaljewellery #bridesister #pakistanibridaljewellery #chooriyan #banglestack #mehendijewellery #mehendivibes #baraat #londonshopping https://www.instagram.com/p/BzRIl8VFXEj/?igshid=1woufqmnm9p1r

[cloudfairysblog]

as a child my mother forced me to wear chooriyan and they were of glass and not of good quality so they had cracks which would irritate my skin. i ended up thinking i disliked chooriyan because of that, later when i grew to love everything beautiful about my culture the one thing embraced with all my heart was desi fashion, be it chooriyan, jhumke, gajray, payal, mehendi. it was all so beautiful and full of love that it broke my heart young me would never understand the beauty of them.

[usertoxicyaoi]

feeling a little homesick rn so here's some of my fave things from the motherland that i yearn for and find solace in remembering:

having chai and fresh pakorey/samosay during the late evening and/or especially when it rains.

oh and when it rains, it floods. and everyone comes out to play and celebrate that its rained and we thank Allah for making it rain.

and also. the smell of the fresh mitti (earth) when it rains.

hearing the adhaan in the streets 5 times a day everyday bc there'll always be a masjid near.

girls going out together to buy chooriyan and jumkhay together and being so happy.

the mela.

girls putting mehendi on one another.

girls combing each others hair and helping each other get dressed.

your mum or your dadi/nani putting oil in your hair.

going to sehen of your house to dry out your clothes and seeing all the colourful dupattas on one side and seeing fresh chillis as they dry on the other side, out in the sun.

homemade achaar.

the constant to and fro in the markets of the customer and seller bargaining the price of something.

the sellers in their shops extravgantly bringing out wave after wave and piece after piece of "nayaa stock" and draping it over themselves to show them off to their customer.

kulfi. and paani puri/gol gapay. and falooda. and gola ganda.

actually just the entire vast range of street food in general tbh being sold at a dhaba.

the cricket mania.

aaah, riding on a rikshaw.

the way the buses are always decorated so fanciful.

paan. and shahi supari.

chaand raat. and the buzz and excitement and chahel pahel on those nights.

[sugarcandydoll]

💌List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who liked or reblogged something from you! Get to know your mutuals and followers :3💌

aww tysm for the ask elina bby ♡🫶🏼 im so happy im getting so many of these cause i think only five is such a tiny number to talk abt everything that makes me happy ♡🙊💗

♡ sleeping hehe ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

♡ strawberry frosted donuts <3

♡ press-on nails 💅🏼

♡ horror movies 👻

♡ my pink chooriyan 💕

[kafi-farigh-yusra]

I want to make chotii and wear jhumkas and chooriyan along with my anarkali frock and churi-daar pajama. I want to say the most beautiful poetry of Faiz Ahmed Faiz in front of Saif ul mulook lake. I want to read Ashfaq Ahmed's Manchalay k sauda on a starry night with a cup of chaye. I want to walk with my lover in the night, on the old streets of Lahore, samander of Karachi.

I want to live a life that is rich in emotions.

[rajeevpradhan]

SHALESH KUMAR IN MOVIE BHABHI KI CHOORIYAN

[barnesandco]

Nikah: January

Story Masterlist

Nikah: noun, Arabic, meaning the contract of marriage.

Bucky marries Peter’s former tutor because her student visa’s about to expire and the government isn’t granting her a green card. Can she find a way to permanent residence by marriage, and if so, will it be at the cost of their hearts?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of grief, war.

A/N: Written under the Arranged/Accidental Marriage trope for @mermaidxatxheart ‘s writing challenge. This story will update on weekends, with two chapters each on Saturdays and Sundays. Tags are open, and for now I’m only tagging those on my permanent list. You can always let me know if you want to be added or taken off of something. I look forward to your comments and hope that you enjoy.

Bucky Barnes did not plan to start the new year as a married man. Not until three weeks ago, when this entire ordeal began. Yet here he is, a gold band on his prosthetic hand that is buried beneath the pillow under his head, while he watches his near-stranger bride sleep next to him. They’ve met in person a grand total of two times, the second being the marriage ceremony itself. Ceremony is an overstatement, he thinks. They eloped. Oh, if his ma could see him now. Bruised and war-torn, reborn from Hydra’s ashes with the marvel of Wakandan technology, married to a woman he hardly knows. And it’s all Peter Parker’s fault.

It had started with his silence. Slowly but surely, the youngest Avenger, known for his jubilant enthusiasm, had become unnervingly quiet. 

One week, and they begin to notice. Curious look and additional encouragements to involve him.

Two weeks, and they suspect he misses Tony more than usual. It’s been several months, but the grief comes and goes in waves. Laughter can turn quickly into tears. Bucky’s seen them smile at a joke and turn to the head of the table, or a corner of the room, looking for Tony or Nat’s response respectively, only for the smile to fall at the proof of their absence. They give him time, Sam gives him a talk, and Pepper, an invitation to lunch at the lakehouse.

Three weeks, and they return from a multiple-week mission and brake outside the kitchen like eavesdropping teenagers. The actual teenagers - Peter and Wanda - are inside discussing something. By the distress in Peter’s voice, it’s whatever’s been bothering him recently.

“-but if the student visa doesn’t expire for another year, why is she applying already?” Wanda’s asking from the stove, stirring a Sokovian soup. Peter puts a Tupperware container of extra chopped vegetables in the fridge. Leans on the marble countertop, sighing.

“She suspected that they might reject her. He PhD ends in June so she’s applying for a green card instead, but immigration policies are stricter now. Especially for people from Muslim countries, and she’s Pakistani. It isn’t fair,” He reiterates, tastes the soup. Anything to distract from his shaking hands. Wanda looks on worriedly. “I just mean- like- she’s been living here for almost ten years. She just wants to be a permanent resident. If they don’t let her, she’ll have to go back. She doesn’t want to, but she’ll have to,” He concludes, opening the tap and initiating clean-up.

“And she’s… important… to you,” Wanda states, looking over her shoulder, giving him room to elaborate.

“She helped me with English class and lit in middle school. She was there when Ben died, when Tony died, she’s just been constant, y’know?” He explains. Wanda puts down the wooden spoon, rests a hand on the counter and absorbs her friend’s morose expression.

“So now what?”

“There’s no way they’ll extend her visa. She’ll probably try again for a green card, but I don’t think it’ll work. If she had a steady job, she could apply for a work visa, but she’s freelance. The only other thing I can think of is marriage to a US citizen.”

He hopes it works. The marriage. Green card by family, by marriage, by him vouching for her. The ring is constricting around his finger, a heavy weight reminding of the sanctity of marriage, and how he’s breaching it. He wonders if she feels the same way. At present, she appears unperturbed, lying on her side facing him. The hand bearing the ring is in front of her face, resting on the pillow like a crown on its pedestal. The scarce daylight, just cloudy watercolor, tip-toes through the gap in his blackout curtains, casting a thing stream of moonlight across her face. Snow day.

They had barely made it to his apartment last night before the blizzard hit. She had been quiet then, even more so than now, when he can at least hear her sleep-steady breaths escape the cage built by the pink pillows of her lips. Eyelashes like snowflakes against the bags under her eyes. 

The mildly disturbing nature of his actions occurs to him, and he decides to stop. Gets out of bed and tenses when she shifts.  The duvet slides down, revealing her white night-gown. Bucky moves, steps as soft and sneaky as fog on the carpet, to her side. Lifts the duvet up to her ching, grazing her silk-clad shoulder in the process. A mumble, and he holds his breath, but thankfully, she stays asleep.

Shutting his - their - bedroom door behind him, he makes for the bathroom first. The shower is scalding hot, and his skin pinks quickly. The Wakandan shampoo is running out. He makes a note to ask Shuri for more, and thinks about what American item to send in return. Dunkin’ Donuts, perhaps. 

Coconut goes well with the raspberry scent of his new wife’s body wash, already embedded in the walls because she takes evening showers. Claims they help her sleep. It didn’t help last night, however, because she tossed and turned throughout, only coming to rest around three. Bucky didn’t fare any better, eyes shutting an hour later. 

He rinses his hair, the condensation from the steam on his arm washing off. Resumes his morning rituals - conditioner, shower gel, rinse, dry off. As he’s towelling himself dry, he takes in the evidence of her presence once again. The bottle of lotion on the vanity, the make-up removal wipes in the cabinet next to his shaving things. Like this is all perfectly normal.

It is, of course, everything but. You don’t marry someone you don’t know. The gravity of his actions tug on his stomach as he walks past the couch he offered to sleep on. He hadn’t wanted to make her uncomfortable, but she had vehemently refused to kick him out of his own bed. Said she would rather sleep in the snow outside. He’s sure she would have, too, given the excuse, and she would’ve melted the snow into steaming puddles around her, anger coming off red-hot like the sun’s rage.

He lights the stove and fetches the ingredients necessary for pancakes. Opens a recipe on his tablet. Never made them on his own a day in his life - Sam’s are better, but he’ll never tell him that. Something in him just wants to put her at ease. Anyone who cares to look past the stiff demeanor, the jasmine flower in her hair, the reluctant mehndi on her hands, the fire in her eyes, will see resentment. At the government, God, fate, destiny - all scapegoats to blame for putting her in this situation. For reducing her to getting married just to stay in the country she considers home.

Bucky is, too. Resentful, that is. What’s worse is, he doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t understand where the love went. Then he feels guilty, snorts at his own naivete, his blissful ignorance. Lover boy Bucky Barnes. He was never one for politics, he thinks, pouring the first pancake. What little he remembers of his youth wafts up; taking care of Becca, taking care of Steve, taking girls on dates, taking the ship to the war, taking out Nazis. Even in the trenches, where soldiers had a tendency to question Roosevelt, or cuss at Hitler, he’d order them to shut up and shoot. If us fellas were meant to do nothin’ but talk, we’d be in Congress already, but we ain’t. So quit blabberin’ and do your jobs.

The second pancake is on the platter. A door opens somewhere down the hall. He waits, still and patient, as footsteps enter the bathroom and the sound of his sizzling frying pan and running water washes out the anxiety of talking to her. He will have to, at some point or the other. They live together. She had suggested briefly that they not, hadn’t wanted to burden him, but he reminded her of his public image. People would most certainly notice if he wasn’t living with his wife, and then where would they be?

Said wife is now in the kitchen, wringing her hands, the glass bangles - chooriyan - chiming, and he pretends to be unaware. 

“James?” This plan doesn’t last very long, and he turns to see that she’s wearing what he would call a tunic if Peter hadn’t taught him it’s a kameez - he’s been giving him desi culture lessons - over a pair of jeans.

“Just Bucky, please. Mornin’. Sleep well?” He returns to the pancakes, blushing at his ineptitude. Tries to convince himself it’s okay, she’s an introvert, too. She’s uncomfortable around new people, too. The pancake tower is now five high.

“You should’ve woken me. Why are you making breakfast by yourself?” She ignores his question, a question he doesn’t know why he asked if he knows the answer to, and comes up to stand next to him at the counter.

“Why would I do that? I can cook, you know,” He says, only half in jest, the joke the first of the day, of the year, of their relationship. She smiles - a reward.

“Yeah, but still…” She trails off, then shakes away what’s troubling her. Bucky files that response under Things to Worry About Later. “I can see that you can cook. A little too well, it seems,” She laughs, gesturing to the sizable stack. “Can you eat five pancakes?” She asks with wonder.

“What do you mean?” 

“I can’t eat more than two, and you just flipped your seventh one, so that means you’ll have to-”

“Don’t worry. They’ll be gone before you can say super-metabolism,” He reassures, and she nods dubiously.

“Can I at least set the table?” Bucky looks at her, soft and kind and wise, wishes that she didn’t have to experience this. Forcing a marriage to stay in the place she loves. What has the world come to?

He shows her where the plates are, sets about pulling out various pancake toppings. Syrup, honey, berries, Nutella. She places the plates on the table, brings him the pot of coffee he forgot he made. Finally, they sit. Minutes of utensils colliding and the pancake stack diminishing pass before either of them say anything. She pours him coffee.

“Thanks. You didn’t pour any for yourself,” He says, frowning around a mouthful of blueberries. 

“I don’t drink coffee?”

“Tea?”

“Yeah, but-” Bucky begins to get up but she reaches for his hand, chooriyan clinking against the vibranium. “I don’t feel like it today,” She tells him, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

“You should’ve said something,” He says, upset at not being able to provide for a guest, the guest who’s going to be staying for a while. She shakes her head, spreads Nutella across her second pancake.

“It’s not that big a deal,” She laughs, cutting a piece. “Some days I feel like it and some days I don’t.”

“Okay.”

They finish breakfast in silence, and Bucky drinks more coffee than he should. She’s just picked up the dishes and is picking up a bottle of dish soap when Bucky opens the dishwasher and and takes both the dishes and the soap from her hands. Rinses and stacks them, then looks up at her as he’s drying his hands, still kneeling at the dishwasher. Observes the protest turn to surprise and then to veiled joy, and thinks: they might just make it through this.

Taglist:  @suz-123​ @mermaidxatxheart​ @buckyreaderrecs​ @shield-agent78​ @corneliabarnes​ @readerandcinephileingeneral​ @stevieboyharrington​ @notsomellowmushroom​ @veganfangirl5​ @mood-pancakes​ @lbuck121​