The other evening, I walked into our living room and found my mother staring at the television with the same expression she reserves only for two things: rising electricity bills and Pakistani weddings. On the screen, a bride was entering the hall on a flower-decorated swing, floating in slow motion, surrounded by fog, fireworks, and five photographers hanging from cranes. My mother let out the kind of sigh that comes from years of inflation and disappointment, and said, “People in this country can’t even afford bread, yet at weddings we behave as if we’ve reached the moon.”

I laughed, but the truth struck me harder. We live in a country where millions struggle to survive, yet our weddings look like they belong in a fantasy film. Families who struggle to pay school fees suddenly turn into event managers. Streets full of broken roads and sewage, somehow lead to wedding halls that sparkle like royal palaces. It is as if, each night of the wedding season, Pakistan forgets poverty, inflation, IMF loans, and collapsing infrastructure and decides to cosplay as a billionaire nation.

And nothing showcases this contradiction more sharply than the recent spectacle in Karachi. A 30-function wedding that became a national talking point, not for its beauty, but for its extravagance in a country where millions survive on ration bags.

But this escape comes at a cost. A cost paid by ordinary families who take loans to impress society, by parents who lose sleep over “log kya kahenge,” and by a country whose priorities are so twisted that weddings shine brighter than its future.

Weddings in Pakistan have transformed into elaborate, time-consuming, debt-causing marathons, despite the government’s attempts such as Punjab’s one-dish policy, hall-timing restrictions, and anti-extravagance notices to curb excess. Yet these policies exist only for the lower and middle classes; the elite bypass them with ease. On social media, we witness helicopters dropping rose petals, sky-high stage designs, and choreographed dances performed like award shows.

In sharp contrast to our poverty statistics, Karachi recently witnessed a wedding that looked more like a movie premiere than a family event. Hosted at the ultra-luxurious Kashee’s Kingdom Film City, the celebrations did not stop at one or two events. They expanded across multiple venues, with different stages, elaborate themes, custom décor, drone shows, and wardrobe changes that could rival fashion weeks. Social media proudly announced the number: 30 functions. Yes, thirty or more.

It was the wedding of influencer Rabeeca Khan, and for days, the country watched the videos in disbelief at a wedding ready to compete with Qatar, Dubai, and maybe even the Ambanis.

The contrast was almost painful: families stepping out of crystal-decorated halls onto potholed streets; brides arriving in luxury cars while ambulances got stuck in waterlogged roads. The city can barely manage sewage water or garbage collection, but weddings? They thrive.

This wedding sparked a nationwide debate and a very necessary one. For many, it wasn’t envy that hurt; it was the fear of what such extravagance normalises. Social media trends do not exist in a vacuum; they shape aspirations, expectations, and insecurities. When an influencer celebrates 30 functions from mayun, dholki, Qawwali night, bridal shower, Haldi, Mehndi, Sangeet, Baraat, Valima, post-Valima dinner, photoshoot days, theme nights, reception shoots, dance practices, and even pre- and post-events created just for content, thousands of families silently panic: Will our small one-function wedding look too cheap? Will people taunt us? Will our daughter feel less valued? These extravagant timelines don’t just entertain; they set unrealistic standards that ordinary families cannot meet, yet feel pressured to chase.

And thus begins a cycle of toxic comparison.

Such displays glamorise unsustainable spending and push ordinary families into a financial war they cannot win. These weddings set unrealistic benchmarks that force parents to exhaust savings, sell jewelry, take loans, pawn assets, or as the saying goes, “beg, borrow, steal,” just to keep up with society. Pakistan is a poorly managed country, nearly half its population lives below the poverty line, and many families of seven or eight people share a single-room home. Yet weddings increasingly look like movie sets, not family gatherings.

Soon, the comparison with India began. People said Pakistanis were “copying Ambani.” And this comparison is as incorrect as it is harmful. When Ambani hosts a lavish wedding, billionaires from around the world fly to India. They bring investments, sign business deals, boost tourism, and shape global perceptions of India as an emerging superpower. The extravagance, whether we like it or not, serves a strategic economic purpose.

When Pakistan copies Ambani, what arrives? Foreign investors? No. Global CEOs? No. International business delegations? No.

What the influencer’s thirty-function wedding brought was something entirely different;
a painful national inferiority complex.

Ordinary people watched and felt poorer. Parents felt pressured. Young girls felt insecure. Boys felt inadequate. These weddings do not uplift society; they shrink its confidence. And instead of helping Pakistan’s economy, they highlight its deepening class divide. At a time when 40 percent of our children suffer from malnutrition and millions cannot afford two proper meals a day, such displays of extravagance feel almost cruel. We unintentionally sent a painful message to the world: Pakistan is a developing country pretending — desperately — to be rich, decorating stages while its people struggle to survive.

“I took my son’s proposal to my daughter’s friend’s house,” says Noushaba. “The girl’s mother demanded seven to eight tolas of gold, a house or land written in her daughter’s name before even considering the engagement. She said it would give ‘surety’ for a long-term marriage.”
The irony is heartbreaking. No amount of gold can guarantee a lifelong marriage. No property can ensure love. No ft-sq of land can prevent divorce. What keeps a marriage stable is character, communication and respect, not pre-nuptial material demands.

Another parent Nofel Sheikh said something that stayed with me:
“Hum ghareeb logon ki izzat bas shaadiyon par hoti hai.” [For poor people like us, the only time we earn respect is during weddings]” she said. “That’s why people take loans and sell their jewellery just so others will say the wedding was grand.”

This mentality has turned into generational trauma. This is a cycle where parents destroy their financial future for a one-day event.

“The irony becomes sharper when we look at Western societies,” says Quratul Ain Ahmed, an Urdu lecturer. “Despite their significantly higher income levels, stable economies, and better social welfare, ordinary weddings there remain simple. A ceremony in a garden, a modest party afterward, sometimes just a small gathering at home. Their focus is on the marriage, not the spectacle.”

Meanwhile in Pakistan, she added, weddings resemble royal banquets, yet many marriages do not survive even one or two years. We invest millions in stages but not communication. We prioritise drone shots over mental compatibility. We spend on lighting but not on emotional maturity. Our focus is misplaced and the consequences are visible everywhere in Pakistan.

From an Islamic perspective, the contradiction becomes even clearer. Islam discourages extravagance. The Prophet (PBUH) said the best wedding is the simplest one. Allah commands believers to avoid israf (wastefulness). The Nikah is meant to be easy, affordable, and full of blessings not burdened by unnecessary expenditure.

The psychological toll on young people is far deeper than we admit. Girls grow up believing they must look like flawless Instagram influencers on their wedding day; perfect skin, designer lehengas, ten different looks, and a photoshoot fit for a magazine cover. Boys feel an equally suffocating pressure: to earn like millionaires before the age of 25, to afford grand halls, heavy dowries, and the endless list of expectations society now considers “normal.” Social media only intensifies these insecurities. Filters erase flaws, videos show only luxury, and anyone who cannot match that lifestyle feels inferior and inadequate. What young people do not realise is that much of this glamour is unaffordable even for those showing it off. Rabeeca Khan’s 30-function wedding, for example, was heavily sponsored; free décor, free outfits, free makeup, free venues yet millions of ordinary viewers began comparing their real struggles to a wedding built on brand collaborations. This unrealistic standard is damaging an entire generation, emotionally and financially.

“Girls today grow up watching Instagram and TikTok videos where brides look like celebrities,” says Shahida Rabbani, a mother. “Every outfit designer-made, every entry dramatic, and every photo perfect. They start believing that nothing less than that is a wedding, a benchmark has been set. Even before they are married, they compare what they have with what they see online. It creates pressure on families to spend beyond their means and puts unnecessary stress on girls, who feel their worth is tied to the glamour of their wedding. We need to teach them that weddings are meant to celebrate joy and togetherness, not a materialistic competition.”

Her words reflect a growing concern in Pakistani society: children are learning to equate happiness and respect with extravagance, rather than with meaningful family bonds and simple celebrations.

This obsession destroys mental peace. While families fall into long-term debt that takes years—sometimes decades—to repay. Young couples begin their married life not with comfort but with financial stress, family disputes, and unrealistic expectations. When the glitter of the wedding fades and real life begins, the mismatch between fantasy and reality becomes impossible to ignore. This is one major reason behind the rising divorce rate: marriages built on staged perfection collapse under the weight of real responsibilities, communication gaps, and financial pressure. In trying to impress society for one day, families unintentionally damage the stability of an entire lifetime.

“If weddings in Pakistan were celebrated with simple nikahs, half of our social problems would disappear,” says Asma, a social sciences researcher. “There would be no endless waiting, no pressure to be financially perfect, and no delay in marriages. Today, countless young men want to get married but cannot, not because they lack character or responsibility, but because they cannot afford the extravagant expectations attached to weddings. Families demand expensive halls, designer joras, heavy dowries, decorated stages, and elaborate feasts. As a result, many boys postpone marriage for years, waiting to become financially stable. This delay has dangerous social consequences. When young people are unable to marry at the right time, frustration grows, moral boundaries weaken, and society silently pushes them toward unhealthy relationships, depression, and even illegal activities. A simple nikah removes barriers, protects values, strengthens families, and promotes emotional and social stability. Islam made marriage easy; society made it impossible.”

Moreover, lavish weddings in our society perfectly symbolise national confusion. We shine at night but suffer in daylight. One moment we celebrate fireworks; the next moment we complain about electricity bills. Last year, the internet obsessed over Rajab Butt’s extravagant wedding and months later, the marriage publicly fell into crisis. Glamour does not purchase stability. Luxury does not create loyalty.

This is where the government must step in. Notices alone will not help. We need strict, uniform, enforceable laws that apply equally to elite and ordinary families. Limit the number of functions. Enforce the one-dish policy without exceptions. Regulate event halls. Impose fines for unnecessary extravagance. Introduce incentives for simple weddings. Provide a basic wedding allowance for low-income families with simplicity as a requirement. No society progresses when its celebrations are more expensive than its education, healthcare, or future.

In the end, we must ask ourselves difficult questions: What message are we sending to the world? That a nation struggling to afford wheat and electricity can still spend millions on weddings? That our priorities are decorated stages, not educated children? That we value social pressure more than financial stability?

My mother was right, after all. Simplicity is dignity. Modesty is beauty. And in a country where millions struggle to survive, the greatest celebration is one that does not drown others in pressure.

Pakistan does not need thirty-function weddings. It needs marriages built on values. It needs couples who understand commitment, not choreography. It needs families who understand responsibility, not rehearsals.

Weddings should unite hearts not bankrupt homes. They should bring blessings not competition.
And if we truly want to fix our society, the first step is simple: stop pretending to be rich, and start living with honesty, humility, and wisdom.

All facts and information are the sole responsibility of the writer

Rabia Khan is writer who covers social issues, literature, and cultural values of Pakistan. She can be reached at rabiayousufzai26@gmail.com