In the vibrant streets of Lahore and Karachi, where drums, henna and kaleidoscopic lehenga skirts are the heartbeat of a shaadi (wedding), a curious new phenomenon is taking hold: the fake wedding. These staged celebrations — complete with music, dancing, colour and all the visual splendour of a traditional Pakistani wedding but none of the legal or familial nikah (marriage contract) commitments — are rapidly becoming a trend among young Pakistanis seeking joy without the stress, expense, or social pressures of real matrimony. What once sounded like an Instagram-era prank is now being talked about across campuses, cafes, and social feeds as a cultural pivot point, blending celebration with commentary on tradition and youth identity.
At their heart, these fake weddings are about liberation. In a society where weddings are often grand, multi-day, and costly affairs involving extensive negotiations between families, gift exchanges, and rigid social expectations, a fake shaadi strips away the obligations and leaves only the fun. Young people dress up in ornate outfits, pose under floral arches, dance to boliyan (folk songs) and DJ mixes, and eat lavish spreads — all without a baraat (groom’s procession) that ends in a legally binding contract. It’s celebration without strings, an event that feels real but comes with zero mehr (mandatory gift from groom to bride) and no in-laws waiting in the wings.
This isn’t entirely unprecedented — across South Asia Gen Z has been remixing wedding culture for years, turning the aesthetics of shaadi into themed parties and social media spectacles that emphasize joy and community over tradition. The trend has even spread to university campuses abroad, where South Asian students hold “mock weddings” complete with haldi (turmeric rituals) and staged pheray (circling the sacred fire), delighting in cultural nostalgia while sidestepping the real-world baggage of arranged alliances.
In Pakistan, the fake wedding trend has sparked mixed reactions. For many young people it is an empowering space — one that subverts the weight of family negotiations, rishta (marriage proposal) politics and the often enormous cost of a real walima (reception). It’s a chance to experience the joy of a wedding without the financial or emotional toll, especially appealing in a country where the median age is under 30 and social media shapes aspirations and self-expression.
Yet, not everyone greets the fad with applause. Critics argue that mock weddings might trivialize the sacredness of nikah, a contract with deep religious significance in Muslim communities. In more conservative circles, any playful imitation of a ritual so closely tied to family honour and life-long commitment is viewed as irreverent at best and undermining cultural values at worst. There are concerns that, in a society already grappling with issues like honour norms and gender inequality, reducing weddings to entertainment could inadvertently erode respect for matrimonial commitments.
Importantly, the rise of fake weddings also exists against a broader backdrop of shifting attitudes toward love, marriage and personal autonomy in Pakistan. Younger generations are increasingly exposed to global cultural currents — from Valentine’s Day celebrations that defy official bans to debates over arranged marriages and romantic choice — prompting nuanced conversations about what tradition should mean in a rapidly modernizing context.
Of course, staged celebrations are not the only form of altered or coerced marriage practices in Pakistan’s complex social landscape. Long-criticized customs like vani (a forced marriage practice used to settle disputes) and issues around child marriage persist in parts of the country, underscoring the deep roots of patriarchal control over women’s lives. These realities — very different from celebratory fake weddings — remind us that not all deviations from traditional weddings are empowering or consensual.
Still, the growing popularity of fake weddings among Pakistan’s youth speaks to something vibrant and adaptive: a generation that loves music, colour, dance and the symbolic beauty of shaadi but yearns for agency, fun, and freedom from familial pressures. These events offer a space where one can don shimmering clothes, pose under lights, and feel the communal joy of celebration without the weight of lifelong expectations. Whether this trend is a fleeting internet fad or a meaningful cultural shift remains to be seen, but at the very least it reveals how young Pakistanis are reimagining old rituals in new, joyful, and distinctly modern ways.
Let this Auntie say it clearly, slowly, and with a raised eyebrow for the elders in the back: do as you please, my young Pakistani friends. Dance if you want. Dress up if you want. Throw a fake wedding, a mock shaadi, a glitter-soaked night of mehndi, music and laughter with absolutely no nikah at the end — and don’t you dare apologise for it.
Joy is not a crime. Celebration is not a moral failure. And refusing pressure is not an insult to culture.
For decades, weddings in Pakistan have carried more weight than joy. They have become audits of family honour, endurance tests for women, and financial sinkholes for parents who already have too much on their plates. Girls are told from childhood that their value peaks in bridal makeup. Boys are burdened with impossible expectations of earning, providing, and pleasing entire clans. Somewhere along the way, the music got louder — and the happiness got quieter.
So when young people say, “We want the colour, not the cage,” this Auntie listens.
A fake wedding isn’t an attack on marriage. It’s a pause button. It’s saying: let me breathe before you decide my life. Let me wear the dress without signing away my autonomy. Let me enjoy rasm-o-riwaj (rituals and customs) without being swallowed by them. That’s not rebellion for the sake of rebellion — that’s emotional self-defence.
And no, before the comment section combusts, this does not mean marriage is meaningless. Nikah is sacred because it is a choice. Strip away choice, and it becomes performance, pressure, sometimes even punishment. If someone needs a party without a lifetime contract to remember what joy feels like, then maybe the problem isn’t the party.
Older generations love to say, “In our time, we didn’t do this.” True. In your time, women didn’t choose much at all. In your time, silence was called dignity. In your time, endurance was confused with virtue. Progress is not disrespect; it’s evolution.
To Pakistan’s young women: you are not “wasted” if you don’t marry on schedule. To young men: you are not failures if you don’t want to become instant husbands and providers. To all of you: your worth does not begin at the wedding stage — real or fake.
So yes, throw your fake weddings. Laugh loudly. Dance shamelessly. Celebrate friendship, freedom, and the simple pleasure of choosing for yourself. If tradition survives, it should survive because people love it — not because they’re trapped inside it.
This Auntie approves.