The room is dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. I sit cross-legged on the floor, my gaze fixed on the framed photo perched on the small shelf above my desk. My mother's gentle smile stares back at me, frozen in time.
I hug my knees to my chest, the weight of the evening pressing down on me. The words my father spat at me replay in my head, sharp and cutting. You owe me this. I thought I would adjust to the news after the initial shock of things but here I am, 2 weeks later with the same shock. 2 years wouldn’t be enough time to comprehend that I’m supposed to be a bride within a few days and marry my sister’s ex-fiance.
A lump rises in my throat, and I let out a shaky breath. "Mama," I whisper, my voice barely audible in the stillness of the night. "What did I do to deserve this?"
I crawl closer to the shelf, taking the photo in my hands. It's a picture of her holding Himanshi as a toddler, her arms wrapped protectively around my sister. I wasn't born yet. I've never seen a picture of the three of us together. I don’t think that picture even exists.
"I try so hard, Mama," I murmur, running my thumb over the edge of the frame. "I do everything they ask. I clean, I cook, I stay out of the way. But it's never enough, is it? I'll always be the reason you're not here."
The tears come then, hot and relentless. "Papa hates me," I choke out, the words cutting me even as I say them. "Himanshi barely tolerates me. And now they want me to marry a man who doesn't even want me. How is that fair?"
The silence offers no answers, just the quiet hum of my misery. I press the photo to my chest and close my eyes, wishing for some semblance of comfort. But none comes. It never does.
I don't know when I fall asleep, I'm still crouched on the floor in fetal position when I awake due to the loud chatter coming from outside.
I freshen up and go downstairs to find the house is a flurry of activity. Relatives I haven't seen in years are crowding the living room, chattering and laughing as if nothing is wrong. I move through the crowd like a ghost, offering trays of tea and snacks, avoiding eye contact whenever possible.
"Isn't it a shame Himanshi isn't the one getting married?" I hear someone say as I pass by.
"She's so beautiful," another voice adds. "She would've made such a perfect match for Dhruv Singh Rathore. But this one—well, I suppose it can't be helped."
I feel the sting of their words, but I keep my head down, my expression carefully neutral. It's not the first time I've been compared to Himanshi, and it certainly won't be the last.
"She's average at best," an older aunt whispers, loud enough for me to hear. "But at least she's obedient. That counts for something, doesn't it?"
I clench my jaw, forcing myself not to react. If only they knew how much I wanted to disobey, to scream and run away from all of this. But I can't. I never could.
"Jeea!" Himanshi's voice rings out from across the room. She's lounging on the sofa, looking radiant in a designer outfit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe combined.
I walk over to her, my feet heavy. "Yes?"
"Make yourself useful and bring me some juice," she says, not even bothering to look at me.
I nod and head to the kitchen, where my father is talking to one of the uncles. His face is calm, his tone cordial, as if he hasn't just sentenced me to a lifetime of misery.
"She'll adjust," I hear him say, his voice carrying a dismissive edge. "Jeea's always been the practical one. She knows her place."
The glass of juice nearly slips from my hand. I steady myself and walk out of the kitchen, my head spinning. I make myself sparse for the rest of the day and stay cooped up in my room. Luckily no one bothers me and why would they, they don't even acknowledge my existence.
By the time the sun sets, the house is buzzing with preparations for the sangeet night. Bright marigold garlands hang from every available surface, and the air is thick with the scent of fresh flowers and incense.
My father and Dhruv Singh Rathore agreed to skip the other pre wedding rituals owing to their busy schedules. The engagement and sangeet are rolled into one and the wedding is supposed to take place tomorrow night.
No one even bothered to ask my opinion. If it was a wedding I wanted, I would've loved to have all the pre wedding rituals. The haldi and the mehendi, choosing a dress that I wanted and not one that Himanshi brought for herself. Its a beautiful dress in soft pastel blue with mint green and pink detailings. But like every other thing in my life, its tainted with my older sister's shadow.
The courtyard is transformed into a dazzling venue, with strings of fairy lights casting a soft glow over the assembled guests. Music blares from the speakers, and the women twirl in colorful lehengas as they dance to the beat of the dhol.
I sit in front of the mirror in my room, watching as one of the hired beauticians works on my hair. She chatters away about how lucky I am to be marrying someone like Dhruv Singh Rathore, how every girl in the city would kill to be in my place.
I don't respond. How could I explain to her that this doesn't feel like luck? That every step closer to the altar feels like a step closer to losing myself entirely?
"There," she says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "You look beautiful."
I glance at my reflection and barely recognize the girl staring back at me. My hair is swept into an elaborate braid adorned with tiny flowers, and my skin glows with the sheen of expertly applied makeup.
For a moment, I almost believe her. I almost believe that I am beautiful. But then Himanshi walks in, draped in a shimmering gold lehenga, and the moment shatters.
"Wow, Jeea," she says with a smirk. "They really worked a miracle on you."
Her words sting, but I force a smile. "Thanks," I say quietly.
She flounces out of the room, leaving a trail of perfume in her wake.
The sangeet is in full swing when I step into the courtyard. The crowd falls silent as my father takes the stage to make an announcement. My heart sinks as he gestures for me to join him.
I climb the steps slowly, the weight of a hundred eyes pressing down on me. Standing at the center of the stage is Dhruv.
He's even more intimidating in person—tall, broad-shouldered, and exuding a quiet authority that makes the crowd part around him like he's royalty. But his eyes are cold, his expression unreadable as he watches me approach.
"Meet my youngest daughter, Jeea," my father says, his voice booming over the microphone. "She will soon be Mrs. Dhruv Singh Rathore."
The applause is polite but brief. I glance at Dhruv, hoping for some acknowledgment, some sign that he doesn't despise this arrangement as much as I do. But he doesn't even look at me. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, as if I'm not even there.
The humiliation stings, but I keep my head high, refusing to let it show.
As the crowd disperses, an elderly woman steps forward, her eyes crinkling with warmth as she takes my hand.
"You must be Jeea," she says, her voice soft and kind.
"Yes," I reply, startled by the tenderness in her tone.
"I'm Dhruv's grandmother," she says, smiling. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined."
Her words catch me off guard. "Thank you," I manage, my voice trembling slightly.
She pats my cheek affectionately. "You have such a kind face. I can tell you'll bring happiness to our family."
Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away. For the first time in days, someone is looking at me with something other than indifference or disdain.
"Dadi!" Himanshi calls out, her voice overly sweet as she approaches. She drapes an arm around our grandmother and smiles brightly. "I see you've met Jeea. Isn't she lucky to be marrying Dhruv?"
Dadi glances at her and raises an eyebrow. "I think it's Dhruv who's lucky to have her."
The smile on Himanshi's face falters for just a moment before she recovers. "Of course," she says, her tone a little too tight.
But I see the flicker of jealousy in her eyes, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I've won something—even if it's small.
“Come on, beta. You’re not supposed to blend in tonight.” Dhruv’s grandmother says as she leads me to the centre of the stage where her grandson stands like a porcelain statue. “You’re supposed to shine bright.”
Dhruv Singh Rathore is dressed in a black jodhpuri set with golden buttons and a gaze that could cut ice. He stares at the people surrounding us as if they’re nothing more than dirt to him. I look up at him, hoping for any sign of acknowledgement but as everything else in my life, I don’t get that either.
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