The morning sun spills through the window, casting a soft glow over the chaos in my room. My bed is littered with jewelry boxes, silk scarves, and cosmetics. In the middle of the mess lies the lehenga Himanshi gave me last night—the one she'd bought for herself when she thought she would be the bride.
I pick it up carefully, letting the pastel pink and mint green fabric cascade over my hands. It's beautiful, with intricate gold embroidery and delicate pearl accents. Any bride would feel lucky to wear something so exquisite.
But I'm not any bride.
I glance at the mirror, imagining myself in the traditional red lehenga I'd always dreamed of wearing on my wedding day. Red—bold and vibrant, the color of love and passion. But that dream feels like a distant memory now, replaced by the harsh reality of this arrangement.
I take a deep breath and lay the lehenga on the bed. There's no point in complaining. This is my fate, and I have no choice but to accept it.
I don't even have mehendi on my hands because my father didn't think it was an important ritual and no one bothered to ask my opinion on it. My hands feel bare and weight down by the huge diamond ring Dhruv put on my ring finger last last. I wanted them stained beautifully with dark henna but the tattoo mehendi the beautician gave me as a replacement was a mockery to the traditions. I would rather keep my hands bare than put that on.
As I'm fastening my earrings in front of the mirror, there's a knock on the door. I turn to see my father entering the room, his expression softer than usual.
"You look beautiful, Jeea," he says, his voice unusually gentle.
I don't respond, my eyes fixed on the reflection of my lehenga in the mirror.
He steps closer, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I know this isn't what you wanted," he says, his tone low and measured. "But sometimes, life doesn't give us what we want. It gives us what we need."
I bite the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to snap back.
"Dhruv is a good man," he continues. "He's wealthy, respected, and he'll give you a secure life. Isn't that what every father wants for his daughter?"
"You didn't want it for Himanshi," I say quietly, surprising even myself with the bitterness in my voice.
He stiffens, his grip on my shoulder tightening for a brief moment before he lets go. "Himanshi is different," he says after a pause. "She has choices. You—" He stops himself, shaking his head. "You should be grateful, Jeea. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
"Grateful," I repeat under my breath, my chest tightening.
"Enough of this," he says, his voice returning to its usual gruffness. "The priest is waiting. Don't keep everyone waiting."
He walks out of the room without another word, leaving me to gather my composure.
The wedding venue is a vision of grandeur. Strings of jasmine and marigold flowers hang from every corner, and the faint scent of rose petals lingers in the air. The mandap, adorned with golden pillars and red drapes, stands at the center, commanding attention.
I sit quietly, surrounded by women adjusting my veil and jewelry. My pastel lehenga feels heavier than it should, the weight of it matching the heaviness in my heart.
Then, I see him.
Dhruv stands near the mandap, dressed in a pristine white sherwani embroidered with subtle silver thread. His dark hair is slicked back neatly, and his tall, muscular frame exudes an air of quiet authority.
His features are sharp—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a straight nose. But it's his eyes that draw me in. Dark and brooding, they seem to hold secrets, emotions buried deep beneath the surface. He doesn't smile, doesn't acknowledge the crowd gathered around him. He stands still, a stoic figure amidst the vibrant celebration. He looks his age when he stands with this confidence exuding off him, another reminder of the 8 years age gap between us. I'm only 22 years old, only recently graduated from college and never thought I'd be sitting on my own mandap so soon.
My breath catches as I take him in. He's devastatingly handsome, but there's a coldness to him, an impenetrable wall that makes me feel as though I'm staring at a sculpture rather than a man.
When our eyes meet briefly, my stomach knots. His expression remains unreadable, his gaze piercing but detached.
The ceremony begins, and I'm led to the mandap. The priest's chants fill the air as I sit beside Dhruv, my hands trembling slightly as I adjust my veil.
He doesn't look at me, doesn't say a word. I wonder if he feels as trapped as I do, or if this indifference is just his nature.
As the rituals progress, I can feel the weight of every gaze on us. Himanshi stands off to the side, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. But when his grandmother reaches out to adjust my dupatta with a kind smile, I catch a flicker of jealousy in Himanshi's eyes.
"I cannot believe how beautiful you look, Jeea. Like the goddess who has come to bless us right from heaven." Dhruv's grandmother says, teary eyed. She told me she has been waiting for this moment forever. Has hounded Dhruv to get married for years. Himanshi over hears this and rolls her eyes as if she cannot even comprehend the thought of anyone thinking that I'm worth of anything
The priest instructs us to stand for the pheras, and I follow Dhruv as we circle the sacred fire, my heart pounding with every step. Each vow feels heavier than the last, binding us together in ways I can't yet comprehend. If things were different and I was getting married to someone I loved, we would be holding hands with wide smiling faces as we took our pheras. But this felt too cold, too detached where I trailed behind Dhruv in a mechanical motion
When it's time for the sindoor ritual, I lower my gaze as Dhruv takes the pinch of vermillion and places it on the parting of my hair. His hand is steady, his movements mechanical. This was supposed to be the most beautiful moment of my life but instead its just another reminder how I've always been indisposable to my family.
The final gesture—tying the mangalsutra around my neck—seals our fate.
"Welcome to your new cage, wife" he murmurs, his tone cutting through the sacred chants like a blade.
My breath catches, and I clench my fists to keep from reacting. The sting of his words settles deep, amplifying the ache in my chest.
He fastens the manglasutra with the same detached precision he's carried through the entire ceremony, as though this moment means nothing to him.
It probably doesn't.
I don't react to his words, atleast not externally. I won't let him see how much a single sentence, the only sentence he's spoken to me so far, has affected me.
My new cage.
Being his wife is my new punishment. Similar to the one I got for being my father's daughters. Only my prison changes, I remain a captive.
The priest announces the completion of the ceremony, and the crowd erupts into applause. I glance at Dhruv, hoping for some acknowledgment, some sign that he feels something—anything.
But he's already looking away, his face as cold and distant as ever as if he didn't just destroy any shred of hope I had for this marriage.
As the guests gather around us, congratulating us and showering us with blessings, I can't shake the feeling of emptiness that settles in my chest.
I'm married now. A wife.
But as I look at Dhruv, standing tall and composed beside me, I realize that I don't know this man at all. And I wonder if I ever will.
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