45. THE FEELINGS
VEERANSH:
The haveli wakes up before the sun. The sound of temple bells, conch shells. For a moment, I lie still, staring at the ceiling, feeling the stillness of the morning wrap around me like a thin sheet. Today is the pooja.
Not my wedding. Not my ritual. And yet, something about today feels heavier than any deal I have ever closed, any battle I have ever fought, any decision I have ever made. Because today, everyone is watching. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, she will be standing. Aarohi.
I shift slightly, stretching my arm, and for the first time in days, I realize that I am alone on the bed. The other side is empty. The bedsheet is neatly smoothed, her pillow untouched as if she has been up for a while. I exhale slowly, running a hand over my face.
She must have woken early. Of course she did. She never rests properly when there is work to be done. I get out of bed, my feet touching the cool marble floor. The room smells faintly of incense and jasmine, her presence still lingering in the air even though she is not here.
I get ready in silence. A simple off-white kurta, matching pajama. No tie today. No office demeanor. Just a man stepping into a ritual that feels larger than him.
When I step out of the room, the entire haveli looks transformed.
The courtyard is decorated with fresh marigold garlands, white flowers arranged in intricate patterns, and colorful torans hanging from every doorway.
The sacred fire pit, the havan kund, has already been prepared in the center of the courtyard, wood stacked neatly, surrounded by copper plates filled with rice, flowers, ghee, and sweets.
Pandit ji move around with ritual precision, chanting mantras under their breath. Guests have started arriving, distant relatives, family friends, acquaintances, all dressed in traditional attire, exchanging greetings, laughter, and polite curiosity. And then I see her.
Aarohi stands near the edge of the courtyard, speaking to a man who appears to be in charge of decorations. He gestures toward the mandap, explaining something, and she listens attentively, nodding, her hands folded in front of her.
She is wearing a pastel peach saree today, elegant, soft, graceful. Her hair is tied in a low bun adorned with tiny jasmine flowers. The golden bangles on her wrists clink softly whenever she moves.
For a moment, I simply stand there and watch her. She looks... different today. More confident. More composed. More present. Not the scared girl who once trembled in my basement.
Not the silent wife who barely dared to look at me. But still, there is something about her posture, a quiet humility that never leaves her. Then my eyes move higher. To her forehead.
And something tightens in my chest. Her mang is empty. No sindoor. A sharp, unexpected sting shoots through me, irritation, concern, possessiveness, all tangled together so tightly that I can't separate them.
She must have forgotten in the rush. Or maybe she intentionally didn't apply it. The thought unsettles me more than it should. Guests are already here. More are arriving every minute.
The entire family is present. Bua, dadi saas, distant relatives, all watching everything like hawks. A married woman without sindoor in a traditional household is not just a mistake. It is a statement.
Whether she intended it or not. My gaze shifts briefly to the man she is speaking to. He smiles politely at her, gesturing again toward the floral arrangements. She responds calmly, completely unaware of my presence, or my gaze.
A slow heat builds inside me. Not anger. Something sharper. Something deeper. I turn and walk toward the inner sanctum where the pooja thaal is placed, the silver plate holding flowers, kumkum, rice, and sindoor in a small ornate box.
Without hesitation, I pick up the sindoor. The pandit ji glances at me, then looks away respectfully. I turn back toward her. My steps are measured, steady, purposeful.
As I approach, the man notices me first. His expression shifts immediately, polite deference, slight nervousness. "Sir," he says, stepping back. Aarohi turns.
Her eyes meet mine, soft, surprised, uncertain. "Veeransh ji..." she begins. I stop in front of her. Close enough that she can feel my presence.
Close enough that I can see the subtle rise and fall of her chest. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Guests nearby have already started noticing. Whispers ripple through the courtyard like wind through leaves.
I open the small sindoor box. The deep red powder glows against the morning sunlight. Slowly, deliberately, I pinch a small amount between my fingers. Aarohi's breath hitches almost imperceptibly.
She doesn't move. Doesn't pull back. Doesn't lower her eyes. She simply watches me. I lift my hand.
In one smooth motion, I draw a straight line of sindoor along her hairline, filling her mang with that unmistakable red. Time seems to still. The chants in the background fade into a distant hum.
The courtyard, the guests, the pandit ji, the decorations, all blur into insignificance. In this moment, there is only her. Her wide, steady eyes. Her slightly parted lips.
The soft flush rising on her cheeks. She doesn't speak at first. Her fingers tremble faintly at her side. Then, softly, almost in a whisper, "Veeransh ji... I forgot."
I hold her gaze. "That's why," I reply quietly, my voice low but firm, "so that no one else forgets." A collective hush sweeps over the gathered guests.
Some women smile knowingly. Some men exchange glances. Whispers begin immediately, respectful, curious, impressed. "He himself filled her mang..."
"Did you see? Veeransh Sarkar did it in front of everyone." "So much regard for his wife..." "Look how he cares for her." Aarohi stands frozen, her hands clasped together, clearly overwhelmed but trying to maintain composure.
I step back just slightly, enough to give her space, but my presence still lingers around her like a protective shield. Her eyes flicker briefly toward me, gratitude, confusion, and something else I can't quite read.
Before she can say anything more, Bua's voice calls out from the kitchen area. "Aarohi beta, come here! The prasad is ready, there's some work." She looks at me hesitantly.
I nod once. "Go." She turns and walks toward the kitchen, her saree pallu swaying gently with each step. As she passes through the crowd, the atmosphere around her shifts.
Women greet her with more warmth now. "Come bhabhi, keep this here." "Bhabhi, hold this plate." "Bhabhi, give this to pandit ji."
The word echoes softly but clearly, Bhabhi. No longer just "Aarohi." No longer just "bahu." But Veeransh Sarkar's wife.
My wife. And this time, not in whispers behind closed doors, but openly, respectfully, undeniably. I remain standing where I am, watching as she moves among them, assisting with the pooja preparations, offering prasad, adjusting plates, helping wherever needed.
She blends in effortlessly. Gracefully. As if she was always meant to stand here. Maa comes up beside me, her eyes shining with something between pride and relief.
"You did the right thing today, beta," she says softly. I don't look at her. My gaze stays fixed on Aarohi. "It wasn't just a ritual, maa," I murmur. "It was necessary."
Maa doesn't say anything further. She understands. The pooja begins in full swing by mid-morning. The priests chant louder now, the sacred fire crackling as ghee is poured into it.
The air is thick with the scent of incense, smoke, and devotion. Bua and her family sit near the havan kund. Aarohi sits slightly behind them, hands folded, eyes lowered in prayer.
For the first time, I notice something else. Her hands. No hesitation. No fear. No trembling. She looks... peaceful.
Grounded. Present. At one point, the priest calls for the married women to step forward and offer their prayers. Aarohi rises along with the others.
She hesitates for just a second, a tiny pause that no one else might notice. I notice. And before she can step forward, I move beside her.
Without asking, without speaking, I offer her my hand. Her breath catches. She looks at my hand, then at me. Slowly, tentatively, she places her fingers in mine.
Warm. Delicate. Certain. Together, we step forward. Guests watch in silence as we perform the ritual, offering flowers, rice, and prayers into the fire.
For the first time since our marriage, we stand side by side not as a forced couple, not as strangers bound by circumstance, but as something closer to what we were always supposed to be.
By afternoon, the pooja concludes. Blessings are distributed. Prasad is shared. Laughter fills the courtyard as people discuss the upcoming wedding festivities.
I find myself standing near the steps, speaking with a few relatives about arrangements for tomorrow. And then I see her again. Aarohi stands near the tulsi plant, pouring water into the pot carefully, her saree pallu tucked neatly over her shoulder.
Sunlight filters through the leaves, casting soft shadows across her face. She looks tired. Not broken. Just quietly exhausted.
Without thinking, I excuse myself and walk toward her. She senses me before I speak. "Are you tired?" I ask. She straightens slightly, turning to face me. "A little... but everything is fine."
I glance at the tulsi plant, then back at her. "Tomorrow will be a long day too." She nods. For a moment, silence settles between us, comfortable, unspoken, charged with everything we have been through and everything we have yet to say.
Then, softly, "Thank you... for this morning." I don't look away this time. "You don't have to thank me," I reply quietly. "It was my place to do that."
Her eyes soften. Something shifts again inside me, quieter this time, steadier. Less guilt. More resolve.
The courtyard buzzes around us, but in this small space between us, it feels like the world has slowed. I realize, with startling clarity, today wasn't just about a pooja.
It was about claiming her, not with force, not with control, but with responsibility. Not just in front of the world. But in front of myself.
And for the first time since I married her, I don't feel like I am drowning in regret. I feel like I am slowly finding my way back.