•| TWENTY ONE |•
The soft golden light of the bridal room fell gently over your figure as the makeup artist gave the final touches to your look, carefully adjusting the delicate veil over your head, letting it cascade like a sheer waterfall down your shoulders, framing your face that looked both breathtakingly beautiful and painfully fragile at the same time; your hands rested in your lap, fingers nervously intertwined, the henna on your skin still dark and fresh, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest that it almost drowned the surrounding sounds—until the quiet click of the door broke your trance, and you slowly lifted your gaze to see your parents standing there, their eyes instantly softening, shimmering with pride and unshed tears as they took in the sight of their daughter dressed as a bride, ready to step into a new life; your father was the first to move, his steps slow, almost reluctant, as if each step brought him closer to the moment he wasn’t ready to face, and when he finally reached you, he didn’t say anything at first—he simply pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you with a warmth that made your composure crack, “When did my little daughter become so mature…?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, and that was all it took for your eyes to fill, tears clinging to your lashes as you clutched the back of his sherwani, “I will miss you, dad…” your voice trembled, barely steady, and he kissed the top of your head, trying to stay strong for you, but before the moment could grow heavier, your mother’s voice chimed in from behind, laced with mock offense and hidden sorrow, “What about me? You’ll only miss your father?
” You let out a soft, tearful chuckle, extending your arm toward her, and she immediately joined the hug, cupping your face afterward, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, “I’ll miss you too, mom…
so much,” you murmured, and for a brief moment the three of you simply stood there, holding each other, memorizing the warmth, the scent, the feeling of home—until another knock echoed, gentler this time, and Aarav peeked in, offering an apologetic yet warm smile, “Umm… sorry to disturb the family moment, but everyone is waiting for the bride,” he said softly, and your father nodded, clearing his throat as he composed himself before intertwining his arm with yours, his hand patting yours reassuringly, “Take a deep breath, princess,” he whispered, and you did—one long, steady breath—before the doors ahead opened; the music swelled, sacred and grand, as you stepped forward onto the aisle, your lehenga brushing softly against the floor, each step feeling heavier than the last, your gaze fixed downward because you didn’t dare look up at the man waiting for you at the mandap, the man who was now your husband, while Krish, standing there in regal stillness, didn’t turn to look at you either—his expression unreadable, distant—as if emotions were carefully locked behind walls; but the silence between you both was broken by a small, innocent sound—Kiaan’s delighted clapping, his tiny hands coming together excitedly as he beamed at you, eyes sparkling with pure happiness, completely unaware of the complicated storm of emotions surrounding this union, his smile the only warmth in that solemn, life-altering moment as you finally reached the mandap, standing beside the man you were now bound to, your new life beginning not with words—but with silence, rituals, and the echo of a child’s joy.
The sacred fire had already been lit by the priest when you finally took your place beside Krish on the mandap, the flames flickering between you both like a living witness to a bond neither of you fully understood yet; the fragrance of ghee, sandalwood, and fresh marigolds filled the air while the rhythmic chanting of mantras created a solemn cocoon around you, isolating you from the hundreds of guests watching—your hands rested in your lap until the priest instructed for kanyadaan, and you felt your father’s hand tremble as he gently lifted yours, placing it into Krish’s palm, his voice breaking while reciting the vows he was meant to say, symbolically entrusting your happiness to another man, and that single touch—Krish’s warm, steady hand beneath yours—made your breath hitch because it was the first time he had held you willingly, even if only for ritual; your father’s tears fell freely now, your mother standing beside him with folded hands and wet eyes, while Krish remained composed, respectful, yet emotionally guarded, accepting the sacred responsibility in silence; soon your dupatta was tied to Krish’s stole in the gathbandhan, the knot firm and symbolic, binding your fates together, and as you both stood for the pheras, your heart pounded louder with each step around the holy fire—four rounds first led by him, signifying his promise to provide, protect, and guide, and the next three led by you, symbolizing your vows of loyalty, strength, and devotion—your anklets chimed softly with every step, the sound delicate against the priest’s deep chants, and though your eyes remained lowered, you could feel the weight of the knot behind you, reminding you that every step you took now included him; when you both sat again, the priest signaled for the most intimate ritual, and your breath stilled as Krish was handed the vermilion—sindoor—his fingers pinching the red powder, hesitating only for a fraction before he leaned forward, his hand steady yet distant as he filled the parting of your hair, the warmth of his touch lingering on your scalp, sending an unfamiliar shiver down your spine while the women around you ululated in celebration; before you could gather your thoughts, he picked up the mangalsutra, the black and gold beads glinting under the mandap lights, and tied it securely around your neck, the pendant settling against your skin like a tangible seal of this marriage, heavier than you had imagined—not in weight, but in meaning; petals were showered over you both as the priest declared you husband and wife, guests clapping, elders blessing, cameras flashing—but amid all the noise, your world narrowed to the quiet space beside you, where Krish sat, still unreadable, still distant, yet now irrevocably yours—while from the front row, Kiaan bounced excitedly, grinning from ear to ear, whispering loudly to anyone who would listen, “My mummy is here… my mummy is finally here,” his innocent joy echoing louder in your heart than the wedding drums, marking the true beginning of your new life—not just as a wife, but as someone stepping into a child’s waiting world, bound by fire, vows, and a future neither of you could escape now.
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After what felt like hours of smiling politely, greeting relatives you barely knew, and accepting endless blessings, your cheeks had begun to ache and your head felt slightly heavy beneath the bridal jewelry, yet you stood beside Krish with quiet grace until the last cluster of guests drifted away; excusing yourself gently, you moved toward your mother.
who was waiting near the corner of the hall, her eyes soft with pride and unshed tears as she adjusted the edge of your veil like she had done since childhood, asking in a hushed voice if you had eaten anything, if your heels were hurting, if you were feeling alright—and you were just beginning to reassure her when a tiny, breathless voice cut through the moment.
“Mummy,” making you turn instantly, your heart melting at the sight of Kiaan running toward you in his little sherwani, his hair slightly messy and eyes droopy with sleep; without hesitation he wrapped his small arms around your waist, clinging to you as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and you immediately bent down despite the heaviness of your lehenga, gathering him into your arms with practiced gentleness, your bangles clinking softly as you lifted him.
“Yes, baby?” you murmured, your voice automatically turning tender, and he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his warm breath fanning your skin as he mumbled drowsily, “Kiaan is sleepy,” hiding his face against you, seeking comfort he had already begun to associate with your presence; your lips curved into a soft smile as you shifted him higher on your hip, one hand cradling his head while the other patted his back in slow, soothing rhythms.
“My baby is tired… don’t worry, mummy will do something,” you whispered, instinctively swaying a little despite the crowd around you, completely forgetting the noise, the lights, the weight of your bridal attire—your entire focus narrowing to the child melting in your arms.
Beside you, your mother watched silently, emotion swelling in her chest at the sight of you stepping so naturally into a mother’s role, her little girl now comforting someone else’s child with effortless warmth, and she smiled through moist eyes before giggling softly, “He’s asleep already,” and you glanced down to see Kiaan’s lashes resting against his cheeks, his grip on your dupatta loose as sleep claimed him fully.
just then Mrs. Mehra approached, scanning the area before her gaze landed on you, “Kiaan? Oh—there he is… is he sleeping?” she asked, her tone softening as you nodded respectfully, adjusting Kiaan’s head on your shoulder, “Yes, he got tired,” you replied gently, and she stepped closer, concern flickering across her face, “Samira, you must be exhausted too, give him to me—” but you shook your head with a small, reassuring smile, tightening your hold protectively around him, “It’s okay, Mom…
I’ve got him,” your voice calm yet firm, making her pause before nodding in acceptance, warmth replacing concern.
“Fine then, let’s go… we have to leave now,” she said, turning toward your parents, and the moment those words settled in the air, reality struck again—your mother pulled Mrs. Mehra into a grateful hug, whispering “Take care of her,” while your father stood nearby trying to maintain composure, and you remained there holding the sleeping child close, feeling the quiet weight of new responsibilities in your arms as your old home, your old life, slowly prepared to let you go.
Krish was still standing near the entrance, deeply engrossed in conversation with Aarav, his posture relaxed yet his expression carrying the exhaustion of the long day, when you finally stepped out of the hall with Kiaan sleeping peacefully in your arms, his tiny face buried in the crook of your neck and his little fingers clutching your dupatta.
Aarav’s gaze instinctively shifted toward you first, and a soft, knowing smile tugged at his lips as he observed the way you were holding the child so naturally, so protectively, as if you had done it all your life, “Seems like Samira is going to be a great mother,” he remarked warmly, his tone light but sincere, and Krish’s brows knit slightly before he followed Aarav’s line of sight—his eyes landing on you; for a brief second he simply watched…
the careful way you supported Kiaan’s head, the patience in your steps despite the heavy bridal attire, the quiet tenderness on your face—and something unreadable flickered across his expression before he masked it with his usual composure.
Without responding to Aarav, he muttered a short, “We’ll leave now,” already moving in your direction, his long strides closing the distance quickly, and you hadn’t even noticed him approaching until his voice sounded right beside you, low and sudden.
“Is he sleeping?”—the closeness and abruptness made you jolt slightly, your grip tightening around Kiaan as you looked up at him, “Y-yeah…” you answered softly, still a little startled; he didn’t say anything more, just nodded once before carefully sliding his arms around Kiaan, lifting him from you with surprising gentleness so he wouldn’t wake, adjusting the child against his shoulder with practiced ease, and then he turned without another word, already walking toward the car as if it were the most obvious thing to do; you blinked at his retreating back, lips parting in mild disbelief at his curt behavior, irritation bubbling up despite yourself, “Jerk,” you mumbled under your breath, gathering the edge of your lehenga before hurrying behind him toward the car waiting to take you to your new home.