The Bride Left Waiting
SITARA
There’s a certain kind of silence that doesn’t belong in weddings. It isn’t the soft pause before the music starts or the hush when the priest chants. It’s heavier—like air itself is holding its breath.
That’s the silence I’m sitting in.
The garlands around the mandap smell too sweet. The lights blur. The jewelry on my wrists suddenly weighs like chains. Somewhere in the distance, I can still hear the flute playing the same tune on repeat because no one has told the musician to stop. No one dares.
Because the groom hasn’t shown up.
Ayush hasn’t shown up.
I hear the words whispered from one corner of the hall to another, carried like wind.
Traffic, maybe.
He’s on his way.
Someone call his family.
What an insult.
Poor girl.
Poor girl.
That one stings the most.
I keep my eyes on the floor, afraid that if I meet anyone’s gaze, I’ll crumble. Meher bhabhi-sa kneels beside me, her fingers brushing mine gently.
“Breathe, Sitara,” she whispers.
I try, but my chest feels locked.
Across the mandap, Poorvi is already speaking quietly with Devraj bhai-sa. His jaw is tight, his hands clasped behind his back—every muscle screaming restraint.
The priest coughs. And I—I laugh.
It’s a sharp, ugly sound, clawing its way out of my throat. Because what else am I supposed to do? Scream? Cry? Break something?
My fingers curl into fists. The bangles dig into my skin, sharp and unrelenting. For a second, I want to tear them off. Throw them at the door Ayush was supposed to walk through. Watch them shatter like the promises he made.
But I don’t. Because Sitara Singh Shekhawat doesn’t make scenes. She smiles. She endures.
“Maybe he just changed his mind about the buffet,” I mutter.
Meher bhabhi-sa squeezes my hand, her eyes full of that calm she always carries, the kind that makes you feel safe and foolish at once. “You don’t have to joke right now.”
“I do,” I say, forcing a smile. “It’s either that or faint, and I’m not fainting in this lehenga, Bhabhi-sa. It probably weighs more than me.” Which is so rare considering I am very… heavy.
She opens her mouth to reply, but someone rushes in. Ayush’s cousin, face pale, expression caught between guilt and fear.
He bows to Devraj bhai-sa, then looks away. “He’s not coming.”
The words fall like thunder.
The hall doesn’t gasp right away—it inhales first, a stunned second of disbelief—and then the sound erupts. Murmurs. Shuffling feet. A woman heaves. Someone mutters shameful.
I don’t move.
I don’t cry.
I just stare at the orange petals scattered on the floor. They look too bright, too alive for what I’m feeling inside.
Devraj bhai-sa’s voice cuts through the noise. “Everyone, please step outside. Give us a moment.”
People hesitate but obey, murmuring apologies or curiosity, each word pricking like needles.
When the hall empties, it’s only Meher, Poorvi, Devraj bhai-sa… and Dhruv.
I hadn’t noticed him before. He’s standing near one of the carved pillars, still in his cream sherwani, gold buttons gleaming faintly under the lights.
His expression is calm in a way that doesn’t belong in chaos.
The King of Ranakpur—my brother’s best friend—someone I’ve known since I was twenty-one, back when I called him “the annoyingly perfect guest.”
Now he just looks… steady.
Devraj bhai-sa walks up to me. “Sitara,” he says, voice low. “You don’t have to stay here. Go to your room. We’ll handle this.”
I nod numbly, trying to stand. My legs tremble under the weight of the lehenga and whatever dignity I have left.
Bhabhi-sa and Poorvi flank me, their arms at my elbows, guiding me gently through the side corridor.
I wish Tia was here, but she’s studying in London, and I didn’t want her to miss her finals because of me.
I promised her we would watch my wedding video together when she comes back. I guess that’s not happening.
As soon as we’re away from the main hall, I let out the breath I’ve been holding for what feels like hours.
The corridor smells of roses and sandalwood. I hate both scents right now.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
“You’re not,” Poorvi says softly. “And that’s okay.”
We reach my room. The air conditioning hums quietly. Someone has left a tray of sweets on the dresser—mocking me with the label ‘for the bride.’
The bride.
What a cruel title for a girl who’s already been abandoned.
Poorvi helps me sit on the bed. My bangles clink as I cover my face with my hands. “He didn’t even call, Bhabhi-sa. Not a single message. Just disappeared.”
Poorvi sits beside me, her voice steady. “That’s on him, Sitara, not on you.”
“I should have seen it,” I whisper. “He barely talked to me during the engagement. I thought he was just shy. Turns out he was preparing for a magic trick.”
“Sitara—”
“—vanishing groom.” I laugh bitterly. “Nice headline for tomorrow, isn’t it?”
Bhabhi-sa sighs, brushing a stray strand from my face. “You don’t need to think about tomorrow. Just breathe through today.”
I look up, my throat tight. “Bhabhi-sa, everyone will know. They’ll whisper about how the king’s sister wasn’t good enough. About how I was too heavy, too talkative, too… too me.”
Before she can answer, there’s a soft knock on the door.
Bhabhi-sa opens it slightly. Devraj bhai-sa steps in first, his expression carved from stone. Behind him, Dhruv follows, quiet as shadow.
“Sitara,” Devraj says, his voice lower now. “I wanted to tell you before the rest of the world does. Ayush’s family left the venue. They switched off their phones.”
For a moment, I can only stare. “Left?”
He nods once. “They’re gone.”
The words don’t make sense at first. How do people just… leave? Don’t they realize there’s a girl sitting here in red, waiting?
“I’ll issue a statement,” Devraj continues. “We’ll handle the press. No one will say a word that hurts you.”
He means it, I know he does. But words can’t protect me from pity. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a small sound that isn’t quite a sob.
Bhai-sa’s fists clench at his sides. He looks like he wants to destroy something. “If that man ever steps foot in Rajasthan again—”
“Bhai-sa,” I interrupt softly. “Please. Don’t make this worse.”
His jaw works, but he nods.
Dhruv hasn’t spoken a word. He’s standing a few steps away, watching me quietly. There’s no pity in his eyes—thank god. Just a kind of still concern that makes me want to cry harder.
Finally, Devraj bhai-sa turns to him. “I’ll make arrangements to clear the guests. We’ll end this quietly.”
As he speaks, Dhruv’s gaze doesn’t leave me.
It’s unnerving, how steady it is.
When Bhai-sa turns toward the door, Dhruv finally says, “Wait.”
The room stills.
His voice isn’t loud, but it carries—firm, certain, absolute.
He walks closer, stopping just a few feet away from me. “Devraj,” he says, and then his eyes shift to me. “Sitara.”
Something in the way he says my name makes my throat tighten.
“I know this isn’t the time for speeches,” he continues quietly, “but if you let this day end like this, it’ll haunt you. Every wedding you attend, every picture you see—it’ll come back to this moment.”
I blink, confused. “What are you saying?”
He breathes out slowly. “I’m saying I don’t want this to be the memory you carry.”
Then his gaze meets mine fully—unflinching, open, heartbreakingly sincere.
“I’ll marry you.”
The room goes completely silent.
Meher Bhabhi-sa gasps softly. Poorvi covers her mouth. Bhai-sa just stares at him, as if he didn’t hear right.
But I heard. Every syllable.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
I blink, my heart stuttering. "You—what?"
"Not for the gossip," he says, his jaw tightening for just a second. "Not for the guests." His voice drops, rough and certain. "Because I can’t stand the thought of you walking out of here believing you weren’t enough."
My lips part, but no sound comes out. My heart beats so loud I can barely hear anything else.
This can’t be real. This man—the King of Ranakpur, my brother’s best friend, the calm, grumpy yet golden-hearted one who always groans when I tease him,—is saying he’ll marry me.
Bhabhi-sa’s voice cuts through my haze. “Dhruv…”
He doesn’t look at her. He’s still watching me. “You don’t have to say yes, Sitara. You can forget these words if you want. But I’m not letting you walk out of today believing you weren’t enough.”
The tears finally fall. Not big sobs, just quiet, helpless tears that I can’t stop.
I cover my mouth with my hand, shaking my head slightly, because I don’t know what to say.
My breath hitches. "Dhruv, you don’t have to—"
"I do." His eyes hold mine, steady and sure, like he’s anchoring me to the moment. "You’re my friend, Sitara. And friends don’t let friends face the world alone."
"Why would you do this?" My voice cracks, and I hate how small I sound. "You barely know me—marriage is… it’s forever."
Dhruv almost smiles, like he’s holding back something deeper.
"I know you better than you think." His fingers twitch, as if he’s fighting the urge to reach for me. "I know you take your chai with too much sugar. I know you hum when you’re nervous. I know you’d rather draw than sleep, even when you’re exhausted.
" He pauses, his voice softening. "And I know you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. "
My throat tightens. "That’s not the same as knowing someone enough to marry them."
"No," he agrees. His voice is steady, but his fingers twitch at his sides—like he’s stopping himself from reaching for me. "But it’s enough for me."
I should refuse. I should. Because this isn’t fair to him. He’s a king. He has a kingdom, a legacy, a life that doesn’t need to be tangled up in my mess. He’s offering me his name like it’s nothing, like it won’t change everything for him too.
But then I look at his face—really look—and I see it.
The same tension in his jaw that was there when Ayush’s family left.
The same quiet anger in his eyes when the whispers started.
He’s not just doing this for me. He’s doing it because he hates this.
The pity. The judgment. The way the world treats women like we’re nothing without a man’s approval.
And maybe—that’s why I can trust him.
Because Dhruv isn’t offering me a way out. He’s offering me a way through. A way to walk out of this room with my head held high, to face the world without flinching. Not as the girl who was left, but as the girl who chose.
But is it right? To let him do this?
I think of all the times he’s been there—when I ranted about my failed dates, when I tripped and he caught me before I fell, when he listened like my words mattered. He’s never asked for anything in return. Not once.
And now, he’s giving me this.
Not out of pity. Not out of obligation. But because he sees me. The real me. The one who’s more than an ‘abandoned bride’ or a ‘king’s sister’. The one who’s just… Sitara.
I swallow hard. "You’ll regret this," I whisper.
His smile is small, but his eyes are fierce. "Then I’ll regret it."
And that—that’s the thing. He’s not pretending this is easy. He’s not lying to me. He’s choosing this, just like I have to choose now.
For the first time today, I don’t feel alone.