8
The morning sun streamed into Dhruv's room in golden streaks, diffused through the sheer white curtains, casting a warm glow on everything it touched. A quiet hum of excitement buzzed through the resort, echoing faintly even on the upper floors. It was the morning of the wedding.
Dhruv stood near the mirror, adjusting the folds of his maroon and cream-colored dhoti-kurta with focused hands.
The kurta was intricately embroidered with fine threadwork along the collar and sleeves — subtle yet regal.
The traditional pheta — a deep saffron turban with golden borders — had just been tied by a local dresser, and it sat perfectly on his head, giving him a dignified, royal look.
The mundu-style stole draped across one shoulder fell in elegant pleats, and a thin gold chain rested softly along his neckline.
He wasn't used to dressing like this. Suits, yes. Blazers, always. Even sherwanis were manageable. But this — this traditional Marathi groom's attire — made him feel like someone from another time. Not in a bad way. Just... in a way that reminded him this wasn't just a function.
It was a wedding.
His wedding.
He looked at himself in the mirror again, blinking slowly. For a moment, he didn't even recognize the man looking back. There was something softer in his eyes today, a calm determination that hadn't been there even a week ago. He adjusted his stole once more — out of habit, not need.
A knock at the door broke his concentration. Then, without waiting for a response, the door opened — and in walked his parents.
"Arre wah," his mother said first, the kind of smile on her face that mothers reserve for rare moments. "Maza mulga lagna karayla tayar aahe!" My son is ready to get married.
His father followed her in, more composed but clearly emotional in his own quiet way. He looked Dhruv up and down with a small nod of approval. "Looking sharp, son," he said. "Traditional suits you."
Dhruv smiled, a little bashfully. "It feels... different," he said, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. "But good different, I think."
His mother stepped forward and adjusted the edge of his pheta slightly, the way only a mother would know to do. "You look perfect," she said. "Just like your baba did on our wedding day."
Dhruv chuckled. "Then that's good company to be in."
They stood there for a second — just the three of them — letting the moment settle. Outside, faint wedding music had started to drift up from the lawn, the sounds of shehnai blending with the rustle of the trees. The scent of fresh flowers — marigold, mogra, roses — wafted in, completing the mood.
"Are you nervous?" his father asked, not in a pressing way, but gently — like he was genuinely curious.
Dhruv thought for a moment. "I thought I would be," he admitted. "But not really. It just feels... like the beginning of something."
His mother touched his cheek affectionately. "She's a lovely girl. We're so proud of you."
Just then, Aarav knocked and popped his head in. "All set, Mr. Groom? Barat's starting in twenty," he said, holding up his phone.
Dhruv nodded. "I'll be down in five."
His parents gave him one last look — one filled with emotion, pride, and that unspoken transition from son to husband — before they left the room.
Dhruv turned back to the mirror, took a deep breath, and straightened his shoulders.
It was time.
The sound of dhols echoed through the resort grounds as the baraat began, bursting with color, rhythm, and an almost electric kind of energy.
Laughter mixed with beats, and flower petals floated down from balconies as guests leaned over to catch a glimpse of the groom's procession.
Staff members watched with smiling faces as the grand celebration unfolded.
At the center of it all, Dhruv sat tall and composed on a beautifully adorned white mare, its bridle and saddle draped in red and gold.
The groom's attire gleamed under the morning sun, his pheta standing out like a crown.
He held the reins lightly, a small amused smile playing on his lips as his cousins and friends danced enthusiastically around him.
Aarav, Tanay, and Neil were leading the pack, pulling off coordinated moves with unabashed energy.
Aditi was right behind them, clapping to the beat and laughing as she watched Mahesh and Jaya groove together for a moment.
Vihaan and Vedant, in matching kurta-pajamas, ran around playfully, wanting to join the baraat, tossing flower petals and dragging unsuspecting uncles into the dancing crowd.
The entire baraat did a round of the resort, making a slow, grand circle along the pathways lined with marigold garlands and floral torans, before finally returning to the main entrance, where Vaani's parents waited with warm smiles and poised grace.
The entrance arch was beautifully done up with mogra, roses, and banana leaves, with two ornate brass lamps lit on either side. Soft shehnai music played now, more ceremonial and serene, balancing the loud festivity of the procession.
As the horse stopped, the groom dismounted with the help of his cousin and walked forward. His smile was steady, respectful — a calm amidst the joyful chaos.
Sunita stood beside her husband, holding a decorated thali with a small diya, kumkum, rice, and a garland. Ramesh, in a crisp kurta and shawl, stepped forward and greeted Dhruv with folded hands. "Welcome, beta."
Dhruv returned the gesture with humility. "Namaste, uncle."
Sunita stepped up with the thali. She did a gentle aarti, moving the plate in circular motions in front of him, her eyes affectionate but measured — the way a mother might look at the boy taking her daughter's hand.
She applied a small tilak on his forehead and placed a few grains of rice over it. Then she gently put a garland around his neck, smiling faintly. "Aaj se hamare ghar ka beta," she said quietly.
Dhruv bowed his head slightly. "Thank you."
Then came Ramesh, who placed his hand on Dhruv's shoulder and gestured him inside. "Let's go make you our son-in-law — officially."
Everyone chuckled. Jaya and Mahesh stepped forward too, hugging Vaani's parents warmly. The joy was mutual, deep, and respectful — not just two families coming together, but two worlds, slowly beginning to blend.
As they entered the venue, more rose petals were showered from above by the decorators. Inside, the wedding mandap stood tall — a canopy of white and yellow drapes, covered with jasmine strings and marigold wreaths, surrounded by brass lamps and floral arrangements.
But Dhruv barely took it all in. He wasn't distracted by the grandeur.
The wedding hall was a breathtaking blend of traditional Marathi aesthetics and understated elegance, glowing warmly in the soft morning sunlight filtering through the tall glass panels of the resort's grand indoor-outdoor venue.
Though spacious, every inch of the hall was soaked in intention and ritualistic detail — from the floral decorations to the placement of sacred items.
At the center stood the mandap, the sacred canopy where the main wedding rituals would take place.
It was constructed using four intricately carved wooden pillars, each wrapped in strings of orange marigolds, white mogra, and green mango leaves.
The drapes flowing from the mandap's top were a delicate blend of off-white and saffron silk, creating a soft halo around the space.
Hanging from the corners were kalash garlands — coconut, mango leaves, and marigolds arranged in a way only a skilled florist could manage, bringing in a sense of ritual purity.
The floor beneath the mandap was spread with a beautiful red and gold woven carpet, while a low wooden platform (vedi) was placed in the center.
Upon it, the sacred fire pit (havan kund) had been set up — ready with dried wood, ghee, and samagri for the upcoming rituals.
Beside it were the copper puja thalis, filled with turmeric, vermillion, rice grains, sandalwood paste, incense sticks, and small silver idols of deities.
To one side of the mandap, there was a beautifully arranged Supari Pooja table, containing betel nuts, banana leaves, sugar, and small turmeric pieces, along with silver coins — essential items in a Marathi wedding.
A copper kalash with coconut and mango leaves was placed with precision near the base of the mandap, marking it as a space for invoking blessings.
Around the mandap, floor seating had been arranged for close family members, using white mattresses with gold cushions, and small backrests to make it comfortable for the elders.
The guest seating was arranged in clean rows facing the mandap — white chairs with mustard yellow sashes tied around them. The aisle was lined with petals, and brass diyas placed in intervals, ready to be lit as soon as the main rituals began.
The entrance to the hall had a traditional toran made of aam ke patte (mango leaves) and marigolds, with a sign that read "Shubh Mangal" in elegant Marathi calligraphy.
Just as one entered, there was a haldi-colored welcome rangoli on the floor — symmetrical, bright, and floral — with the bride and groom's initials woven into the design.
Soft instrumental shehnai music played in the background, creating a gentle and reverent mood. Incense floated through the air, grounding the moment in spiritual calm.
On one side of the hall, a refreshments corner was set up with brass urns filled with flavored water — rose, saffron, and mint — alongside small clay cups of warm tulsi chai for elders.
Near it, staff walked around offering dry fruits and sweets like shrikhand, ladoo, and chakli, keeping in line with the Maharashtrian tradition.
The colors — white, gold, saffron, and green — blended seamlessly with the traditional motifs, creating a setting that felt sacred yet warm, festive yet rooted.
This was not just a wedding setup.
It was a sacred space.
A place where two lives, two families, and two worlds were about to unite — in the most timeless, beautiful way possible.
The air had shifted.
As the wedding rituals began, a quiet reverence settled across the beautifully decorated hall.
The hum of the shehnai blended with the soft chanting of mantras from the priest seated near the sacred fire.
All eyes were on the groom, who was now seated on the vedi beneath the mandap — surrounded by the sacred tools of the ceremony, the scent of sandalwood smoke gently curling into the air around him.
Dhruv sat straight, his posture formal yet composed.
He had changed into a beautifully tailored cream-colored silk kurta-pyjama, layered with a traditional golden beige dhotar, wrapped carefully around his waist with a precise tuck.
Over his shoulder rested a chocolate brown stole with thin zari work, complementing his understated elegance.
Around his neck, a traditional pearl mala with a single ruby bead in the center hung gracefully.
His hair had been neatly set, a fresh sandalwood tika pressed between his brows.
Then came the mundavalya.
His mother stepped forward with a soft smile, her eyes brimming with emotion.
In her hand, she held the mundavalya — two strings of pearls tied horizontally across the forehead, with vertical strands hanging down on either side of the face.
Gently, she tied it around her son's head, brushing his forehead with love as she stepped back to take a look.
Everyone around smiled. He looked like a true Marathi groom now — regal, rooted, and ready.
The priest recited more mantras, and Dhruv offered grains into the sacred fire, bowed before the deities, and received blessings from his elders as part of the Kanyadaan preparations.
And then, the priest said solemnly,
"Vadhu la anaa. Bring the bride."
A hush fell across the mandap.
All turned their heads as the bride made her entrance.
And there she was — Vaani.
She walked slowly, her steps soft, graceful, and measured.
Her presence had an ethereal quality, like someone who had stepped out of time and tradition itself.
She was dressed in a stunning bottle green nauvari saree, draped in the traditional Marathi Brahmin style.
The saree shimmered with delicate gold zari borders, and the pleats were tucked perfectly, cascading down like a waterfall with each step she took.
Her blouse was a rich maroon, contrasting the green saree — elbow-length sleeves with delicate embroidered butis and a high neckline that added elegance to the traditional look.
Around her waist was a delicate gold kamarpatta (waist belt), holding the saree in place and adding to her bridal grace.
Her hands and arms were adorned with deep mehendi, glowing under the lights, and stacked with green glass bangles, interspersed with gold kadas — the symbolic bridal set for a Maharashtrian bride.
Her hair was tied up into a neat bun, wrapped with gajra, and her forehead bore a perfectly centered crescent bindi with kumkum. Above it, tied delicately with a sacred thread, sat her own mundavalya, matching Dhruv's — thin pearl strands framing her glowing, slightly blushing face.
She wore a small nath (traditional Maharashtrian nose ring) that curved beautifully around her cheek, and a light dusting of golden eyeshadow gave her eyelids a festive gleam.
Her lips carried just a hint of soft rose color, her cheeks dusted with emotion more than makeup.
Around her neck were layers of traditional Mohanmaal and chinchpeti necklaces, with one long necklace tucked into the folds of her saree.
But what truly held everyone's attention was the quiet composure on her face. She looked nervous, yes, but also collected — like a woman who knew the magnitude of this moment.
Dhruv turned slightly, his eyes catching hers just for a second.
There was no exchange of words.
Just a flicker of understanding.
A breath held.
And released.
Vaani made her way to the stage, each step echoing softly in the hall as her brothers, Vedant and Vihaan, escorted her to the mandap. She joined Dhruv at the sacred fire, sitting across from him as the priest prepared the antarpat (the cloth screen) to be held between them.
The wedding had begun.
Not just with rituals — but with two people, now dressed in tradition, ready to step into something timeless.
The antarpat — one of the most symbolic and anticipated moments in a traditional Marathi wedding — was now being brought forward.
It was a long rectangular piece of pristine white cloth, usually made of cotton or fine silk, bordered with delicate gold embroidery.
The edges were finished with tiny golden tassels that swayed slightly with every movement.
In this wedding, Jaya and Sunita had gone the extra mile, and the antarpat wasn't just plain — it had been specially embroidered with subtle motifs of mango leaves, swastikas, and lotus flowers, all sacred and auspicious in Maharashtrian rituals.
The antarpat was held up by Vaani's brothers — Vedant and Vihaan — who now stood on either side of the couple, gripping the ends of the cloth with both pride and trembling excitement.
Despite their earlier nervousness, they were taking this responsibility seriously.
The screen now created a barrier between the bride and groom, shielding them from seeing each other until the auspicious moment arrived.
To everyone watching, this white curtain wasn't just fabric. It symbolized the lives they had led apart — the families, experiences, and journeys that had shaped them individually. It was the last veil of separation between two people about to begin their new life together.
Behind the antarpat, Vaani stood on one side of the curtain, her eyes slightly lowered, her hands folded calmly in her side.
Dhruv stood on the other side, his posture straight, his expression composed — though every so often his fingers fidgeted slightly, revealing the fluttering anticipation within.
The priest's voice grew more rhythmic, mantras echoing with intensity and purpose now.
Family members stood closer to the mandap, their attention locked on the sacred ritual.
Jaya dabbed the corner of her eye discreetly; Sunita gave a tiny reassuring nod to Vaani.
Mahesh and Ramesh looked on with solemn pride.
And then — at the perfectly calculated mahurat (auspicious time) — the priest raised his hand and called out:
"Antarpat sodava!"
"Let the curtain fall."
Vedant and Vihaan exchanged a quick glance, then slowly lowered the antarpat.
And for the first time that day, Dhruv and Vaani saw each other — not just in attire and tradition, but through the lens of their new beginning — as husband and wife.
A quiet, significant moment. One breath.
And their eyes met — this time, nothing between them.
With the sacred fire crackling gently at the center, the priest recited the mantras in a steady rhythm. The antarpat — the cloth that had separated them — was now lowered, and as Dhruv and Vaani looked at each other for the first time as bride and groom, subtle smiles flickered across their faces.
Then came the Saptapadi — the seven sacred steps around the fire, each one symbolizing a vow, a promise, a shared step into the life ahead.
Their garments were gently knotted together by the priest — her pallu with his stole — signifying their bond. Holding each other's hands lightly, they stood and began the pheras, taking each step solemnly.
With every round, the priest recited a vow — for nourishment, strength, prosperity, family, children, health, and friendship.
Vaani's anklets chimed softly with each step, and the bells in the temple corner echoed them, as if in blessing.
Dhruv matched her pace, quiet and composed, the two of them moving in perfect synchrony.
As the final chants of the priest echoed softly and the sacred thread of rituals continued to bind them together, the priest looked up and announced with a gentle smile,
"Ata var-patnichya ekmekanna haar ghalanyacha samay aala ahe.
"
(Now, it's time for the bride and groom to exchange garlands.)
A subtle murmur of excitement passed through the gathering.
Two beautiful flower garlands were brought forth—delicate strings of white jasmine, pink roses, and marigold, tied together with tiny gold beads, fragrant and fresh.
Dhruv stood up first, holding his garland in his hands.
He looked at Vaani, who slowly rose as well, adjusting her saree lightly as she stood in front of him.
Her eyes were soft, unsure for just a moment, but held steady as he leaned slightly forward and placed the garland gently around her neck.
The scent of flowers mingled with the scent of sandalwood lingering.
There was light applause, soft and warm.
Then it was her turn.
Vaani's fingers brushed over the garland, lifting it delicately. She looked up at Dhruv — taller, calm, and quietly watching her with a faint, unreadable expression. She took a small step closer, and he instinctively bent his head just slightly — a gesture that made a few of her cousins giggle.
She smiled, a little embarrassed but determined, and placed the garland over his neck.
For a beat, they stood there, facing each other — two people from different corners of the same world, now entwined by tradition, choice, and something quietly blooming between them.
The priest nodded in satisfaction.
"Ata he ekmekanchya jeevanatil sakhya jhale.
"
(Now they are companions for life.
)
The sacred fire flickered softly, its warm glow casting a gentle light over the faces of everyone gathered.
The priest, with a steady and reverent voice, began the next crucial part of the ceremony—the binding of their lives with the symbols of marriage.
"Now, the groom will place the mangalsutra around the bride's neck," the priest announced, his voice resonating with tradition and warmth.
Dhruv, seated beside Vaani, looked at her with a quiet tenderness.
His hands, steady but gentle, reached for the mangalsutra — a delicate yet significant chain of black and gold beads with a pendant that shimmered subtly under the hall's lights.
It was a symbol that carried generations of blessings, a promise of protection and unity.
As he lifted the mangalsutra, Vaani's breath caught for a moment.
The air seemed to still around them, as if the entire world was holding its breath for this intimate exchange.
The black beads gleamed against the vibrant maroon of her blouse, and the emerald green saree's zari borders seemed to reflect the golden hue of the pendant.
Dhruv carefully looped the mangalsutra over her head and settled it gently on her neck.
The weight of the chain was more than just physical—it was the weight of responsibility, love, and lifelong commitment.
Vaani lowered her eyes respectfully, feeling the presence of everyone around but also the sacred space they were creating between just the two of them.
The priest then spoke the sacred mantras, invoking blessings from the gods and ancestors for the couple's happiness, health, and prosperity. The hall was hushed, every heart attuned to the sanctity of the moment.
Next came the sindoor ceremony — the mark of a married woman, a vibrant symbol of love, respect, and new beginnings. The priest took the small silver container of sindoor, its deep vermilion color rich and radiant.
"Now, the groom will apply the sindoor on the bride's hair parting, marking her as his wife," the priest said solemnly.
Dhruv picked up the sindoor with his right hand, his fingers steady but tender.
He glanced up at Vaani briefly, her eyes lowered but shimmering with emotion.
Carefully, reverently, he applied a thin streak of sindoor along the parting of her hair, tracing the line from her forehead backward.
The red powder contrasted beautifully with the dark hair, creating a vivid, almost glowing mark that symbolized her new status.
Vaani felt a surge of emotions — pride, joy, a touch of nervousness, and a deep, grounding sense of belonging. The sindoor was more than just color; it was a sacred thread connecting her to Dhruv, their families, and the traditions that had carried them to this day.
The priest then chanted the final blessings, his voice steady and powerful, "Sakal sanskar sampanna zale aahet. Lagn sampan jhale." (All rituals are complete. The marriage is now complete.)
Dhruv and Vaani turned to each other, their eyes meeting in a quiet, profound acknowledgment of the journey they were beginning. Around them, the family and friends erupted into smiles and soft applause, their faces glowing with joy and blessing.
The mangalsutra rested on Vaani's neck, the sindoor bright in her hair — both timeless symbols that marked this day, this bond, and a lifetime yet to unfold.
As the wedding rituals came to a close and the mandap slowly emptied, the sounds of laughter and clinking dishes floated in from the dining area where most guests had finished eating and gone to their rooms to rest before the reception.
Dhruv and Vaani, however, remained seated by the mandap, quietly finishing the final rounds of the post-wedding rituals.
Their parents stayed beside them — offering final prayers, blessings, and warm, gentle words.
The sacred fire had burned low now, and with a few final mantras, the priest tied the ceremony together, declaring it complete.
Jaya reached out to fix the flowers on Dhruv's mundaval one last time while Anjali lovingly adjusted the pallu of Vaani's saree.
Mahesh turned to them with a soft smile.
"Everyone's had lunch and gone to their rooms to rest," he said.
"You two should eat now — make sure you get some energy before the reception. "
Vaani blinked. "Everyone's gone?"
Jaya nodded. "Yes, beta. The rituals took time, and everyone's a bit tired. But we've had plates set aside for you. Come."
Dhruv gave a small smile. "Let's go."
He gently gestured for Vaani to walk ahead, and the group made their way to a smaller hall where a table was set for them with a variety of food — puran poli, batata bhaji, masala bhaat, koshimbir, and more.
As they entered, they spotted Aarav already sitting at one of the tables, clearly enjoying his food. He looked up dramatically, grinning ear to ear.
"Well, well, look who finally made it," he teased. "Mr. and Mrs. Deshmukh!"
Dhruv gave a small smile and pulled out a chair for Vaani before sitting beside her.
Aarav leaned back in his chair and wiped his hands. "So, tell me — how does it feel? First meal as a married man. Does the food taste different now? More... emotionally seasoned?"
Everyone laughed, including Jaya, who shook her head fondly. "Aarav will never grow up."
Aarav went on, smirking. "I mean, look at you two. Sitting here all royal, post-wedding glow and all. I'm expecting poetry now. Dhruv, come on, say something like 'Meeting you gave meaning to my life.' Give us something good."
Dhruv rolled his eyes and reached for a spoonful of rice. "I think marriage has already increased my tolerance for bad jokes."
Vaani chuckled softly, her shoulders relaxing as she started eating, her hunger finally catching up with her.
Sunita looked between the two and smiled warmly. "You both look tired — but happy."
"We are," Dhruv said simply, not glancing at Vaani but somehow still including her in the sentence.
The table settled into comfortable conversation, filled with teasing, soft laughter, and clinking cutlery as the newlyweds shared their first quiet moment together — no rituals, no instructions — just food, family, and each other.
~·~
The resort's central lawn had been transformed into a vision of evening elegance.
String lights crisscrossed the open sky like stars brought down to earth — warm, golden bulbs glowing gently above the crowd.
A canopy of white and gold fabric draped over the stage, gathered in folds with fresh roses pinned at intervals, glowing under the soft uplighting.
At the center of the stage, a cream velvet loveseat stood, framed by pillars of blush, ivory, and marigold flowers.
Gold lanterns hung from trees, flickering gently in the early evening breeze.
Round tables covered in ivory linen filled the lawn, each with a gold runner, crystal vases filled with peach and pink roses, and name cards placed with precision.
Waiters moved discreetly, readying mocktails and hors d'oeuvres.
The air was light with music — a live band playing gentle instrumental renditions of classic love songs, violins and sitars blending into the setting sun.
Guests had begun to gather, dressed in their best — flowing gowns, crisp kurtas, embroidered sherwanis. Cameras flashed as family and friends greeted one another, laughter and compliments filling the golden hour.
And then, a soft announcement crackled through the speakers:
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the bride and groom!"
All heads turned toward the entrance — a floral archway laced with jasmine and orchids — just as Vaani and Dhruv stepped into view.
Vaani looked ethereal in a deep wine-colored silk saree with a golden zari border that shimmered under the lights.
The saree hugged her frame gracefully, draped over her left shoulder with precision.
Her blouse was golden beige, short-sleeved with intricate threadwork, highlighting her collarbone and the simple gold chain she wore along with her mangalsutra.
Her hair was left open, soft waves cascading down her back, with a few strands pinned delicately behind one ear.
Sindoor rested on her hair parting and a small maroon bindi sat centered on her forehead, and her earrings — elegant jhumkas — caught the light with every step.
Beside her, Dhruv cut a striking figure in a tailored charcoal grey suit with a white shirt and a muted maroon tie, subtly matching her saree.
A pocket square peeked out from his blazer — wine with gold trimming — clearly chosen with her in mind.
His hair was neatly styled, and the way he carried himself — confident, composed — drew quiet admiration from every corner.
They walked slowly down the central aisle, soft music playing in the background as petals were tossed gently by two younger cousins ahead of them. Everyone stood, clapping, smiling, many pulling out phones and cameras to capture the moment.
They reached the stage, where Dhruv held Vaani's hand lightly to help her up the steps, and then both turned to face the crowd with polite smiles, a little bashful under the attention.
The photographer beckoned them to pose and for a few minutes they stood for photos — side by side, slightly turned toward one another, the classic newlywed stance — both aware of how different it felt to be standing there not just as Dhruv and Vaani, but as husband and wife.
Aarav was the first to break the formality, running up with a huge grin.
"Okay, okay, let the proper photo session begin!
"
He jumped on stage, calling Vedant and Vihaan, then Ria, Naina, Simran, and soon a mini stampede of close friends and cousins joined, one photo after another being snapped — goofy, candid, emotional, funny.
As the photos continued, Vaani glanced sideways at Dhruv, who was talking to her uncle.
There was something quietly grounding about him — how he didn't overdo anything, how he stayed attentive without overstepping.
This wasn't like any of the stories she had heard from friends, of awkwardness or stiffness at receptions.
She felt at ease. She didn't need to overthink.
They had just finished posing for a group of older relatives when Vihaan and Vedant darted up the steps to the stage, full of energy.
"Tai!" Vihaan called, waving to her with his phone in hand. "One with us, come on!"
Vaani smiled instantly. "Come here, come here," she said, adjusting her pallu slightly as both brothers rushed toward her.
Vedant looked a little more formal than usual in a bandhgala suit, though his shy smile remained intact. "Umm... Jijaji," he said, glancing at Dhruv, "can we take one photo with just the three of us? Before everyone else comes."
Dhruv chuckled softly. "Of course," he said, already shifting slightly to make space for them.
Vihaan leaned in on one side of Vaani, Vedant on the other. The three siblings smiled for the camera — no poses, just warmth.
After the first photo, Vihaan grinned mischievously. "Okay now, one goofy one, tai — our signature!"
Before she could protest, both brothers made exaggerated faces — Vihaan raising his brows and making a dramatic shocked face, Vedant sticking out a peace sign. Vaani, rolling her eyes, laughed and leaned into it.
Click.
Then Vihaan turned to Dhruv. "Okay jijaji, your turn now. You're officially part of the madness."
Vedant nodded seriously. "No backing out. You married into this."
Dhruv raised a brow, amused. "Fine. But no bunny ears."
Vihaan smirked. "No promises."
They took a fun picture — Dhruv standing with both Vihaan and Vedant on either side, all smiles, and Vaani looking at the three of them like she already knew this photo would become one of her favourites.
Just then, Ria, Naina, and Simran arrived at the foot of the stage, waving dramatically.
"Your bridal crew has arrived!" Simran called out.
Ria grinned. "Hope you're ready for twenty selfies, Mrs Deshmukh."
Vaani laughed and stood up, fixing her saree pleats. "Yep!"
The three girls climbed up and immediately engulfed her in a soft group hug, all whispering congratulations, teasing her about how surreal it all felt.
Ria turned to Dhruv with a teasing smile. "Hope you don't mind, we're kidnapping her for a few photos."
"I've learned to surrender," Dhruv said dryly, earning a round of laughter.
The girls took turns posing with Vaani — doing the mandatory heart sign, a back-to-back pose, and even a silly one where Simran pretended to wipe her tears dramatically.
After the shots, they insisted on one big group picture with Dhruv too. As they posed, Naina whispered to him, "You're in the gang now, Dhruv Jiju. No escape."
He smiled. "I'm learning that quickly."
Aarav, who had been watching from the side, walked up with a grin. "Alright, alright, give the man some breathing room. Let's get one of the bride and groom alone — not just with the entourage."
Everyone cleared the stage for a moment. As Vaani and Dhruv stood together, arms lightly touching, the photographer captured them in a natural moment — their smiles tired but content, their gazes slipping toward each other every now and then without even realising.
Vedant, watching from below, turned to Vihaan and whispered, "They look happy, don't they?"
Vihaan nodded. "Yeah... they really do."
And under the soft lights of their reception, surrounded by friends, family, and laughter, the newlyweds stood together — quietly settling into what felt like the beginning of something big, and something beautiful.
In that moment, as the sun dipped and fairy lights took over the sky, Vaani and Dhruv sat surrounded by hundreds, but still a little bubble formed around them — quiet, steady, new. Married.
??