-37-
Aahan sat in his cabin, the silence of the room pressing against his ears.
He stared at his phone, his chest rising and falling in a ragged, uneven rhythm.
He couldn't decipher what he had done--or what he had failed to do--that had built this wall between them.
The news of her impending marriage had hit him like a physical blow.
He had convinced himself she was a passing fixation, a brief indulgence that wouldn't leave a mark.
He was a fool; the realization of her departure carved a hollow space into his chest deeper than he dared to admit.
He rose, his movements stiff, and retreated to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
As the city lights began to bleed into the encroaching twilight, his mind remained trapped in the orbit of her image.
He replayed the memory of her smile--the way her eyes crinkled until they disappeared, a laugh so unfiltered and raw it defied the artificial world he inhabited.
Her eyes were windows to a soul that refused to be masked; he could trace every flicker of confusion, every spark of curiosity whenever the world proved too complex for her to map out.
He had once told himself she was merely a woman with a seductive grace.
He didn't know when the deception ended.
He didn't know when thinking of her became the pulse of his daily schedule, or when the recordings of her voice--a melody he played on an endless, addictive loop--became the only thing that kept the silence at bay.
She was devastatingly pure. She moved through the world with a transparency that defied logic, offering trust to those who had never earned a drop of it.
He remembered the cadence of her voice--the sudden, breathless squeals of excitement over a good grade, the brittle, heart-wrenching sadness when she spoke of being bullied.
How could anyone be cruel to something so fragile? It was a question that defied his understanding. She was no longer just a body to be claimed; she was the only thing he looked forward to. She was a sweetness he had been starved of his entire life.
His hand fisted against the glass, the knuckles turning white, his eyes darkening to a obsidian shade.
Why had her parents denied him? Why Raghav Hooda?
He had been the one to see her first. It had been her mother who went ahead with the proposal.
They had played coy, pretending marriage wasn't on the horizon, only to schedule the union for a mere two months away.
It was an assault on his pride, but deeper than that, it was an agony that left his heart trembling, clenching with every beat.
It wasn't just the possessive need to have her in his sight. It was the crushing, suffocating fear of her being mishandled. The thought of someone else being the architect of her tears, of her being treated as anything less than the light she carried... it was unbearable.
Get a grip, Aahan. His brain waged a futile war against the rising tide of his emotions. She isn't the last woman on earth.
But that was the lie. She was the only one for him.
The only one he wanted to find at the end of a long, jagged day.
The only one he wanted to pull into the warmth of his arms. The only woman he wanted to see in the morning light and the last thing he wanted to witness before the world went dark.
The depth of his realization rendered him paralyzed.
He was terrified. He had poured too much of himself into a woman who was never meant to be his.
He cursed the reflection in the glass, the rage boiling over as he landed a brutal, shaking punch against the pane before burying his face in his hands.
He was ruined—and for the first time, he had no one to blame but his own foolish, stubborn heart.
Jayasvi felt the temperature shift the moment her bare feet touched the stone floor. The energy of the place was pulsating, a low-frequency hum that seemed to vibrate through her skin. She looked at the trees surrounding the perimeter, their branches gnarled like fingers reaching for the heavens.
"This is the temple of my family's Kuldevi," Raghav said, his voice dropping to a reverence.
"My father believes that the eternal power rests in the arms of a woman.
She has the power of giving life, something we men can never even think of doing.
" Raghav continued, gesturing toward the inner sanctum.
"She has the powerful gift of creation with her.
She is the one who deserves worship before anyone else.
Goddess of power, sacrifice, creation, and Love," Raghav continued, showing her the way before motioning to a few women.
The irony wasn't lost on her. His words were a symphony of respect, but they couldn't rewrite the history of how he had treated her.
When a group of women approached them, giggling with a mischievousness that suggested they were in on a secret she had no idea about, Jayasvi's skin crawled.
It was a stifling, orchestrated display.
"Go with them. They'll get you ready," Raghav spoke, this time not like an order but a suggestion, which was new coming from his side. She was going to say no, but then she preferred to change out of her loose, baggy clothes—not because they were a problem, but because it didn't matched her belief.
She silently followed the women to a small room near the temple.
She was asked to take a shower before they helped her into a sheer, gorgeous red saree with a blouse reaching her elbows.
She looked at her reflection in confusion as they adjusted the pleats of her saree in front of the mirror.
A few women went behind her, tying her hair elegantly before wrapping the long braid in a garland of jasmine flowers.
Her wrists were still adorned with the green bangles she was made to wear after the engagement, as per the customs of the families.
She was awestruck when she was made to wear the jewelry.
It was like they were getting her ready like a bride, with the heavy, elegant necklace sitting over her collarbone and the light but beautiful jhumkas adorning her earlobes.
She froze looking at her reflection, seeing the gold thin chain around her waist, adorning its shape more.
She had never thought she could look like this. It wasn't too much. The saree was light, yet it looked majestic paired with the jewelry. The moment they brought down a second red dupatta with an elegant border over her head, it added so much color to her face that was free of makeup.
She never thought she could look this way even without makeup. It was pure, beautiful, yet graceful. Why was he doing all that? Wasn't it too much? She wondered as the woman showed her the way back to the temple's entrance where Raghav was already standing, waiting for her.
She gulped, walking toward him. She couldn't understand why all this was going on, but she could suddenly feel a sudden warmth in this cold weather, even with the sheer saree on, and a certain weight of responsibility over her shoulder even before she could understand why this was happening.
He had expected to admire the drape of the saree, but he was held captive by her face.
Her skin glowed with the ethereal luminescence of the first, tentative ray of dawn breaking over a mountain peak.
Her lotus-shaped eyes, deep and bottomless, met his in a gentle acknowledgment that sent his pulse into a frantic, rhythmic gallop against his ribs.
Her eyebrows were arched with divine perfection, and her cheeks were flushed a soft, petal-pink, dusted with a dew-like radiance that made her appear impossibly soft.
When she parted her lips, they were tinted the color of a wild rose, softer, he imagined, than the velvet touch of a flower petal.
The slight, imperious lift of her jaw, usually a signal of her defiance, appeared tonight as something entirely different—it was dreamy, transcendent.
"What is this all about?" she questioned him, raising her eyebrow. The scent of the jasmine from her hair all around her made his heartbeat stop. He didn't answer her question like she had expected, instead offering her his hand, taking her inside slowly.
The scent of jasmine, heavy and intoxicating, radiated from her hair, wrapping around him like a silken shackle.
It was a fragrance that stopped his heart in its tracks.
He did not answer. He simply offered his hand, a silent request that she felt compelled to honor.
Her fingers, trembling slightly, slipped into his, and he led her inside with a reverence that felt like an act of worship.
She looked up at him—once—before turning her gaze toward the sanctum.
She reached up, adjusting the ghoonghat over her head.
She didn't know if this ritual was hers to claim, or if she was trespassing on holy ground, but in the presence of his steadying hand, the doubt ebbed away.
Her mind was a chaotic swirl of questions, but as they crossed the threshold into the mandir, she raised her hand and struck the brass bell.
Clang
The sound resonated through the hollow chamber, shivers dancing down her spine.
As they moved deeper into the dim, incense-thickened air, they stood before the idol of the Devi Maa.
She was the absolute embodiment of Shakti—the primal, feminine energy of the universe.
In her numerous hands, she held the instruments of war, yet in another, she carried the sacred scriptures, and in a third, the soft, open petals of a lotus.
She was both the destroyer of darkness and the protector of the light.
The Pandit Ji motioned for them to settle. Jayasvi bowed, her ornaments clinking with a delicate, rhythmic music as she adjusted her posture on the cold stone floor. Raghav followed, his usual jagged, aggressive energy replaced by a terrifying, absolute calm.
They were instructed to light the diya. As the flames danced to life, casting golden, flickering shadows across their faces, she felt a profound disorientation. She moved through the ritual of the parikrama, walking around the sanctum as if in a trance.
"You came here as the daughter-in-law of the Hooda family today for the first time.
I wanted her to see you that way only," Raghav's voice was a low, velvet hum, stripping away the roughness she was used to.
He held a crimson thread, winding it around her wrist with agonizing slowness, sealing the moment in blood-red silk.
"We call Her 'Dadi Devi'", he continued his eyes never leaving hers.
"The very protector of our family and generations.
I know I have been very wrong with the way I treated you till today, but trust me, Jayasvi, when I bring you here and I promise you here only, I would do anything and everything to protect you.
And I would try my level best to not let even the shadow of pain touch you. "
"I promise you this, not anywhere, but here.
I know I have given you no reason to believe me, I know.
But you'll be my ardhangini-- my other half soon.
Tum apne aap mein purn ho, kyunki tum naari ho(You are complete in your own soul because you are the divine feminine).
But I... I am just a man. I am a hollow vessel without you.
My work, my family, my legacy—they are all dust until touched by your essence. They are incomplete without you"
He reached for a plate of aalta, the vibrant red liquid shimmering in the lamplight. He moved her hand gently, guiding her feet into the crimson dye. Her heart hammered against her chest, a frantic bird seeking escape. Suddenly, he dropped to his knees before her.
The movement was so sudden, so stripped of his usual iron-clad ego, that she gasped. He began unbuttoning his shirt. They were alone—the temple guards were distant, the world outside hushed. The winter breeze brushed past, teasing the stray strands of her hair against her cheek.
"I know I have given you only pain. And no matter how much I apologize for it, it won't be enough in any way. So today, I want you to mark my very soul with your essence and take it as my apology," he whispered, his eyes searching hers for a mercy he didn't deserve.
Was he telling her to put her footprint over his chest? Her heart raced at the possibility.
"Step over the place which has always belonged to you, Jayasvi," he stated, removing his shirt at once, reaching back to hold her ankle gently to steady her foot. She reached to clutch his shoulder instinctively to maintain her balance.
She trembled. Her mind urged her to pull back, to call this madness, but the intensity burning in his eyes acted like a tractor beam.
She couldn't look away. Slowly, she lifted her foot, the aalta dripping like a promise of devotion, and placed it directly over his chest, just above the rhythm of his heart.
He didn't blink. He stared up at her with an adoration that was almost violent in its intensity. He pulled a pair of silver anklets from his pocket, clasping them around her feet with trembling fingers. He lowered his head, pressing his lips to her calf in an act of agonizing gratitude.
Jayasvi felt the world tilt. The intimacy of the gesture was an assault on her senses.
"The marriage hasn't happened in the eyes of the world yet," he whispered, rising to his feet. His shadow loomed large against the temple walls, swallowing the room. "But in front of my Dadi Devi, I want you to please accept me as your husband."
He stood tall, his gaze pinning her in place. "Promise me you will return here the very day I marry you before the world, in the grandeur of your bridal wear."