Seven Vows, Zero Choice
Sanjana
Two weeks passed the way a storm approaches. Quiet at first. Then inevitable.
The house filled with voices, instructions, distant relatives, and ritual preparations.
My name was spoken constantly, always followed by words like fortune, destiny, and blessing.
I nodded when required. Smiled when reminded.
Let my mother dress me, adorn me, prepare me for a future that had already been decided.
On the morning of the wedding, I looked at myself in the mirror and struggled to recognize the woman staring back.
The red silk saree was heavy, embroidered with gold thread that caught the light every time I moved.
Bangles circled my wrists, tight and cold.
My hair was braided and decorated with jasmine, the scent overwhelming in the small room.
A veil rested over my head, its edge brushing my eyelashes when I lowered my gaze.
I looked like a bride. I did not feel like one. Walking straight into my prison with this decoration and luxuries made no sense to me.
My mother adjusted my necklace with trembling fingers. She avoided my eyes, focusing instead on making sure everything set perfectly in place.
“You will be safe,” she whispered, as though repeating it enough times might make it true.
I nodded. Silence was easier than asking questions no one would answer.
The wedding venue was grand in a way that made me feel small. Lights shimmered overhead. Flowers lined every surface. People I did not know filled the space, dressed in expensive clothes, speaking in confident tones. This world belonged to Rudra. I was only passing through it.
I saw him for the first time in bridegroom attire when I was led toward the mandap.
He stood tall, dressed in an ivory sherwani, his posture straight, his expression unreadable. He looked exactly as he always had. Controlled. Unshaken. As though today was another calculated decision rather than the moment his life intertwined with mine.
Our eyes met briefly.
He inclined his head slightly. A greeting. Not affection. I lowered my gaze. I saw his brothers whispering something to him. Dev came to my side.
"Sister-in-law, don't worry. We are there for you. Just relax," Dev said.
I smiled politely unable to understand how to respond. But then I noticed, Rudra holding my hand. Is that an assurance?
Rudra, Dev, and Arjun had lost their mother in childhood. They were raised by their father—under strict discipline, trained early to shoulder responsibility and command an empire. Love was never taught the way control was. And now, even their father was gone.
They kept their relatives at a distance, knowing how venomous people could become in the presence of wealth and power.
The house had learned to survive without warmth, without trust. Could I bring back what had been lost with their mother so long ago?
That mansion had never known the tenderness of a woman, nor the quiet softness they had needed but never received.
Could I make them remember it again? Could I make them my family?
The rituals began. Chants filled the air, ancient and steady. My hands were placed in his, guided by the priest. His palms were warm, firm, unmoving. I became acutely aware of how cold my own hands were in comparison.
As we stood before the sacred fire, my breathing grew shallow.
The weight of the saree, the jewelry, the expectations pressed down on me all at once.
I reminded myself to stand straight. To keep my steps steady.
To not falter. Becoming the only daughter comes with many challenges and now stepping into another family as an elder daughter-in-law carries huge responsibilities.
Then the pheras began. With each step around the fire, something inside me tightened.
My bangles clinked softly as my hands shook.
I tried to steady them, but fear has a way of revealing itself despite every effort to hide it.
My fingers trembled in his grasp. I felt it when his hold shifted.
Not loosening. Not tightening. Adjusting.
My nervousness is clearly visible and felt by him but he didn't say anything.
He looked down at our joined hands.
For the first time that day, his composure cracked.
Only slightly. Only for a moment. But I saw it.
His thumb pressed gently against my knuckles, grounding without drawing attention. His pace slowed to match mine. The priest continued chanting, unaware that anything had changed, but Rudra had noticed. I wondered what he saw.
A frightened woman walking toward a future she had not chosen. Or simply a responsibility he had accepted.
By the fourth vow, my throat burned with unshed words. By the fifth, my vision blurred. I was about to fall but he held me.
"Careful. Falling is not for my wife. Because I won’t let that happen."
I didn't react trying to understand his words.
By the sixth, my legs felt unsteady beneath me.
When we completed the seventh, the crowd erupted into applause.
Now we are husband and wife.
The words echoed around me, distant and unreal.
As rituals concluded and blessings were offered, Rudra leaned slightly toward me. His voice was low enough that only I could hear.
“You are trembling. Are you scared of this?” he said.
Scared of you. And your rules. However I didn’t say it out.
Neither denied it.
“This will not harm you,” he continued. “I will make sure of that.”
I waited. Some part of me, foolish and untrained, waited for something more.
It did not come.
“There will be no expectations from you beyond what we discussed,” he said evenly. “No demands. No obligations of feeling."
Protection. Structure. Distance.
No affection.
I nodded because that was what expected from me.
When he tied the mangalsutra around my neck, his hands did not linger. When he applied sindoor to the parting of my hair, his touch was precise, careful, impersonal.
The crowd smiled. Cameras flashed. Blessings rained down upon us.
I stood beside my husband, dressed as a bride, bound by vows I had spoken without choosing.
Rudra looked ahead, composed as ever.
I looked at the fire one last time, wondering if it had witnessed my silence and mistaken it for consent too.