Chapter 15 The Roka Report
Tradition is just politics in prettier clothes.
- Vritant Vardhan
"Ashwin, are you serious about Roka this today?" Shaurya asked, concern threading his voice. "But the kids-"
"I'm ready," Adhrita interrupted firmly, her voice steady and clear.
She didn't wait for anyone's response. "I'll get ready," she said and turned away toward her room.
Her words were decisive, but her back was even louder. No hesitation, no glance over the shoulder - just the unbroken line of a woman who had made up her mind.
He watched her disappear down the hallway, the air still humming with the weight of her "I'm ready."
It was the kind of answer that left no room for his.
Shaurya's gaze lingered on him, searching for reaction, maybe resistance. But this wasn't a battlefield; it was a formality dressed in silk and flowers. And he'd learned early that in their world, you don't fight the ceremony - you wear it like armor.
He pulled out his phone, thumbs moving with the same precision he reserved for signing billion-dollar contracts.
You made her write the speech. I've already released the Assam minister's footage - your party's own man.
My future wife gets dragged into politics without my consent, and that was me being polite.
The next leak won't be about them. It will be about me, telling the world the Prime Minister sold her son's marriage for political gain.
Respectfully, the not-so-well-wisher of Rashtradhara Party.
He sent it to Mrs. Vardhan.
Vritant had just set his phone down - Not-so-well-wisher-of-Rashtradhara Party - when the murmur of the hall shifted.
She was at the far end of the hall, framed by marble pillars and the shimmer of crystal chandeliers.
Adhrita.
The deep jewel-toned silk of her suit caught the light with each step, but the stillness in her gaze made it clear - she hadn't worn it for applause. The dupatta fell over one shoulder in deliberate ease, the gold embroidery a quiet echo of tradition rather than surrender to it.
It didn't matter that the silk wasn't hers by choice, or that the gold bangles clinked awkwardly on her wrist. What mattered was the way the room stilled, like even the air needed a second to reconcile the woman with the image.
Then he looked at Vedashree. She'd just finished reading the message, her eyes flickering to her son - sharp, calculating.
Vritant smiled, slow and deliberate, like he'd just signed a treaty on his own terms. She glared at him for half a second before smoothing her expression into the practiced grace of a Prime Minister.
"Shall we start?" Neeta Adani, Adhrita's chachi, asked politely.
"No," Vedashree said, blunt enough to slice the air.
"Vedashree?" Shaurya called his wife's name, the tone halfway between a question and a sigh - now what?
"Shaury," she said, every syllable deliberate, "Mummyji and Papaji are on the way. They'll be here in a few minutes. We can't start the ceremony without their blessings... right?" Her pauses were surgical - the kind that reminded everyone she still decided the pace of the room.
Moments later, the elders arrived. Shaurya and Vedashree moved forward, welcoming them with a display of warmth that almost erased the earlier chill. Almost.
Just then, Shweta and Aaradhya entered, exchanging a brief glance before settling beside Vedashree without a word.
It wasn't spoken, but the arrangement said enough - three women, shoulder to shoulder, an unbroken front in the middle of a family gathering.
"Mere pote ka roka ho raha hai," Raj Vardhan's voice carried through the room - warm with pride, yet edged with a trace of something unspoken.
(My grandson's roka ceremony is happening.)
"Ji, papa ji," Shaurya replied smoothly. "Suddenly Ashwin rishta le kar aaya, toh humne socha... itni pyari bacchi hai, humare Vritant ke liye. Toh humne socha, der kyun karein?" His words were wrapped in sugar, concealing the politics underneath.
("Suddenly Ashwin brought a marriage proposal, so we thought... such a lovely girl, perfect for our Vritant. So we thought, why wait?")
Across the room, Devika's voice called out, "Adhrita..."
Adhrita's gaze instinctively flickered to Vritant - a silent question, a quiet search for steadiness. His expression didn't shift, but there was a measured pause before he took a slow sip of water, as if wordlessly telling her there was no need to falter.
She rose and moved to sit beside Devika, her steps betraying a hint of nervous hesitation, while Vritant's eyes followed her for a heartbeat longer than necessary before returning to the conversation around him.
Vritant leaned back on the sofa in the grand hall, his glass untouched on the low table before him. Without a word, he crossed the length of the dining hall, each step unhurried, purposeful, until he stopped in front of the large photo frame.
His twin.
"Echo... be with me," he murmured, the words so low they barely carried, but still seemed to reverberate through the room.
He closed his eyes and struck the match, the sharp scent of sulfur briefly cutting the air before the soft glow of the diya bloomed at the frame's base. The flicker caught on his features, deepening the lines of restraint carved there.
No one spoke. Not a breath of conversation dared to break the silence. In this family, they all knew - the dead twin was a wound that never truly closed, and a single careless word at this moment could tilt him into the darkness everyone feared.
Vritant returned to the main hall, the muted weight of the diya's flame still clinging to his skin like incense smoke that refused to fade. The air here felt different - louder, fuller, yet somehow hollow at the center.
Devika Vardhan's voice cut through it, brisk but polite.
"Roka shuru kare?"
("Shall we begin the roka ceremony?")
Before anyone else could answer, Anamika Vardhan - his chachi, leaned forward. "Ji, mummy ji, main karti hoon."
("Yes, mother-in-law, I'll do it.")
She rose with the graceful efficiency of someone who knew every ritual by heart, taking the silver thali from the servant with both hands. The light from the chandeliers caught on the polished metal, scattering across the room in quick, nervous sparks.
"Adhrita, sit beside Vritant," she instructed.
Adhrita stood, adjusting the fold of her dupatta - that practiced, almost unconscious gesture women here learned young, as if modesty could be arranged like fabric.
She came to sit beside him, close enough that he could feel the faint shift of air between them, but not close enough for their shoulders to touch.
He didn't look at her right away. His gaze was on his chachi, but not really on her.
He watched the steady precision of her movements - the way her wrists turned, the way her fingers brushed over the betel leaves and flowers in the thali.
People like her didn't perform rituals; they orchestrated them, ensuring each gesture sent the right message to the right eyes.
Then his eyes flickered - almost against his will - to his mother. Just for a few seconds.
Vedashree Vardhan.
The Prime Minister in silk, the strategist in a family shawl. She wasn't smiling - not in the way most mothers would when their son's roka was beginning. Her expression was the same as when she reviewed a policy draft: scanning, assessing, anticipating which part would break first.
And he wondered - not for the first time - if she was looking at him as a son about to be engaged... or as a pawn about to be moved.
The silver plate chimed softly as Anamika stepped forward, and the sound pulled him back into the room. He could feel Adhrita beside him, her stillness deliberate, like she'd decided that if she couldn't control the script, she could at least control the silence.
Then Vedashree spoke, her tone wrapped in warmth but edged with something sharper.
"Anamika, mera beta bahu ko ghar laa raha hai toh itna haq toh maa ka banta hai, hai na? Vritant? Politics mein naa sahi, ghar pe toh apne bete ki maa aur apni hone wali bahu ki saas banne ka pura haq hai mujhe."
("Anamika, my son is bringing his bride home, so a mother is entitled to at least this much, isn't she? Vritant? Maybe not in politics, but at home, I have every right to be my son's mother and my future daughter-in-law's mother-in-law.")
The way she said Vritant wasn't a question - it was a reminder.
Anamika arched a brow. "Bhabhi, mujhe laga aap yeh sab nahi karti."
("Bhabhi, I thought you didn't do all this.")
"Bilkul sahi socha, Anamika," Vedashree replied smoothly. "Par apne bete ke liye naa sahi, apni hone wali bahu ke liye toh itna kar hi sakti hoon."
("You thought absolutely right, Anamika," Vedashree replied smoothly. "But maybe not for my son, still... for my future daughter-in-law, I can at least do this much.")
Vritant watched her rise from the sofa, the silk of her sari catching the light with every step.
She didn't simply walk - she advanced, closing the space between them like it was her right to claim.
She stopped in front of him and Adhrita, her gaze brushing over her son first, then lingering on the woman beside him just a fraction longer.
Anamika stepped forward and handed Vedashree the silver plate. The metal glinted in the Prime Minister's hands, but in this moment, it wasn't a ritual offering - it was a declaration.
Vritant kept his expression unreadable, but inside he could feel the quiet tightening of the room. This wasn't just a mother performing a custom; this was Vedashree Vardhan, reclaiming center stage.
Vedashree lowered herself gracefully to sit before them, the silver thali resting lightly in her hands. The faint chime of the bangles at her wrist punctuated each movement, measured and deliberate.
She began the roka, her fingers moving with a precision that felt less like tradition and more like a speech without words.
A pinch of rice, the soft smear of kumkum, the slow circle of the aarti - each gesture framed in the calm authority she carried everywhere, whether in Parliament or her own drawing room.
Vritant felt the weight of her gaze even when she wasn't looking at him directly.
She touched Adhrita's forehead with the tilak, the gold ring on her finger catching the chandelier's light - a small flare, gone as quickly as it came.
Then she turned to him, the same ritual repeated, though her fingers lingered for a moment longer, as if pressing something unspoken into his skin.
Vedashree lifted a sweet from the thali and held it to Adhrita's lips. Adhrita took the bite obediently, her eyes lowered. Then Vedashree turned to Vritant.
He took the sweet from her hand, broke it cleanly into two pieces.
One went into his mouth, the other stayed in his palm.
The movement was instinctive, but it made Vedashree pause - the smallest freeze in her otherwise flawless rhythm.
A heartbeat later, she recovered, handing the thali to Neeta Adani with a smile that felt just a little too quick.
"I am not your mother, Adhrita," Neeta said warmly, "but I am sure Vaidehi bhabhi would have been happy seeing you." She touched tilak to Adhrita's forehead, then to Vritant's, and pressed a coconut and crisp notes of currency into his hands.
From the corner of his eye, Vritant saw Adhrita's fingers tightening around her gold bangle, her lashes flickering as she fought to keep her tears in check.
Something in his own chest constricted - sharp, sudden.
It was the first time he had celebrated anything since Echo's death, and the sweetness in his mouth felt heavier than it should.
He set the coconut and money down on the table, but kept the half kaju katli clenched in his palm as if letting it go would unmoor him entirely.
Anamika stepped forward next, applying tilak and murmuring a blessing, followed by his bua, Shweta. As she touched his forehead, he felt the faint dampness there and reached for the nearest fabric - Adhrita's dupatta - to wipe it away.
"You're ruining her dupatta," Shweta said, rolling her eyes before blessing Adhrita.
Vedashree's voice rose above the murmurs. "Aaradhya, won't you take pictures? You might need them for headlines."
Aaradhya stiffened. "Badi maa, we have a team here," she said, pointing toward the corner where three or four photographers and videographers hovered.
"Oh yes, the team works for you," Vedashree replied, smiling in a way that seemed to hold more weight than the words themselves.
After the tilak, his grandparents stepped forward, blessing Adhrita first and then him, their hands lingering with a tenderness that made the room's noise fade for a moment. Moments later, Shaurya joined them, his presence carrying both pride and an unspoken weight.
Vritant stood to embrace him.
"Congratulations," Shaurya said, his voice catching. The look in his eyes - pride mixed with something unspoken - almost undid Vritant entirely.
Adhrita rose as well, and Shaurya placed a hand gently on her head. "Thank you, beta."
Ashwin moved forward, but Adhrita stilled, her breath hitching almost imperceptibly.
"CM saab, ab toh aap se rishta jud gaya," he said, clasping her hand before glancing at Ashwin. "Humare hone wale sasur se aashirwad?"
("CM sir, now we're connected through this relationship," he said, clasping her hand before glancing at Ashwin. "A blessing from my soon-to-be father-in-law?")
Ashwin placed both hands on their heads, and they bent together to take his blessing.
They moved to the grandparents next, bowing to receive their blessings. Aaradhya came over and hugged Vritant.
"Congratulations, bhaiya," she whispered, then turned to Adhrita. "Congratulations, bhabhi."
Vritant gave her a small nod.
Then, he caught the flicker of impatience in Ashwin Adani's stance - the man had been circling for a chance to speak to Adhrita, and now he clearly couldn't wait any longer.
"Consider it signed, sealed, and appropriately photographed.," Vritant announced, clasping her hand like he was wrapping up a press briefing.
In Vritant's head, the words translated neatly: Merger complete. Board meeting adjourned.
The room chuckled, the polite, easy kind of laughter people used when no one wanted to read between the lines. But Vritant always did.
They were halfway down the passage when Adhrita suddenly stopped. Vritant turned, the faint crease between his brows deepening, and released her wrist.
"You kept it for someone," she said, her voice softer now, almost careful. She nodded toward his other hand - still wrapped in a thin bandage - where the half kaju katli remained, pressed into his palm.
For a moment, he didn't move. Didn't speak. The silence stretched, thick with something he couldn't bring himself to name. Then, without a word, he turned and kept walking. She fell into step behind him.
He opened the study door and flicked on the lights.
The walls glowed warm, but his gaze went straight to the far end - to the giant framed photograph that dominated the room.
He walked up to it and placed the sweet onto a small brass plate already holding another, as though the space had been waiting for this exact offering.
Adhrita came to stand beside him.
"Adhrita," he said quietly, his eyes still on the photograph before finally glancing at her. He gestured - first at her, then toward the picture. "My Echo."
He turned back to the image, speaking to it directly. "Echo," he murmured, the single word carrying more weight than a sentence. Then his gaze shifted again to Adhrita.
"My... my..." The word jammed in his throat, not because he didn't know it, but because saying it would mean claiming it - and claiming it meant risking it. He'd already buried one half of himself; he wasn't sure he could survive naming the other.
So he let the silence finish the sentence for him.
Adhrita stepped forward, her eyes catching on the other photographs arranged along the wall. Her hand hovered over one frame without touching it.
"He looks exactly like you," she said, her voice a mix of wonder and something softer.
Vritant moved in beside her, his footsteps slow, deliberate. "That's the thing about twins," he said, the corner of his mouth tugging into something that might have been a smile if it hadn't been so sharp. "You get one face, two lives... and when one ends, the other has to do all the living."
The words came out smooth, sarcastic on the surface - but in his chest, they felt like glass.
"Vritant."
Her voice was quiet, almost cautious, as her hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
For a second, he didn't move - just stared at the photograph, letting her touch anchor him in a place he didn't want to linger.
"Let's go," he said finally, the words clipped, not unkind but final.
He stepped away first, as if distance was the only way to keep from answering the question she hadn't asked.
??? V ? A ???
The guard swung the garage doors open, and the motion sensors flooded the space with light. Chrome, lacquer, and glass caught the glow like a private constellation.
Adhrita stopped dead at the threshold, her eyes sweeping over the rows of machines. Her jaw all but hit the floor.
"These," Vritant said, stepping in with the ease of a man in his own cathedral, "are my heartstoppers." His voice held that mix of pride and possession he reserved for very few things in life.
From lean, low-slung racing beasts to vintage classics polished within an inch of their lives - every damn car worth owning was here. The kind people booked months in advance just to sit in, and he could drive them before breakfast if he felt like it.
For a moment, the silence between them wasn't heavy - it was pure, unapologetic awe.
His gaze skimmed the rows of machines until it landed on the sleek, obsidian silhouette at the far end - the kind of car that didn't just whisper wealth, it signed it in gold ink.
"Today," he said, almost lazily, "I want my this heartstopper. The 2025 Audi A6 e-tron Avant RS."
Adhrita's brows lifted. "Electric?"
He smirked. "Electric. Silent. Deadly. Like me on a good day."
The guard was already moving to bring it forward. The car's OLED lights flickered awake, and the polished body reflected the garage's glow like black glass.
They slid into the car, the cabin wrapping around them in quiet luxury. Vritant adjusted the rearview mirror, catching his own reflection - forehead marked with a bold red kumkum tilak. He pushed his hair aside, studying it like a flaw in an otherwise perfect suit.
"This looks..." he murmured, then without warning, reached over and grabbed the end of her dupatta, dragging it across his forehead.
Adhrita's glare was sharp enough to cut glass.
"It was already ruined," he said easily, wiping again for good measure. She yanked it away and tossed it at him, and he let out a low laugh.
"Thanks - makes it easier," he quipped, checking the mirror once more.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her open her bag and pull out a pack of wet wipes, carefully blotting her own face.
"Adhrita, we had a dupatta," he said, smirk curling like smoke.
Another glare. He didn't mind; her glares were just as entertaining as her silences.
Before he could put the car in gear, the mirror shifted - not much, just a few degrees - and now it caught her in its frame. Adhrita's fingers rested on the edge, light and deliberate, before slipping away.
He didn't comment, only returned it to its original line of sight.
Two minutes later, it moved again - this time angled just so, as if she was reminding him there were other ways to see the same road.
He started the engine, the Audi purring to life, and a moment later they were gliding out of the Vardhan mansion gates - fast, smooth, gone.
He slowed the Audi to a purr before cutting the engine entirely. The world outside was silent, save for the faint whisper of water in the distance. When they stepped out, the night air was cool, brushing over them like silk.
It wasn't just a lake - it was a stretch of still, dark glass that seemed to go on forever, its edges blurring into the horizon. The grass beneath their feet was soft, lush, and untouched, swaying gently as if it had never known strangers.
He'd hosted ministers, tycoons, men who thought privacy meant a penthouse suite with tinted windows. But this was different. Here, even ambition seemed to pause. This was his place - the one corner of Delhi where the Vardhan name didn't echo back at him.
And he never brought anyone here. Until now.
Adhrita's gaze drifted across the water, her eyes softer than he'd seen them all evening. "Thanks for taking me out," she said, voice lighter now, almost tentative.
He studied her for a moment - not the way she looked under the moonlight, but the fact that she was still standing, still holding herself together after a day designed to pull her apart.
"Congratulations," he said finally.
Not on the roka - never on the roka. He meant for making it through without cracking, for not letting them see the sharp edges beneath her calm. For surviving the politics dressed as family. In his mouth, the word was less a compliment and more... recognition.
The water rippled faintly in the breeze, carrying the weight of what neither of them said.
Adhrita walked toward the edge, the hem of her outfit brushing the grass, while Vritant hung back a few steps, watching. She didn't look at him, but he knew she knew.
The water was glass - perfectly still except for the silver shapes cast on its surface. Two silhouettes, side by side.
Vritant stepped forward, not enough to close the real space between them, but enough for their reflections to almost overlap. In the lake, it looked like his shoulder touched hers.
"Careful," he said quietly.
She glanced at him, then back at the water. "Of what?"
"Reflections," he replied, his tone light but his eyes fixed on hers. "They make things look closer than they are."
She didn't move. Neither did he. The lake held their false closeness in place, and for a moment, it felt truer than the space between them.
They stayed there for a while, letting the stillness press in.
A breeze stirred the grass at their feet, but the water barely moved, holding their reflections steady.
Then, without speaking, they turned away.
Not because the moment had ended - but because it had said everything it needed to.
The silence followed them back to the car, heavier than before, making each step sound louder than it should.
Inside, the engine's low hum filled the space, but it didn't break the spell.
Vritant kept his eyes on the road, one hand loose on the wheel. Adhrita sat angled toward the window, but he caught her reflection in the glass - the faint curve of her mouth like she was thinking of saying something and choosing not to.
Once, at a traffic light, he felt her glance his way. He didn't turn, just let the corner of his mouth twitch - a silent acknowledgment he'd noticed.
They pulled up outside the Vardhan mansion. Adhrita stepped out, her heels clicking against the driveway. She turned back, surprised to see him still in the driver's seat.
"Are you not coming?"
"Nope. Race time." The corner of his mouth curved in that way that was half a smile, half a dare.
"Race?" she echoed, brows lifting.
"I told you, doctor - I'm a racer." He tapped two fingers to his temple in a casual salute, then shifted gears and rolled away from the mansion's gates.
A flash of red caught his eye. Her dupatta was still draped over the passenger seat, the faint shimmer of sequins catching in the dashboard light. Something small glinted near the hem.
He slowed, plucked it free - a tiny bindi, still warm from her skin. For a second, he twirled it between his fingers, ready to flick it out into the night.
Instead, he pressed it gently onto the center of his steering wheel.
The streets opened up the moment he cleared the last security checkpoint.
Floodlights burned down on polished asphalt, throwing the edges of the track into deep shadow.
The grandstands were packed - a restless ocean of faces, camera flashes strobing in the dark.
The smell of fuel and scorched rubber clung to the night air, thick enough to taste.
Vritant's hands rested on the wheel of his Audi - Heartstopper. His favorite in the collection. Not just for her lines, but for the way her speed seemed to make time stutter. For a second, for those watching, their hearts would skip - just long enough to remember who made them do it.
The light went green. Heartstopper launched - tires screaming, G-force slamming him back. Two cars shot forward beside him, engines snarling in unison.
First corner - he braked late, sparks snapping off the curb as he forced the car ahead wide, sliding through the gap by inches. The downshift snapped, the steering wheel vibrating under his grip. Apex. Power out. The crowd roared, a wall of sound chasing him down the straight.
Second lap - a shadow in his mirrors. He held the inside, forcing his rival to try the outside line. Too shallow. He kept the lead.
Fourth gear. Fifth. Slipstream off the car in front, engine screaming as he pulled alongside. Side-by-side into the chicane. Brake. Cut in. Perfect exit - the rival left behind, tail lights shrinking. Grandstands blurred past, banners whipping in the wind.
The smell of hot rubber clung inside the cockpit. His grip tightened. With this speed... hope one day I can meet you, Echo. The thought came sharp, like a downshift - his twin's voice still echoing somewhere deeper than the roar.
Last lap. Adrenaline spiked, vision tunneling to the next braking point. Every curve was muscle memory: brake, turn-in, feather the throttle, let Heartstopper dance just at the edge of grip. Another car closed in - close enough for him to hear the strain of its engine under his own.
Final corner. Late brake, almost too late - the rear stepped out before snapping back in line. Power down. The finish line surged toward him, timer strobing. Nose ahead.
Checkered flag. Best lap. Obviously. First place.
The crowd's roar was still chasing the echo of the finish line when Vritant eased off the accelerator. The car purred instead of growled now, its victory already claimed. He rolled the window down, the late-night air hitting his face, and turned his head just enough to find Jack in the distance.
A slow nod. No words.
Just that - the kind of gesture that said I told you so without needing to speak.
Vritant glanced down at the bindi, still holding its place. "Not bad for a co-pilot," he murmured, smirking.
By the time he returned, the mansion was silent - the kind of silence that didn't care whether you'd been gone five minutes or five hours.
Vritant stepped into his room and tossed her dupatta onto the bed without looking, like it had been hitching a ride and he'd finally dropped it off.
The shower was quick, cold, and functional.
When he stepped out, the mirror caught him - tilak washed away, hair damp...
and a faint rash blooming across his chest.
Cashew. Of course.
He let out a sharp breath, pulled open the drawer, and swallowed two pills dry before chasing them with half a bottle of water. The itch was already gnawing under his skin.
Needing air, he pushed open the balcony doors. The night stretched out in quiet, stars hidden behind the city's glow. He turned to head back in - then stopped.
Adhrita's balcony. The lights were off, but the faint spill of the moon lit the scene enough - her curled up on the couch, blanket barely covering her, and Karma, the traitor, sprawled half across her legs like he'd been there all his life.
He shut the balcony doors and crossed the room, the itch still nagging at his skin. Dropping onto the bed, his gaze fell on the dupatta he'd tossed earlier - a crumpled splash of her against his sheets.
Vritant reached for it without thinking, the fabric cool in his hand, faintly carrying the scent of her perfume mixed with the dust of the evening. He lay back, pulled the blanket over himself, the dupatta still in his grip.
His eyes closed, not because he was tired, but because the day had been too full - of people, of rituals, of her.
"Great," he muttered to the dark, "now I'm accessorizing in my sleep."
And for some reason, that didn't feel like the worst thing.
Roka done, alliances sealed, and somehow he'd ended up with a rash, her dupatta, and a dog that switched sides.
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