Chapter 20 Seven Steps, Zero Regrets
Marriage is just another deal-seven steps, a few witnesses, and a lifetime warranty nobody ever reads.
- Author
This chapter is very close to my heart - every scene, every emotion, every word took a lot of thought and effort to shape.
It's one of the most important turning points in the story, and I truly poured myself into writing it.
Your comments and thoughts would mean the world to me - they not only encourage but also help me grow.
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Artists worked around Adhrita with quiet precision, each movement deliberate, reverent, as though they weren't dressing a bride but assembling a goddess for display.
Layers of turmeric glow had already softened into her skin from the haldi, her attire draped perfectly, her mehendi-darkened hands resting quietly in her lap.
Only the jewellery remained - the final chains that would mark the bride complete.
The room grew heavier as the Vardhan women entered.
Devika, Vedashree, Anamika, Shweta, and Aaradhya walked in with butlers trailing behind them, each carrying polished wooden boxes - ancestral jewellery gleaming inside.
Their presence alone shifted the air, as though history itself had come to weigh down on Adhrita's shoulders.
"Are you done with everything else?" Anamika asked briskly.
"Yes, ma'am," the artist replied, stepping aside.
A knock followed, and Aaradhya moved to open the door. Rawat stood there, half-apologetic.
"Sorry, ma'am. Karma..." He gestured at the eager dog beside him.
Vedashree's eyes flicked from Rawat to Karma with thinly veiled irritation. Then, with unhurried precision, she opened one of the boxes, withdrew a small iron knife, and held it between her fingers.
Karma trotted in and pressed against Adhrita's side, his tail wagging. She bent to caress his neck, whispering softly, trying to calm him. With the entire family watching, she couldn't afford a scene. Rawat lingered a moment longer, his gaze tightening on the knife before leaving.
Vedashree set the knife aside and passed the first set of bangles to Devika Daadi. With practiced hands, Daadi slid the ancestral bangles over Adhrita's wrists, following them with the deep red wedding chooda.
"Aaradhya," Vedashree said, and Aaradhya stepped forward to continue the ritual.
Just then, the door swung wider.
Vritant strolled in, dressed in nothing more than a t-shirt and shorts, his hair tousled, a yawn stretching across his face.
"Vritant, you're sleeping? Aryan said you're ready!" Shweta snapped, scandalized.
"Your son is a liar?" Vritant raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Oh right, he's a great actor."
He bent, reaching casually for the knife on the table.
"Vritant!" Devika Daadi's voice sharpened. "What are you doing? Keep that knife. It's for Adhrita."
"Knife?" he said, turning it over in his fingers with mock curiosity. "Daadi, she's a doctor. She uses... different kind of knives."
"It's for nazar. Now give it back and go get ready. Look-Adhrita is almost ready." Daadi gestured toward her.
For a moment, his eyes flicked to Adhrita. She sat still, bridal red draped across her, flowers glimmering in her braid, Karma close at her feet. Something unreadable crossed his expression, then just as quickly, he turned away.
With a sigh, he set the knife back onto the table and straightened. Without another word, Vritant turned on his heel and walked out, heading back to his own room to get ready.
??? V ? A ???
Vritant's room was a hive of movement. The attendants hovered around him, each carrying some piece of cloth, jewellery, or ritual item as though they were arming a general for war. The faint smell of sandalwood incense fought with the sharper tang of alcohol still clinging to the air.
"Please stand still, sir," one of the attendants muttered nervously as he tried to adjust the collar.
"I'm not a statue," Vritant said, shifting his shoulders until the man stepped back. "If this thing doesn't fit, no amount of tugging will make it."
Aryan lounged on a sofa, smirking at the chaos. "You'd think they were dressing a deity, not a groom."
Vritant shot him a look, half amused, half bored. "Deities don't sweat. I, apparently, do. If I collapse, make sure the sherwani receives a proper obituary."
The attendants worked in silence after that, slipping layers of ivory silk and gold embroidery over his frame, fixing the sash, and polishing the jewelled buttons until they gleamed.
Finally, the turban was brought forward - heavy, stiff, an entire crown in itself. One attendant hesitated before stepping closer, but Vritant plucked it from his hands. "I'll do this," he said.
The room stilled. He wound the cloth with deliberate turns, no ceremony, no flourish, just methodical precision. When it was tied, he faced the mirror. For a long moment, he studied his reflection - a man dressed like a king, but with a soldier's indifference in his eyes.
The last attendants approached with the heirloom pieces - the symbols that would mark him as a Vardhan groom.
One of them carried a velvet box lined with satin. Inside lay the sarpech - an antique crest of emeralds and uncut diamonds, sharp as a crown. Another unfolded the heavy silk shawl, deep maroon with gold zari, its border glinting under the lights.
Vritant took it without ceremony, fastening the jewelled piece to his turban with steady fingers. The emerald caught the light, casting a green shard across the mirror. For a moment, his reflection seemed almost regal - and he almost laughed at the irony.
Then the shawl was draped over his shoulder. He adjusted it himself, pulling it into place until it sat the way he wanted - less princely display, more soldier's mantle.
Aryan, lounging nearby, let out a low whistle. "Now that looks like a Vardhan groom."
Vritant left the room, but instead of walking toward the mandap, he turned down the corridor that led to Adhrita's room.
A soft knock, the door opened. The attendant blinked in surprise at the sight of him, momentarily staring with his mouth slightly agape, before stepping aside quickly.
Inside, Adhrita sat before the mirror, fastening the last of her hand ornaments, the delicate kamarbandh (Waist chain) glinting at her waist. Her reflection showed him entering, tall and composed, but her focus remained on the clasp in her fingers.
He noticed, almost absently, that the heavy round nose ring had been replaced by a small golden dot - simple, understated, entirely her.
"Leave," Vritant said quietly. The attendant slipped out, closing the door behind.
"Vritant." She rose, her eyes tracing him carefully - the turban, the jewelled sarpech, the royal sherwani, the polished mojris, the ancestral weight in every piece he wore.
When she reached him, she didn't praise or comment. Instead, she took his wrist and pressed her fingers lightly to his pulse.
"Not steady," she murmured.
He laughed, low and brief, the sound breaking the stillness between them.
He straightened slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, then moved to the vanity. Her gaze followed him, lingering on the careful precision of his movements. He picked up the pearl nose ring again, inspecting it as if it were a delicate puzzle.
She blinked at him in the mirror. "Vritant..." she whispered, coming closer.
He set the pearl nose ring back onto the tray with quiet precision, then turned to face her directly.
"You're stepping into this with me, Adhrita. Not just the mandap, not just the seven steps - but everything that comes after. It's not... easy. A Vardhan marriage never is."
His voice carried no drama, no flourish - just flat certainty, the kind that came from someone who had seen the weight of his own surname firsthand.
Her gaze didn't falter. "You don't need to warn me of storms, Vritant. I already made peace with the thunder."
Vritant tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing like he was weighing her words the way one might test the balance of a blade. A long pause, then the faintest curl of his lip - not quite amusement, not quite approval.
"I had to ask," he said, his tone deceptively light. "Because once you walk out with me... you don't get the luxury of regret. Last chance to run."
Adhrita stepped closer, caught his wrist, and pressed two fingers against his pulse. The beat jumped beneath her touch.
"Still not steady," she whispered. Then she lifted her gaze to his, unwavering. "But mine is. That's enough."
For a moment, something flickered across his face - surprise, maybe, or the grudging respect of a man who rarely gave it. He didn't laugh. Instead, with deliberate mischief, he raised her hand still holding his wrist and tapped her knuckles lightly against his chest.
"Careful, Dr. Adhrita," he murmured, eyes gleaming. "Check too close and you might find I actually have a heart."
The line lingered, sharp and disarming, before he finally stepped back. A nod, a verdict, and without waiting for an answer, Vritant turned and left the room.
Adhrita's eyes drifted to the vanity, where the delicate pearl nose ring lay exactly where he'd set it down.
Outside, the drums thundered again, closer now. The world was waiting.
??? V ? A ???
The Vardhans hadn't built a mandap. They had built a vision.
It floated at the very heart of the cruise deck - a pavilion of glass and polished steel, so flawlessly clear it seemed suspended between sky and sea.
Beneath their feet, polished wooden decking stretched across the pavilion, the ocean visible only at the edges where glass railings allowed a clear view of the rolling waves, as though the sea itself had been invited to witness.
Above, a canopy of silk and diamond chandeliers swayed in perfect harmony with the ship's gentle roll, each crystal catching the dying sun and scattering it into a thousand blazing fragments.
Every detail - from the mirrored railings to the gold inlays along the floor - whispered of a wealth so absolute it seemed untethered from the world below.
Each pillar of the mandap was wrapped not in marigold, but in a spiral of lotus and jasmine, white and pink blooms trembling whenever the wind rushed across the deck.
At their bases, shallow bowls brimmed with water, lotus petals drifting in lazy circles - earth and sea meeting at the threshold of the sacred fire.
The mandap shimmered between sea and sky, but it was Vritant Vardhan who commanded it.
Seated cross-legged before the fire, he wore the ivory sherwani threaded with gold, the ancestral shawl falling sharp against his shoulder, the turban crest catching both firelight and sea-spray.
Priests murmured beside him, guests whispered around him, but he remained utterly composed - as though the mandap was built to frame him, not the other way around.
One hand rested on his knee, posture straight without stiffness. He didn't fidget, didn't search the crowd. His eyes stayed on the fire, steady, calm, like he was listening to a rhythm no one else could hear.
Karma isn't literally inside, but a line could mention he stayed close, restless until he saw Vritant seated, like he understood something big was happening.
The drums outside rose louder, announcing the bride's arrival. Heads turned. Phones lifted. Whispers swelled.
Vritant didn't move. Only his gaze shifted, fraction by fraction, toward the path she would walk.
Karma strained against his leash, claws scraping lightly against the deck as he tried to reach Adhrita. Rawat held him back with both hands, murmuring for calm, but the dog's whine was insistent, almost pleading.
Adhrita walked slowly, her lehenga catching the dying sunlight, silk turning crimson-gold with every step.
Her braid, long and heavy, was woven with lotus flowers, their pale petals glowing against her dark hair as if the goddess herself had descended with the tide, and as though the ocean itself were giving its daughter to him.
Her father Ashwin held one hand, her uncle Mahir Adani the other, steadying her like the banks of a river carrying her forward. Behind, Saanvi and Neeta adjusted her veil, petals scattering with the sea breeze as though waves themselves were bowing to her passage.
She did not walk on carpet - the Vardhans had laid a path of flowers shaped into rippling waves, blue and white petals that shifted under her feet, each step leaving a faint impression before the breeze scattered them into the sea.
When they reached the edge of the mandap, Ashwin stopped. His eyes brimmed, but his voice was steady, reverent. He took both her hands, kissed them gently, then pressed them to his forehead.
"It's not me...," he whispered, his throat thick. "Think it's your mother - Vaidehi."
For a moment, Adhrita's composure trembled, but she only nodded, drawing strength from the weight of those words.
The wooden floor shimmered beneath her steps, the ocean restless below. Lotus brushed against her braid, her veil fluttered in the sea breeze - but when Adhrita finally stepped into the mandap, the world stilled.
Vritant's gaze lifted from the fire.
It moved once - from the kohl-lined sharpness of her eyes, to the curve of her nose ring. Not the pressed stud she'd worn earlier. The bold pearl hoop he had left behind.
A slow smirk tugged at his mouth. So, she chose that. Heartstopper, he thought-her, not the moment.
Adhrita caught the flicker at his mouth and didn't look away. The priest lifted the garlands. The world remembered to breathe.
The priest signaled, and attendants stepped forward with the garlands, heavy with jasmine and roses, their fragrance rising above the salt of the sea.
Adhrita was handed hers first. She lifted it carefully, the kaleere chiming as her wrists rose. Vritant leaned forward - not out of courtesy, not out of pride, but with measured ease, as though acknowledging her place in this moment. Their eyes held as she slipped the garland around his neck.
The applause rose, but he didn't turn to the crowd. His gaze stayed on her.
Then his turn.
He rose, taking the second garland, its weight shifting against his fingers. For the briefest moment, he let it hang between them, as if considering something only he could hear. Then, with deliberate precision, he lowered it over her. The flowers slid against her veil, brushing her cheek.
The drums thundered. The conch shells blew. But in the stillness between them, no duel, no resistance - only a quiet recognition: two equals meeting, not conceding.
As she sat beside him, the world blurred - chants, drums, sea, all a haze. Seven steps. A lifetime. Everyone calls it tradition, but to me it feels like surgery - once you begin, there's no walking away midway.
Her eyes flicked to Vritant. Steady. Regal. Unreadable. What are you made of, Vritant Vardhan? A storm... or an anchor?
Her pulse steadied. Doesn't matter. I've chosen to walk into it.
The priest brought forward a plate of sweets.
"Khilaiye," he said, offering one to him.
(Offer)
He took a piece and brought it toward Adhrita's lips.
The priest corrected him, pointing toward the havankund. "Bhagwan ko."
(offer to god)
Realizing the sweet had already been eaten, he too another piece of the sweet, hesitated, then kept it, unconvinced. Adhrita quietly took it from him and placed it in the fire, her eyes meeting his with a knowing, gentle smile.
The priest's voice deepened, calling for the kanyadaan. The sea breeze hushed as Ashwin stepped forward, guiding Adhrita's hands into Vritant's.
Her palms rested light against his, bangles cold against his skin. For the first time since the mandap had begun, Vritant shifted - not breaking stillness, but adjusting ever so slightly, as though to receive her with both presence and weight.
Her breath caught. The world was watching, but the grip wasn't for them. It was for her.
Ashwin opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught. His throat tightened, and before he could stop them, the tears began to fall - slow, unrelenting, cutting down the face of a man who had carried strength for everyone else until this very moment.
No blessing came, no speech. Only silence, heavy with love, breaking more than any words could.
With trembling hands, he poured the ritual water over their joined palms. The droplets slipped between Adhrita's fingers and Vritant's, falling onto the floor. The priest declared the kanyadaan complete.
But for Adhrita, the moment was sharper than ritual. Her father's hand had left hers. And for the first time, her hand remained in Vritant's.
The priest's voice rose, steady and solemn: "Groom's sister, come forward for the gathbandhan."
Aaradhya stepped ahead, her eyes flicking briefly toward Adhrita. In a single graceful motion, she lifted Adhrita's dupatta and entwined it with Vritant's stole, the fabric bridging them like a silent vow.
No words were needed. The soft rustle of silk whispered secrets only they could hear. A subtle tension lingered in the air - the kind that carried promises heavier than speech.
Adhrita's fingers grazed the joined cloth; Vritant's hand brushed against hers. The priest chanted on, but for a heartbeat, the world had narrowed to the warmth and weight of the silk binding them.
The priest's chant rose above the ocean wind, calling them to rise.
Vritant stood first, the firelight catching on the gold of his sherwani, the sea-breeze tugging faintly at his shawl. Then, without pause, he extended his hand. She placed her hand in his, and with one firm, effortless pull, he drew her to her feet beside him.
The priest intoned, calling them to the sacred fire, his chant steady and deep, weaving through the warm evening air.
First Phera
Vritant took her hand gently, stepping forward with quiet assurance, leading the way around the flames. She followed, matching his steps slowly, her gaze fixed on his back, feeling the subtle rhythm of his movements.
He murmured, "No turning back now."
She tilted her head slightly, her voice soft but firm, "I wasn't the one looking for exits."
Second Phera
She let her fingers brush lightly against his palm, the silk of her dupatta whispering against his stole. Her voice was barely audible, teasing the space between them: "Do you feel the weight of this fire?"
He responded with a low, confident murmur, letting his words travel through their linked: "I carry heavier flames every day - and survive."
Third Phera
He tilted his head slightly, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Every promise counts," he murmured.
She leaned closer, her voice low and gentle, "Even the ones you won't repeat aloud?"
He smirked, eyes glinting in the firelight. "Especially those."
Forth Phera
She pressed her fingers lightly against his wrist, feeling the quick rhythm of his pulse. "Still not steady," she murmured, her voice soft.
He exhaled slowly, letting the firelight warm them both, and whispered, "Neither is the sea - yet ships sail."
Fifth Phera
He held her hand firmly as they moved, his thumb tracing the curve of her wrist in a movement as natural as the steps they took. "And when the storms come?" he murmured, voice low, almost a challenge.
She whispered softly, "They carve the harbor where we anchor."
Six Phera
She leaned closer, letting her forehead almost brush his shoulder, her voice a soft murmur meant only for him: "Will we know the right way?"
He inhaled the warmth of her proximity, voice low and deliberate, "Paths are illusions - only the steps we take matter."
Seventh Phera
This time, she stepped forward first, leading the way, her hand guiding his with quiet assurance. He smirked, a glint of challenge in his eyes. "Seven rounds, no regrets," he murmured.
She held his gaze steadily, voice low and deliberate, "And so it begins."
Their hands remained linked, fingers brushing just enough to send a spark of warmth through the pause between steps.
The fire flickered across their faces, shadows dancing like their unspoken promises.
Every step, every whispered word, every brush of fingers sealed the bond they carried beyond the ritual - private, unyielding, and theirs alone.
As the final phera concluded, the priest's chant softened, the sacred fire crackling in quiet reverence.
Aaradhya stepped forward, carrying a silver plate that gleamed in the firelight. On it rested the mangalsutra and a small container of sindoor, the symbols of their bond ready to be placed.
The priest's voice rang softly, guiding the ritual: "Ab maang mein sindoor bhariye."
(Now apply Vermillion)
Vritant dipped the small coin vermillion in one hand, while his other lifted the delicate maangtike. He didn't rush. As he leaned closer to apply the vermillion, the world seemed to tilt - the ocean, the sky, the goddess before him.
He smirked faintly, voice low and playful, just for her: "Doctor sahiba... this is called marking territory."
Slowly, deliberately, he swept the vermillion into her maang, a crimson streak against her hairline. It wasn't just ritual - it was claim, protection, and reverence all at once, like a wave folding her into his orbit.
He lifted the mangalsutra from the silver plate, eyes locking with hers. The firelight flickered across her face, and he held her gaze, letting the moment stretch.
Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer. She could feel his breath brush against her as he bent slightly, letting the beads hover over her chest. Her heart thumped - fast, uneven, as if matching the rhythm of the waves beneath the cruise.
His fingers circled the clasp with practiced care, then he softly clapped it into place, letting the chain rest against her chest.
She shivered, the mangalsutra settling over her, and in that suspended heartbeat, the fire, the ocean, and Vritant's steady presence became one intimate, electric world just for them.
Then he smirked, voice low and teasing: "Mangalsutra check complete. Status: critical... but married."
Then, almost like a wave breaking gently against the deck, petals rained down - lotus, marigold, crimson and gold - swirling in the sea breeze. The flowers brushed against their faces, their shoulders, their clasped hands, falling around them like a fragrant, floating halo.
When the ceremony drew to a close, Saanvi still had Vritant's shoes dangling triumphantly from her hand.
Before she could demand a ransom, Aryan plucked them away with a shake of his head and set them neatly at Vritant's feet.
He slipped them on without a word, though the smirk tugging at his mouth promised Saanvi the reckoning wasn't far off.
Then, they stepped down together, Vritant's hand wrapped around hers, firm and reassuring. The priest's gentle voice reminded them to seek blessings, and they moved forward.
First, they bent down to his grandparents. Hands pressed respectfully, heads bowed - and then warmth overflowed as both grandparents cupped their faces and hugged them, murmuring blessings that made her chest ache with a quiet, tender joy.
Next, they turned to his father, Shaurya. He didn't pause with formalities. Instead, he pulled them both into a tight embrace, holding them as if to silently say everything words couldn't - blessings, welcome, and the quiet approval that settled deep in her heart.
Through it all, Vritant's grip on her hand never loosened, a steady anchor amid the swirl of emotions and love surrounding them.
Then Vedashree moved. Before Vritant could react, Adhrita had already bent down to touch her feet.
"Saubhagyavati bhav," she whispered, placing her hand gently on Adhrita's head before stepping back with quiet grace.
(bless with marital happiness)
Then she met the Vardhan family members, exchanging warm greetings. After a brief pause, she moved toward the Adanis, where Saanvi, her uncle, and aunty embraced her. She hugged them tightly, tears spilling freely as emotions she had held back finally surfaced.
At last, she met her father. Hesitant, she paused for a moment, remembering his tears and the words he had spoken about her mother.
Vritant bent slightly, as if to touch his feet.
"Humare sasurji se aashirwad nahi lengi?" he asked gently.
(Won't you take blessings from my father-in-law?)
Without a word, she bent down with him. Her father placed his hands on their heads, blessing them both.
She moved forward, but couldn't help looking back over her shoulder. Tears shimmered again in her father's eyes.
"Not for me, but for your mother," he whispered. Then he opened his arms, and she stepped into them. They hugged tightly, and both cried, letting years of emotion flow freely.
Karma trotted to Vritant's side, tail swishing low as if sensing the weight in the air.
He crouched, resting a hand on Karma's neck, his fingers brushing through the fur in a steady stroke.
"Later," he murmured under his breath, a promise more than a command.
Karma stilled at once, though his eyes followed Adhrita, and with a nod Vritant signaled Rawat to lead him away.
Then they went to Adhrita's room. Before anything else, they paused in front of a framed photograph of her mother, Vaidehi. Though she was gone, her presence felt palpable. Together, they bowed their heads, seeking her silent blessing, and for a moment, the room seemed filled with her warmth.
After paying their respects, they stepped out of Adhrita's room. Vritant gently took her hand and led her toward his own room, the world outside fading as they moved together.
The suite on the cruise was a study in understated opulence.
Soft golden lights spilled from crystal sconces, casting a warm glow across polished wooden floors and cream-hued walls.
Fresh flowers - lilies, orchids, and lotus blooms - were scattered across low tables and the bed, their fragrance subtle but intoxicating.
Silken drapes swayed gently with the ship's motion, framing the panoramic windows that offered an uninterrupted view of the endless ocean.
A plush lounge corner held velvet cushions in muted jewel tones, and a sleek minibar was stocked with aged whiskies, champagne, and artisanal chocolates.
On the bed lay carefully folded shawls and robes, their textures inviting, alongside a small tray with delicate pastries and fruits.
Even the smallest details - the soft rug underfoot, the glinting cutlery, the quiet hum of the ship - whispered of luxury, of wealth that didn't need to shout, and of a space prepared for them to exist in perfect, private comfort.
Vritant noticed her mehendi-clad fingers brushing away the lingering tears. He slipped a handkerchief from his pocket - soft, embroidered with his initials, VV - and held it out to her. She took it gratefully, and the simple gesture spoke more than words ever could.
She was still lost in her emotions, wiping away tears again. Without a word, Vritant gently held her wrist and drew her slowly toward him. The restraint gave way all at once - she broke, sobbing, and wrapped her arms tightly around him, seeking the comfort and safety only he could provide.
Then, softly, he asked, "Remove this." His fingers rested lightly on the maala around her neck. She stepped back, understanding, and carefully took it off. He mirrored her action, removing his own, the gesture quiet yet intimate, carrying the weight of the moment between them.
She rested her head against his shoulder, letting the tremor of her sobs ease into quiet.
Vritant's grip on her hand was steady, grounding, protective.
Outside, the celebrations continued, but inside their room, time seemed to pause.
The chapter closed on that fragile, fragile moment-an ending that was, somehow, only the beginning.
After a pause, Vritant muttered with a half-smile, "Step One: survive the bride's tears. Step Two: survive everyone else's. Step Three: congratulations to everyone-especially me."
She let out a soft laugh, the sound breaking through the tension and exhaustion of the day. Even amidst all the chaos, it was a small, shared moment of levity - just theirs
Seven ceremonies, countless blessings, one emotional rollercoaster, and he still wondering if anyone read the manual for surviving a wedding.
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