1 - Marriage

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I sat in front of the vanity, staring at my reflection. The makeup was light yet flawless, enhancing my features in a way that should have made me feel beautiful. The sari was draped perfectly, the jewelry glittered under the warm light, and the simple mehendi on my hands was delicate. A red veil framed my face.

But my eyes... they were hollow.

No, it wasn't because I was leaving my home for another. If that had been the case if I were walking toward the man I loved perhaps my heart would be racing with excitement instead of dread. That would have been a dream... to escape this suffocating house and start anew.

But my reality was far from a dream.

Today, I was marrying a man whose name I didn't even know, let alone his face or nature. My father had forced me into this marriage an arrangement I never wanted. And the worst part? I was only twenty-one. Far too young to be tied to someone for life. Who knew what kind of man he was? Would he be kind... or cruel? Would he even care for me?

And worst of all... would he accept a woman who couldn't speak?

My chest felt unbearably heavy. My eyes were still swollen and raw from crying through the night. I still couldn't wrap my mind around it by the end of the day, I would belong to someone else.

Father always said, "Before marriage, a girl belongs to her father. After marriage, to her husband." But a part of me always questioned... why couldn't a girl belong to herself? Why did her identity always have to be defined by a man?

The sudden creak of the door made me flinch, snapping me out of my thoughts. My father stood there, his gaze cold and dripping with contempt.

"Sara din yaha rehna hai kya? Jaldi utho aur chalo. Kisi tarah tum jaise afaad ko nikalna hai mujhe."
(Do you plan on sitting here all day? Get up and come. I need to get rid of a burden like you as soon as possible.)

I stood up slowly, every step feeling heavier than the last. The anklets around my ankles jingled softly with each movement a sound that should have been beautiful but now felt like the chains of a prisoner. My head remained bowed under the weight of the veil, my gaze fixed on the floor. As I moved to pass my father, I kept my steps quiet, hesitant...

"Tum khush-naseeb ho, tumhari jaise najayaz aulaad ko koi le raha hai."
(You're lucky that someone is willing to take in an illegitimate child like you.)

The words struck me like a blade to the chest. My breath caught, and for a moment, my heart seemed to stop. I thought the tears had finally dried after last night's storm, but they welled up again, blurring my vision.

"Baare log hain, toh dhyaan rahe. Waise bhi mere ghar mein kaunsi izzat rakhi hai tumne? Beti paida hoke toh naak kata hi hai... iske upar na-bolne wali."
(They're influential people, so behave yourself. Anyway, you've already brought shame to my name by being born a girl-on top of that, a mute one.)

He let out a dry, mocking laugh that made my skin crawl. My hands tightened into fists, nails digging deep into my palms, as if pain alone could keep the sob from breaking free.

"Agar maine ek bhi shikayat suni tere sasuraal se... ki tune kuch kiya hai... toh dekh lena. Aur apne pati ka seva karna theek se. Jo bhi bole, sunna chahe woh ghar ke kaam ho... ya uski ichha poori karni ho. Samjhi na?"
(If I hear even a single complaint from your in-laws... that you've done anything wrong... you'll see what happens. Serve your husband well. Whatever he says listen. Whether it's household work... or fulfilling his desires. Understand?)

His words froze my blood. Household work... and fulfilling his desires no matter what they were. My throat tightened painfully. I wanted to shake my head, to refuse, to scream, but... I couldn't. Not because I was mute, but because fear had stolen even the will to resist.

Before I could even move, his rough fingers gripped my jaw through the veil, jerking my face up toward him. His eyes burned with disgust.

"Sunaai nahi diya? Ya awaaz ke saath sunna bhi chala gaya?"
(Did you not hear me? Or did your hearing leave along with your voice?)

My nails dug deeper into my palms. I couldn't reply. I couldn't even breathe.

His grip tightened, the pressure making my jaw ache. A small whimper escaped me before I could stop it. Slowly... unwillingly... I nodded.

"Chalo, dimaag mein ghusaa tera."
(Good. Seems like it finally got through that head of yours.)

With a final shove, he pushed me back. My balance faltered, and for a moment, I almost stumbled to the floor. He didn't look back just walked away, his steps heavy with impatience.

I stood frozen, my fingers instinctively coming up to touch the place where his hand had been. It still burned, not from the force alone, but from the hatred behind it.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard the faint sounds of a wedding band playing, guests laughing, people chatting in excitement. To them, this was a celebration bright, joyous, and full of blessings. To me... it was a slow, quiet burial of the life I had wanted.

A soft knock on the door pulled me back. My aunt's voice floated in, cheerful and oblivious.
"Chalo beta, mahurat ka samay ho raha hai."
(Come, dear. The auspicious time is passing.)

I forced my legs to move, each step feeling heavier than the last. My anklets jingled again mocking me, reminding me of the chains I couldn't break. The veil over my face felt thicker now, not just hiding me from the world... but hiding the world from me.

As I stepped out into the corridor, I saw relatives smiling, some whispering. A few eyes softened with pity, but no one dared to say anything. No one ever did.

The mandap was ahead, glowing with lights, marigolds, and holy fire. But all I could see was the man waiting there unknown, faceless, yet soon to be called my husband. My heart pounded in my chest. Not from excitement... but from fear of the life I was being pushed into.

And still... I walked. Because there was no other choice.

---

The closer I got to the mandap, the louder the sounds became mantras being chanted, bells ringing, the low hum of guests murmuring. My heart pounded so hard it drowned out everything else.

I reached the edge of the stage, where a few women guided me up the steps. My veil stayed low, shielding my face from curious eyes. But curiosity burned inside me instead. Who was this man? The one I was expected to serve, obey, and God forbid share my life with.

When I finally dared to look up, my breath hitched.

He was tall. Not just tall towering easily 6'3, his presence casting a shadow even in the warm glow of the fire. His broad shoulders filled the space beneath his ivory sherwani, the gold embroidery catching the light. A neatly kept beard framed his strong jaw, adding to the harshness of his features.

And then... there were his eyes.

Cold. Deep. Black. They didn't just look at me they looked through me, stripping away the veil and leaving me bare. There was no warmth there, no welcome. Only an unreadable darkness that made my stomach twist.

He was... handsome. Painfully so. The kind of man people would turn their heads for in admiration, yet take a step back from in fear. His face was carved with sharp lines, as if perfection itself had been shaped into something dangerous.

For a moment, I wondered if a man who looked like this could be kind. But the thought quickly faded. Beauty didn't promise gentleness. And his gaze... his gaze promised nothing at all

I felt small smaller than I already was. At 5'4, I had to tilt my head up just to meet his gaze, but even then, I wished I could disappear under the veil.

He didn't smile. Didn't greet me. Didn't even blink. He simply stared, his expression unreadable, as if silently judging the girl his family had handed to him.

In that moment, the fire between us wasn't from the sacred flames. It was the burn of fear in my chest and the chilling frost of his gaze.

I lowered my head again, clutching the edge of my sari until my knuckles whitened. This was it. This was the man I was bound to for life.

I swallowed hard and lowered my gaze again. My father's voice echoed in my head. "Chahe woh ghar ke kaam ho, ya uski ichha poori karna..."

The priest's voice called us forward, and my feet moved on their own. I sat across from the man who, within the hour, would be my husband. An unknown name, an unknown life, and a face I could not forget even if I wanted to.

And I still didn't know if he would save me... or destroy me.

---

The priest's voice rang out, calling for the jaimala the garland exchange. Two cousins handed me the long, fragrant string of fresh jasmine and roses. It was heavier than I expected, the scent strong enough to make my head swim.

My fingers trembled around it, the soft petals brushing against my skin like a cruel reminder this was the moment. The moment I'd have to look at him again.

He was already holding his garland, one hand resting lightly against the thick stem of flowers, the other behind his back. His stance was steady, shoulders squared, the faint shimmer of gold embroidery catching the light. And those eyes... still fixed on me. Calm, unreadable, almost calculating.

I took a step forward. He didn't move.

For a second, I thought he might lower himself to make it easier. But he didn't he simply stood there, tall and unyielding, as if silently daring me to reach him. At 5'4", I felt impossibly small in front of his 6'3" frame. My cousins whispered behind me, urging me to hurry.

I raised my arms, but the garland dangled far below his neck. My breath hitched. I'd have to stand on my toes.

As I shifted forward, he leaned in just slightly enough to close the gap, but still making it clear he was in control of the moment. His gaze never left mine.

My heart thudded painfully as I slipped the garland over his head. The flowers brushed against his beard as they settled on his broad chest. I quickly stepped back, lowering my eyes again, as if burned by his presence.

Then it was his turn.

He moved with deliberate slowness, lifting the garland in one hand. His eyes still locked on me, his other hand reached out not roughly, but firmly taking my chin and tilting my face up. The contact sent a shiver down my spine.

I wanted to pull back, but I couldn't move.

He lowered the garland over my head, letting it fall gracefully against my sari. But for just a second longer than necessary, his fingers lingered near my chin before releasing me.

The priest's voice rose again, announcing the next ritual. But all I could hear was my heartbeat in my ears. This man was still a stranger... yet in that brief touch, I could already feel the power he held over me.

The priest's voice softened, his chant blending with the crackle of the sacred fire.
"Ab dulha, dulhan ke maang mein sindoor bharein."
(Now, the groom shall fill the bride's hair parting with sindoor.)

A small silver box was handed to him. He took it without hesitation, his large hand dwarfing the delicate container. My own hands rested stiffly in my lap, fingers digging into the fabric of my sari to keep them from trembling too visibly.

He opened the box, the rich red powder catching the light. And then he leaned forward.

The veil was lifted back from my face entirely now, leaving me exposed under his gaze. I tried to keep my eyes lowered, but it was impossible not to feel the weight of his stare sharp, steady, unblinking.

My breath caught when his fingers dipped into the sindoor. His touch didn't tremble, didn't hesitate. He moved closer, so close I could feel the faint brush of his breath near my forehead.

With one smooth motion, his fingers pressed the powder into the parting of my hair, the vivid red standing out starkly against my skin. He didn't rush. He didn't look away. It felt less like a ritual... and more like a claim.

The priest announced the mangalsutra next. A relative placed it in his hand a slender black-beaded chain with a small gold pendant. He didn't simply fasten it around my neck.

No.

He brushed my hair aside first, his fingers grazing the back of my neck. My body tensed at the contact, and I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from flinching. His touch was neither gentle nor rough it was deliberate, as though he wanted me to remember the sensation.

The cool metal of the mangalsutra settled against my skin, but the heat from where his fingers had been lingered longer.

"Patni," the priest declared. Wife.

The crowd around us clapped softly, murmuring blessings. But in my ears, the sound felt distant, muffled. My eyes burned, though I refused to let the tears fall here, in front of everyone.

Across from me, his expression remained unreadable. But something in those black eyes told me he understood he knew I was afraid. And he didn't look away.

---

I looked around my room for the last time. The walls stood silent, but I could almost hear the echoes of my childhood the soft hums I used to make when I was alone, the quiet moments where I imagined a different life. Now, all of it would stay here, locked behind a door I might never open again.

My steps took me to the corner where my small suitcase sat. I reached for it, the sound of the latch clicking open far too loud in the stillness.

Then... my eyes fell on the dressing table.

The hairpin.

Delicate, golden, shaped like a butterfly with tiny crystals that caught the light my mother's hairpin. The last piece of her I had. I remembered her wearing it during festivals, tucking my hair behind my ear and smiling as she said it would be mine one day. That day had come too soon.

A small, almost involuntary smile curved my lips as I picked it up, holding it gently against my chest. For a moment, I let myself close my eyes and pretend she was here her warmth, her scent, her soft voice telling me I'd be okay.

But reality always came back.

I opened my suitcase and nestled the hairpin carefully inside, between the folds of my sari, as though protecting it from the world. Then I zipped it closed.

My hand lingered on the handle for a second longer before I turned away from the room. I didn't look back again. Looking back would make it harder to walk away.

As I stepped into the corridor, the sound of drums and voices outside reminded me the vidaai was next. The final step before I was no longer a daughter of this house... but a wife in a stranger's.

---

Kabirendra Shaurya Singhania.

The man I was now married to. The man whose property I now was.

The car ride was silent oppressively so. It was just the two of us in the backseat, the driver in the front. I kept my eyes fixed outside the window, letting the calm of the night sky distract me. The moon hung low, the stars scattered like tiny lanterns.

During my vidaai, I hadn't shed a single tear. I thought I would. I thought the reality of leaving my father's house would crush me. But it didn't. Perhaps because leaving didn't matter to anyone there... and because I had never truly belonged.

A nobody doesn't get mourned when she leaves.

Out of the corner of my eye, I stole glances at him. He sat back, one arm resting loosely on the seat, his head tilted back, eyes closed. Even in that relaxed pose, there was an unshakable authority in him a quiet warning that he was not a man to be crossed.

We reached our destination sooner than I expected.

The moment the car rolled to a stop, my eyes widened. A mansion stood before us, bathed in soft golden lights, its grand pillars casting long shadows. It was... breathtaking. The kind of place that felt more like a palace than a home.

The door on his side opened. He stepped out first, and as I reached for my own door, it opened from the outside revealing him standing there. For a second, I froze. Then he extended his hand.

A strange, unfamiliar flutter stirred in my chest. I quickly pushed it aside, placing my trembling fingers into his. His grip was firm, steady wordless but he helped me out of the car without a glance at my face.

Inside, the aarti was done, the priest's chants filling the air. I barely absorbed the rituals; my eyes kept wandering to the mansion's interiors ornate chandeliers, polished marble floors, intricate carvings. Everything was so perfect it felt unreal.

Two young women his cousins introduced themselves with warm smiles. They led me upstairs to what they called his room. Or rather... our room now.

When the door opened, I gasped. Roses were scattered across the bed, petals spread like crimson whispers. Candles flickered softly, casting a golden glow against the walls. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and flowers.

They guided me inside, gently pressing me down onto the bed.
"Wait here," one of them said with a teasing smile before leaving.

The door clicked shut.

The silence suddenly felt suffocating.

My father's voice echoed in my mind his cold instructions about obedience, about fulfilling my husband's wishes no matter what. My heart began to pound, each beat loud in my ears.

And then... a darker thought slithered in.

What if he forced me?

My breath quickened. I wasn't ready. I couldn't be ready. He was still a stranger tall, intimidating, and unreadable. Even if I was now his wife, even if I was his property in everyone else's eyes...

I couldn't do this.

Not tonight.