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I sat there in silence, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. My arms wrapped tightly around myself, as though I could shield my body from my own thoughts. They were dark, heavy filled with every possible worst-case scenario.
I couldn't even scream if he tried anything. And even if I refused... would he tell my father?
I swallowed hard. I didn't want to imagine what my father might do this time.
The jewelry dug into my skin; the heavy sari pulled at my shoulders. My scalp ached under the weight of pins and the veil. I wanted nothing more than to remove them, to breathe, to feel like a human again. But... would he be angry if he found me without them? A wife was supposed to wait for her husband my father's words were still fresh wounds in my mind.
When I glanced at the clock, it was only 9 p.m.
Half an hour had passed since I entered this room. Still no sign of him.
Maybe he was still with his family.
Maybe he was avoiding me.
Time slipped by in slow, painful stretches. My body felt heavy, screaming for rest. My eyes flicked to the clock again midnight.
Twelve. Hours since the wedding. Hours of silence.
With a quiet sigh, I slowly unclasped the heavy necklace, setting it on the vanity. The earrings followed, then the veil. My fingers trembled as I removed each hairpin, letting my long hair tumble down my back. I folded everything carefully, placing it aside like fragile glass.
I knew I was breaking the unspoken rule of a bride waiting for her husband, but I couldn't endure the pain any longer. I prayed silently that Kabirendra Ji wouldn't be angry.
From my suitcase, I pulled out a plain kurti and pants, retreating into the washroom to freshen up. When I returned, the bed looked too big, too empty, but exhaustion claimed me anyway. I curled under the blanket, eyes darting to the door and back to the clock.
Was he just... awkward? Or was there something else?
The weight of unanswered questions pulled me under, and I didn't remember when I fell asleep.
---
The next morning, a sharp knock jolted me awake.
I blinked, trying to adjust to the dim room. Thin lines of sunlight slipped past the curtains, casting a faint glow. My head turned and I froze.
He was here.
On the couch, Kabirendra Ji lounged in a simple grey T-shirt and black pants, one arm over his eyes, the other hanging loosely by his side. His beard framed a strong jaw, his face calm in sleep, but there was an undeniable presence about him even resting, he seemed to own the space.
When had he come in? How had I not noticed?
The knock came again, louder this time. I slipped out of bed, the jingling of my anklets echoing in the quiet room.
Opening the door, I found one of his cousins the same girl who had brought me here yesterday. She smiled warmly.
"Maaf kar dena, bhabhi. Badi Maa ne bola aapko aur bhaiya ko uthane ke liye. Aur... yeh aapke liye."
(Sorry, sister-in-law. Elder Mother told me to pick you and brother up. And... this is for you.)
I glanced at the red sari and the three velvet boxes balanced in her hands. Carefully, I took them.
"Yeh Badi Maa ne diya. Bola ki fresh hoke ready hoke neeche aane ko."
(This was given by Elder Mother. She said to get freshened up, get ready, and come downstairs.)
I nodded softly, offering a small smile before closing the door.
Placing the boxes on the bed, I picked up the sari, my gaze drifting back to Kabirendra Ji. He hadn't moved.
A dull ache stirred in my chest. I hadn't been ready for intimacy last night, but... I had hoped for at least a conversation. A simple introduction. Something.
It's fine, Aarohi. You're married now. Maybe he was busy. Maybe awkward. There's time.
I dressed in the washroom, the sari flowing elegantly over me. Opening the first box, I gasped at the diamond necklace inside. It glittered with quiet opulence, far too precious for my trembling hands. What if I ruined it?
But rejecting it would insult the elder who gave it. So I carefully clasped it around my neck, adding the matching earrings, diamond bangles, and the delicate waist chain.
The final box held red powder sindoor.
My fingers stilled, and a shiver went through me. This was the mark of my new life. I took a pinch and pressed it into the parting of my hair.
When I emerged, my eyes drifted to him again. Should I wake him? What if he got annoyed? But if I didn't, and he was late, would he be angry?
A frustrated sigh escaped me. I hated this this trap where every choice felt like the wrong one.
I carefully walked towards him, my hands trembling so slightly I was afraid he might notice. Kneeling a little, I reached out and shook his arm gently. He didn't move.
I tried again this time harder.
A low groan escaped him as he shifted, pulling the arm away from his eyes. And then... those black, dark eyes met mine.
My breath caught.
There was something in them that made my chest tighten not just intimidation, but another feeling I couldn't name. It rooted me to the spot.
I instinctively stepped back as he sat up, rubbing his head like a man weighed down by a thousand thoughts. Then he stood tall, broad-shouldered, towering over me. His gaze flickered over me, head to toe, slow and assessing, before locking with mine again.
Still cold. Still unreadable.
My throat went dry. I lowered my eyes and waited for him to speak.
But he didn't.
Instead, he brushed past me without a word, heading for the wardrobe. He pulled out a set of clothes, his movements calm, almost deliberate, as if I weren't even in the room. The ache in my chest deepened. I had hoped just a word, a greeting, anything.
Nothing.
Without a glance, he disappeared into the washroom.
I exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the floor.
Is this what marriage is supposed to be? To share a life with someone who acts like you don't exist?
Maybe... maybe he just wasn't ready to talk. I clung to that thought.
Taking a steadying breath, I turned and left the room.
---
Downstairs, the living room buzzed with laughter and conversation. The air was warm with the sound of family chatter. But the moment I stepped in, all eyes turned to me.
Anxiety rose in my chest. I wasn't used to this too many people, too much attention. Back home, it had only been me and the walls. I couldn't even remember the last time I stepped outside like this.
A woman stepped forward. I recognized her instantly she had done my aarti last night. Perhaps... his mother? I bent quickly to touch her feet.
"Aare, aare... iski koi zarurat nahi, beti."
Her hand pressed gently to my shoulder, lifting me upright. She smiled, warm and genuine, then reached to cup my chin.
(Aare, aare... there's no need for this, dear.)
"Haye... kitni pyari lag rahi ho. Mujhe pata tha, tum par yeh necklace ka set sabse achha lagega." (Oh... you look so lovely. I knew this necklace set would suit you the best.)
My heart stumbled at her words they were soft, almost motherly.
For a fleeting moment, I was a little girl again. I remembered the day I had tried to wear my mother's sari, my face a mess of uneven makeup, the fabric clumsily draped. She had laughed, eyes full of love.
The next day, she came with a child-sized sari, dressing me carefully. I had felt so beautiful, and she had smiled, saying, "Mujhe pata tha, meri Aarohi iss sari mein sabse achi lagegi."
(I knew my Aarohi would look the most beautiful in this saree.)
I blinked the memory away and smiled softly at his mother. She kept her arm around my shoulder, guiding me to a sofa.
"Main hoon Kabir ki maa. Aur aaj se tumhari bhi," she said warmly.
(I am Kabir's mother... and from today, yours too.)
Something inside me trembled at the word maa. It had been so long since anyone called themselves my mother. I wished oh, I wished I could call her that back.
She gestured to a dignified older man.
"Yeh hain mere pati... aur Kabir ke papa."
(This is my husband... and Kabir's father.)
"Aur aaj se tumare bhi."
(And now yours too,)
he added with a chuckle. "Agar Kabir kabhi kuch bhi karta hain, mere paas ajana, ok?"
(If Kabir ever does anything, just come to me, thik hai?)
A few people laughed softly. I joined my hands in respect, smiling faintly.
"Aur yeh hain Kabir ke Chacha aur Chachi," she continued.
(And these are Kabir's uncle and aunt,)
Before I could greet them, someone said, "Yeh dekho, bhaiya bhi aa gaye."
(Look, brother also came.)
I turned with the others and my breath hitched.
Kabirendra descended the staircase, dressed in a crisp white shirt, navy trousers, and a suit jacket. His hair was perfectly styled, his beard framing that impossibly sharp jawline. He adjusted his cufflinks, every movement precise, effortless.
For a moment, I couldn't look away.
His mother's voice broke the moment. "Kabir beta, aao. Aarohi beti ko hum bata rahe the ki kab-"
(Kabir dear, come. We were telling Aarohi dear that when-)
"Time nahi hai mere paas, Maa,"
(I don't have time, Mom)
he cut in smoothly. "Office jana hai. Agar breakfast nahi hua toh main office mein kha lunga."
(I have to go to the office. If breakfast isn't ready yet, I'll eat at the office.)
"Par beta-"
(But dear-)
And just like that, he walked past us all past me without another glance.
I sat on the sofa, frozen. Wait... he left? Just like that?
All the family members looked just as taken aback as I was.
Then Kabirendra Ji's mother spoke again, this time a little awkwardly.
"Shayad aaj... important meeting hogi."
(Maybe today... Important meeting is there.)
She turned to me with a gentle smile. "Tum bura mat maano, beti. Kabir thoda sa... awkward hai. Lekin chinta mat karo, sab theek ho jayega. Theek hai?"
(Please don't take it the wrong way, dear. Kabir is a little... awkward. But don't worry, everything will be fine. Okay?)
I straightened up, forcing a small smile, and nodded slowly. Awkward... hmm.
I don't know why, but it didn't feel awkward to me. More like... a cold shoulder. But then again, she was his mother-she knew him better than I did.
"Wahi, sayad... Yahi hain, wese bhi. Kabir bohot busy ladka hain. And jyada baat nahi karta."
(Yes, maybe... that's just how he is. Kabir is a very busy guy and doesn't talk much.) His father said, awkwardly laughing, as if trying to lighten the mood.
I gave a small smile to them simply, even though my mind was still trying to process what just happened. My jaw still felt the faint ache from his grip, and the memory of those black, cold eyes burned in my head.
The rest of the family slowly went back to their conversations, but I couldn't focus on a single word. My eyes kept darting toward the door he had disappeared through, half-expecting him to walk back in and say something... anything.
But no.
The sound of distant footsteps faded completely, replaced by the soft clinking of cups and low chatter. I forced myself to sit straighter, keeping the polite smile plastered on my face, though my hands fidgeted with the edge of my dupatta.
His mother leaned closer and patted my knee gently. "Thoda waqt do, beti. Kabir bas... alag tarah ka hai. Dil ka bura nahi hai."
(Give some time, dear. Kabir is... Just different type. But he isn't bad person)
I nodded again, but in my mind, I was replaying the moment how tall he stood, towering over me, the trimmed beard framing that dangerously handsome face, the way his cold gaze didn't waver for even a second. A man like that... could he really just be awkward?
Or was I stepping into something I didn't understand at all?
My tea had gone cold before I even realized I hadn't taken a sip.
---
The day went by quietly, each hour slipping past without much notice. By evening, I was sitting on the balcony, watching the fading sunlight paint the sky in shades of gold and pink. The air was calm, carrying the faint scent of flowers from the garden below. I was lost in thought when I suddenly felt the weight of someone settling into the chair beside me.
I turned, startled, only to see Kabirendra Ji's mother. My spine straightened instantly, and I began to stand out of respect, but she gently lifted her hand, gesturing for me to remain seated.
"Arre, beti, baitho. Main yahan tumhare saath baat karne aayi hoon."
(Aare, dear sit. I'm here to talk with you only.)
I hesitated before lowering myself back into the chair. Talk with me? But... why?
She glanced out at the view, her eyes soft and kind. "Acha lag raha hai yahan?" Her voice was warm, almost motherly, yet there was something in her tone a fragile hope, as though she truly wanted to hear my answer.
(Are you liking here?)
I smiled faintly and nodded. But in the back of my mind, a question stirred restlessly. Why hadn't she once asked me why I didn't speak? Had Father already told them? Did they know I couldn't talk? Or... were they just pretending not to notice?
As if reading my thoughts, she looked at me with a gentle smile. "Tum shayad soch rahi ho ki maine ek baar bhi tumse nahi poocha ke tum kyun baat nahi kar rahi... na?"
(You must be thinking why I haven't said anything about, why you are not talking and all right?)
My eyes widened slightly. I stared at her, caught off guard. How... how did she know? Was I that transparent? Was my curiosity written so clearly on my face?
She chuckled softly, her laughter not mocking but warm, like the gentle pat of a hand over your head.
"Aarohi beti," she began, her voice low and sincere, "humein pata hai... aap bol nahi sakti. Aur yeh mat socho ki humein isse koi problem hai. Theek hai? Humein aap pasand ho, bohot pasand ho. Aapka bolna ya na bolna, hamare liye kabhi koi masla nahi banega."
(We know... you can't speak. And don't think that we have any problem with that. Okay? We like you, like you a lot. Whether you speak or not will never be an issue for us.)
Her words wrapped around me like a soft blanket. No pity. No awkward glances. Just... acceptance. It was strange this warmth from someone I barely knew. My chest felt tight, and for a fleeting second, I wished I could tell her thank you out loud. But all I could do was look at her and nod, hoping my eyes could say what my voice couldn't.
She reached over, lightly patting my hand, as if to seal her promise. We sat in silence after that, but it was the kind of silence that didn't feel heavy. For the first time that day, I felt a little less like a stranger in this house.
"Aap hamari beti jesi hain, toh kabhi chinta maat karna."
(You're like a daughter to us, so never worry much.)
Her words were so gentle, so warm, that for a moment my throat tightened not because I wanted to speak, but because something inside me ached. She didn't look at me with pity, nor with judgment... just pure kindness.
I quickly looked away, afraid my eyes might give away too much.
She reached out and patted my hand softly.
"Bas ek baat yaad rakhna, beti... iss ghar mein tum apne ho. Koi bhi tumse kuch zabardasti nahi karega. Aur Kabir..."
(Just remember one thing, dear... in this house, you belong. No one will force you into anything. And Kabir...)
She hesitated for a second, her smile turning a little wistful. "Woh thoda alag hai. Uska tarika samajhna mushkil hota hai, par dil bura nahi hai uska."
(He's a bit different. It's hard to understand his ways, but his heart isn't bad.)
Her tone dropped, as if she was speaking more to herself than to me. "Bas... usne zindagi mein bohot kuch dekha hai. Shayad zyada."
(Simply... he has seen a lot in life. Maybe too much.)
I turned my head to her, curiosity sparking, but before I could even think further, she stood up and brushed her saree. "Thik hain, meh chalti hu, raat ka khana tayar karna hai."
("Alright, I'm going now, have to prepare dinner.)
And just like that, she left me there... with more questions than answers.
But one thing was certain her kindness felt like a shield in a house where Kabirendra Ji's cold gaze still lingered in my mind like an unspoken warning.
---
As I entered the kitchen, I paused at the doorway for a moment, unsure. The warm aroma of spices and freshly made tea lingered in the air, wrapping around me like a blanket. My fingers brushed the edge of the counter as I stood there, debating should I make something he likes? Would he even care?
My eyes wandered until they landed on his mother, busy instructing a maid on the vegetables for dinner. I took a slow breath, then walked towards her and gently tapped her hand.
She turned to me, her face breaking into a smile.
"Haa? Kuch chaiye?"
(Yes? You need something?)
I nodded, then tried to gesture pointing towards the utensils, mimicking stirring a pot, then pointing vaguely in the direction of the living room where Kabirendra Ji usually sat. In my head, it made perfect sense. In reality... judging by her tilted head and soft squint, I was pretty sure I looked like I was performing some very questionable silent drama.
I sighed in defeat.
She chuckled lightly, "Rukho." (Wait)
She called over one of the maids. The woman returned quickly, holding a small notebook and pen. His mother handed it to me with that same gentle smile, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.
I awkwardly took it and, after a second's hesitation, scribbled down the words:
"Mehne socha... Kabirendra Ji ke liye... Unka kuch pasand ka banau."
(I thought... To make something Kabirendra Ji likes)
When I passed the notebook back to her, she read it slowly, then looked up at me with eyes that crinkled at the corners.
"Bikul. Lekin wese Kabir utna jyada picky nahi hain. Haa... usko na Aloo Methi bohot pasand. Agar tum bana sakti ho toh banao. Usse acha lagega."
(Absolutely. But Kabir isn't that picky. Yes... he really likes Aloo Methi. If you can make it, please do. He'll like it.)
A soft, almost involuntary smile tugged at my lips. Aloo Methi? I don't know why, but I had been bracing myself for some elaborate, complicated dish something that required ten different spices and a prayer to the cooking gods. But this? This I could do. And I could do it well.
My fingers tightened slightly around the notebook. Aloo Methi. It wasn't about being fancy. It was about making something that reminded him of home, of comfort... maybe even of warmth.
I nodded eagerly. In my mind, I was already thinking of how perfectly I would cook it fluffy potatoes, the right balance of methi leaves, a touch of ghee just before serving.
Maybe... just maybe... he would like it.
---
The kitchen slowly emptied as the maids moved on to other tasks, leaving me with a clean counter and the ingredients neatly laid out. The methi leaves were fresh, the potatoes smooth under my fingers as I peeled them.
As the pan heated, I felt a strange flutter in my chest. It had been so long since I'd cooked for someone not out of obligation, but because I wanted to. My hands moved with practiced ease, adding cumin seeds to the shimmering oil, the soft crackle filling the air.
What will he say when he sees it?
Maybe he wouldn't say anything at all. Maybe he would just nod politely. Or... maybe his eyes would soften, just a little, the way they might when someone tastes something that reminds them of home. I found myself holding onto that thought like it was a secret wish.
I tossed the potatoes into the pan, letting them sizzle, the golden edges catching the light. The methi went in next, filling the room with that earthy, comforting scent. I sprinkled salt, turmeric, and just the right amount of chili powder not too much, but enough to wake the flavors.
Every now and then, I caught myself smiling at the pan, as if it could somehow carry my thoughts to him. I didn't want him to just taste the Aloo Methi. I wanted him to feel it like a quiet message that said, I thought of you.
As the last touch, I drizzled a little ghee and stirred it gently, letting the aroma rise. For a second, I closed my eyes and imagined him taking the first bite, pausing, then looking up at me not cold, not distant, but... maybe curious. Maybe a little surprised.
And in that imaginary moment, I could almost hear him say, "It's good."
Just two simple words. But for some reason, they would mean everything.
I took the pan off the heat, setting it aside, my heart beating a little faster than before.
Just then, a man stepped into the kitchen a tall, neatly dressed figure I hadn't seen before. Kabirendra Ji's mother glanced toward him and smiled faintly.
She turned to me and said softly, "Yeh hamare butler hain."
He bowed slightly to her, his voice polite yet carrying a certain urgency.
"Malkin, saheb aa gaye."
("Madam, sir has arrived.)
My hands froze mid-motion, the wooden spoon hovering over the pan. Saheb... The word hung in the air, heavy and sharp, as if the entire kitchen had shifted around it.
Kabirendra Ji was home.
The steady beat of my heart picked up pace, each thud loud enough that I wondered if they could hear it. My mind instantly replayed the image I'd been carrying him taking a bite of the Aloo Methi, his eyes softening, maybe even smiling. But now, with the knowledge that he was actually here, that fantasy felt both too close and impossibly far.
Would he even notice? Would he care? Or... would it be just another plate on the dining table, one among many?
I swallowed hard, glancing down at the dish I had poured so much of myself into. A small, nervous part of me wanted to hide it away to keep the hope tucked safely where it couldn't be broken. But another part, stubborn and quiet, whispered, No. Let him taste it.
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