The oil lamp flickered softly, casting long shadows on the mud walls. A quiet stillness has wrapped around the mother and daughter.

Aasha lay in Jaya's lap, her fingers playing with the loose end of her mother's saree. Her heart felt heavy, but she wasn't sure why.

"Maa..." she hesitated, her voice small. "Shaadi ke baad... ladki alag ho jaati hai?" (After marriage... does a girl become different?)

Jaya's hands paused for a moment before resuming their gentle strokes through Aasha's hair. "Nahi beta... ladki badalti nahi. Bas naye ghar ke hisaab se dhal jaati hai." (No, my child... a girl doesn't change. She just adjusts to her new home.)

"Ladki ka ghar uska sasural hota hai. Wahi uski asli jagah hai." (A girl's home is her husband's home. That is where she belongs.)

Aasha's throat felt tight. She shifted slightly, staring at the small flame of the lamp.

"Maa... wahan bhi mujhe neend aayegi na?" (Maa... I'll be able to sleep there too, right?)

Jaya pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, forcing a smile. "Haan, beta. Dheere dheere aadat ho jayegi." (Yes, my child. Slowly, you'll get used to it.)

She hesitated before adding, "Aur wahan hamesha dhyaan rakhna..... Kabhi na mat karna, beta, chahe jo bhi ho. Sasural mein ladki ka kaam hota hai sunna, bolna nahi." (And always remember.... Never say no, my child, no matter what. A girl's duty in her in-laws' home is to listen, not to speak.)

Aasha's fingers tightened around the edge of her mother's saree.

"Apne pati ki baat chahe jo ho jye hamesha sunna. Unki khushi mein hi teri khushi hai." Jaya's voice softened, but the meaning behind it was heavy. (Always listen to your husband,no matter what. Your happiness lies in his happiness.)

Aasha nodded slowly, though she didn't fully understand.

She curled up tighter, holding onto the warmth of her mother's lap. Sleep didn't come easily that night.

         -------------------------------------------

The open ground near the village temple had been transformed for the wedding. Marigold garlands and mango leaves hung from bamboo poles, their bright colors trying to hide the simplicity of the setting. A large canopy made of borrowed white and red cloth stretched overhead, shielding the guests from the night sky.

Rows of charpais and wooden benches were arranged neatly for the groom’s family, while the bride’s relatives and villagers found their places on woven mats spread over the ground.

The smell of pure ghee mixing with the scent of incense burning near the mandap.

The baraat was pleased, or at least they looked so. But in such matters, nothing could be said for sure.

Even if the groom’s family smiled, even if they ate well, even if they nodded in approval, it was never enough, anything was never enough.. A single frown, a single complaint, could change everything in a moment.

The respect of the house depended on this day, and they could not afford a single mistake.

The bride's parents stood, their hands joined tightly, their backs bent in respect as they spoke to the groom’s side. Their voices were soft, their smiles unwavering, their every gesture filled with humility.

They ensured that no guest’s plate remained empty, urging them to eat more, serving them with hands that trembled only slightly. Rupesh stood with folded hands before the elders, nodding eagerly to every word spoken by the groom’s father, even when it was not directed at him.

Every time a member of the baraat needed something—a seat, water, a fan—someone from Aasha’s family rushed forward to provide it. It was not just hospitality; it was a silent plea, an unspoken promise that they had given their daughter with the utmost respect.

It had always been this way. The ones giving had to bend, serve, agree, sacrifice. The ones taking had the power to judge, demand, reject.

"Kanya ko mandap mein bulaiye." The priest said and jaya moved without any delay.

(Call the bride to the mandap.)

         -------------------------------------------

Aasha sat quietly, a vision of bridal beauty. The deep red lehenga, heavy with intricate gold embroidery, shimmered under the dim light. The rich fabric pooled around her, its weight grounding her in place. Her dupatta, sheer yet adorned with delicate golden motifs, was carefully draped over her head, framing her face like a royal veil.

Her skin glowed under the soft flicker of the oil lamp, the kajal around her large, doe-like eyes making them look even more striking. A small red bindi sat perfectly on her forehead, complementing the sindoor that would soon mark her fate. The gold nath (nose ring), connected to her ear by a delicate chain, added to her elegance, while her full lips, colored deep red, looked as if they had been painted with care. Her thin waist adorned with kamarbandh, making it look more appealing.

Her hands, resting gently in her lap, were adorned with intricate henna patterns, the dark stain a mark of her new journey. Thick gold bangles jingled softly with her every movement, their shine a contrast to the fragility in her fingers.

She looked breathtaking—like a princess from an old tale, dressed for a destiny she did not yet understand.

This was the moment every girl was told to dream of, yet she couldn’t understand why it felt so heavy.

Her whole life, she had seen brides being sent away, their eyes lowered, their faces covered in veils, their mothers crying. She had known this day would come for her too. But knowing and feeling were two different things.

She should feel happy—wasn’t marriage a celebration? Wasn’t it the start of something new? But all she felt was a strange feeling.

Somewhere deep inside, there was a small flicker of curiosity too. What did her new home look like? Would it be bigger than her own? What would it feel like to be called someone’s wife? She had seen women, dressed like queens, sitting beside their husbands, adorned in jewelry. Would she feel that important too?

She wasn’t a child anymore, but she didn’t feel like a woman either. She was just… Aasha, sitting here in a bridal dress, waiting for her name to be called.

Would she ever sit like this again in her home? Would she ever run barefoot in the courtyard, braid Poonam’s hair, laugh with her siblings over stolen sweets?

The door creaked open, and her mother stepped inside. For a moment, she just stood there, her eyes taking in her daughter—dressed as a bride, ready to leave. Aasha looked up, searching her mother’s face for something—reassurance, warmth, maybe.

Her mother spoke. "Chal beta, tuje bula rahe h," she said softly. (Come, dear. The mandap is calling you.)

Aasha hesitated before asking in a small voice, "Maa… main theek to lag rahi hoon na?" (Maa… am I looking okay?)

Jaya gave a small smile. She stepped forward, adjusting Aasha’s dupatta with gentle hands. "Bilkul chaand jaisi lag rahi hai meri beti," she said, her voice soft yet heavy. (You look just like the moon, my daughter.)

Aasha lowered her eyes, feeling a strange mix of emotions—shyness, nervousness.

Jaya covered her face with the veil and proceeded to take her out joined with other women as per the tradition.

         ---------------------------------------------

Aasha stepped carefully into the mandap. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she kept her gaze lowered, too nervous to look around.

And then, she felt it.

A presence beside her—strong, unmoving, commanding. She didn’t have to look to know who it was. Her groom.

Slowly, hesitantly, she lifted her gaze just a little. Her breath caught.

He was staring at her. Not just looking—staring. His dark, intense eyes bore into her, unreadable, heavy with something she couldn’t quite place. Expectation? Possession? Disapproval?

She quickly lowered her eyes again, her fingers clutching the edge of her dupatta. Her face felt warm, not just from the fire but from the weight of his gaze.

The father was called for kanyadaan.

As he placed his daughter's hand in the groom’s, a lump formed in his throat. She had been his little girl, running barefoot in their courtyard, holding his finger with her tiny hands. And now, he was entrusting her to someone else, hoping—praying—that this man would protect her, respect her, and keep her safe. Adjusting her dupatta one last time, he swallowed his emotions and whispered a blessing. This was the way of the world—a father gives, a husband takes. All he could do now was trust.

A shiver ran through her as devraj's rough, unyielding fingers closed over hers. It was the first time a man had touched her, and the feeling was unfamiliar—startling. Her heart pounded, a strange mix of nervousness and something she couldn’t name settling in her chest. His grip was firm, possessive.

The priest chanted sacred verses. Devraj took a pinch of sindoor and filled the parting of Asha's hair as her mother lifted her veil. A deep red mark of belonging, of fate sealed.

Next, he lifted the heavy gold mangalsutra and carefully tied it around her neck. The cold metal rested against her skin, unfamiliar yet final. As it tightened, so did the reality—she was now his, in every way that mattered.