One week flew by in a blur. Before I could even process it, today arrived—the day I would become someone's wife.
It should have felt magical. Like the fairytales. Like the dreams I used to whisper into Asha's ears during sleepovers. But as I sat in front of the mirror in a quiet, minimal bridal room, I didn't feel that fairy tale glow.
My lehenga was beautiful—red with golden embroidery, traditional and regal—but the silence around me felt too loud. No loud dhols, no cousins running around, no chaos, no teasing. Just a quiet, small setup at a private venue Vishal's family had arranged.
I had agreed to this, didn't I? I had smiled through the planning, nodded at every arrangement. Not because I didn't care—because I did. Too much.
I took a slow breath and adjusted my dupatta as the makeup artist finished fixing the final touch.
"You're ready, Tara," she whispered with a soft smile.
Ready. That word echoed in my ears.
Was I?
There was a knock on the door. Asha peeked in, her eyes wide, scanning me from head to toe. Her jaw dropped.
"Girl, you look like a goddess," she whispered, stepping in and hugging me tightly. I finally smiled. A real one.
"You came early?" I asked.
"Tera private wedding hai, dulhaniya. If I'm not early, who'll sneak you sweets before the ceremony?" she smirked, but then her expression softened.
"How are you feeling?" she asked gently.
I hesitated for a second before replying, "A little... empty. I mean, I'm happy I'm marrying him. I love him. But I can't help feeling something's missing."
Asha nodded, her eyes kind. "Because your heart wanted something else too, Tara. And you buried that for love. That takes strength, but it also leaves scars."
Her words hit deeper than she knew.
I looked into the mirror again. "Do I look like a bride?"
Asha smiled and sat beside me. "You look like a bride who's brave enough to love, even when it hurts. That's the rarest kind."
I blinked back tears.
A few minutes later, someone knocked again. "Tara beta, it's time," came Papa's voice from outside.
I stood up slowly, the weight of the lehenga and the moment settling onto me all at once. I stepped toward the door, and when it opened, I saw Papa standing in a cream sherwani, his eyes slightly glossy.
He held out his arm. "Shall we?"
I took it, holding tightly.
The soft wedding shehnai began playing as I walked toward the small mandap. The decorations were simple—white and gold—but elegant. Just close family and a few friends. No flash, no fuss. Exactly how he wanted it.
And there he was—Vishal—standing under the mandap, dressed in an ivory sherwani, looking handsome, calm... and distant.
He smiled at me.
I smiled back.
And as I stepped closer to him, I told myself again—
It's okay, Tara. You chose this.
You love him.
That's enough.
It has to be enough.
The sound of mantras echoed softly in the background, blending with the gentle clinking of bangles and the rustle of silk. I sat beside Vishal under the mandap, the sacred fire flickering in front of us. Its warm light danced on our faces, casting gold and amber reflections in the eyes of the guests around us.
I could feel everyone's gaze, but all I heard was the priest's voice and the heavy beat of my own heart.
"Var aur vadhu ek dusre ke gale mein varmala pehnaayein." (The bride and groom will now exchange garlands.)
I stood as Vishal did. He smiled faintly as he leaned down a little to let me place the floral varmala around his neck. I smiled back—small, practiced, polite. Then he did the same for me. Flowers brushed against my cheek, and for a moment, I closed my eyes and wished... just wished... this felt more magical.
We sat again, the priest continuing with the mantras. Ma and Papa sat beside us, Ma with moist eyes, Papa with his ever-serious face but a certain softness beneath it. Dadi sat a bit away, watching quietly, her hands joined in prayer.
"Ab kanyadaan hoga." (Now, the kanyadaan will take place.)
I looked up at Papa as he came forward with Ma. He didn't speak—he just looked at me, eyes filled with emotions I couldn't name.
Pappa placed my hand in Vishal's, his voice barely holding steady as he whispered, "Aaj se tumhari zindagi uske saath judi hai, Princess. Har pal ke liye." (From today on, your life is joined with his, Princess. For every moment to come.)
My fingers rested in Vishal's palm. Warm. Steady. Firm.
The priest chanted the verses of kanyadaan, and I felt the symbolic weight of that moment—letting go of my old world and stepping into the new. It wasn't just about rituals. It was a promise. A shift. A goodbye.
We moved on to the pheras—seven sacred circles around the fire. Each step marked a vow.
With every round, I repeated the vows softly in my mind.
For nourishment.
For strength.
For prosperity.
For family.
For children.
For health.
For eternal companionship.
I walked with Vishal, hand in hand. But somewhere in my heart, I walked alone. Not in bitterness... just in acceptance.
The final ritual—the sindoor. Vishal took the small silver container from the priest and carefully parted my hairline. His fingers trembled slightly as he applied the red mark of marriage.
The vermilion was warm.
Heavy.
Binding.
Then the mangalsutra—black beads and gold against my skin, his fingers fastening it around my neck. A symbol of love. Protection. Permanence.
"Vivah sampann hua." (The wedding is complete.) The preist said.
Everyone clapped softly. Papa wiped her tears. Asha smiled at me, eyes shining but also searching mine, as if asking, Are you okay?
I nodded faintly.
It was done.
I was no longer Tara Kapoor.
I was now Tara Vishal Khanna... Vishal's wife.
The rituals were complete. The sacred fire had dimmed, the mantras had faded, and the guests had begun to stand. But one final ceremony remained—the one that felt like a goodbye wrapped in tears and silent prayers.
The Bidaai.
Tara stood at the entrance of her childhood home, draped in her wedding attire, her eyes glazed with unshed tears. The red of her lehenga shimmered in the light, but her heart felt unbearably heavy. Around her, soft sobs echoed as her family gathered close—each trying to hold on to the last few moments with her.
Ma clutched her tightly, almost refusing to let go. "Khush rehna, beta... hamesha," she whispered against Tara's temple. (Be happy, always, my child.)
Tara didn't speak. Her throat had closed up hours ago. All she could do was nod, her head resting on her mother's shoulder, breathing in her scent one last time before everything changed.
Papa stood behind them, arms crossed but jaw tight. He had always been a man of few words, but his eyes betrayed everything—pride, pain, love, and the sharp sting of letting go. When Tara turned to him, he raised his hand slowly, cupping her cheek.
"No looking back now, princess," he said softly, voice cracked but controlled. "You're strong. Just like your Ma."
Prisha Aunty my maasi held her hand gently, her wrinkled fingers trembling. "Sab kuch theek rahe, bas yahi dua hai meri." (My only prayer is that everything remains well.)
Asha, who had been holding back her tears all day, broke down as she hugged Tara. "I'll come to visit every week. I swear. And if he even thinks of hurting you, call me. Main uski band baja dungi." (I'll tear him apart if he ever hurts you.)
Everyone laughed softly through their tears—but the ache lingered.
As the car arrived, Tara was led to the door by Vishal. He held her hand firmly, his expression unreadable. She glanced at her family one last time. The home behind them—the one that echoed with her laughter, her tantrums, her dreams—now stood like a chapter closing forever.
She threw the handful of rice behind her, a symbolic gesture of leaving prosperity and blessings for her parents. With every toss, her tears spilled freely.
And then, she stepped into the car. The door shut.
The engine started.
As the car slowly pulled away from the house, Tara leaned against the window, watching her world shrink behind her. Ma had buried her face in Papa's chest. Asha kept waving, refusing to stop until the car turned the corner.
A new life awaited Tara at the end of the road.
But the road behind her... would always be home.
The room was draped in gold and rose—soft fairy lights danced on the walls, and the faint scent of jasmine hung in the air, the kind that usually made a bride blush and a groom smile.
But tonight, the lights flickered in silence, and the scent lingered in stillness.
Tara sat quietly on the edge of the decorated bed, the weight of her bridal lehenga pressing against her shoulders like the weight of unspoken truths. Her red dupatta was still over her head, her bangles jingling lightly every time she adjusted her fingers out of nervous habit.
This was supposed to be the most beautiful night of her life. The beginning of a new chapter.
She had waited. For nearly an hour.
Finally, the door creaked open. Vishal entered, phone in hand, his expression unreadable. His wedding sherwani was still on, a few buttons undone as if he had tried to make himself more comfortable outside before even coming in.
Tara's heart lifted for a moment. Maybe now—now he would look at her. Say something. Touch her hand, smile. Something.
But he didn't even glance her way.
He walked straight to the water bottle on the table, took a sip, and sat down on the couch, his eyes glued to his phone. His thumbs moved fast, typing something—someone.
She watched him in silence, every second feeling heavier.
"Do you... want me to help you change?" she asked gently, her voice soft and hesitant.
He looked up briefly, then shook his head. "No, I'm fine."
Fine.
Such a distant word on a night meant for closeness.
He got up, took out his nightwear from the wardrobe, and walked into the bathroom. The sound of running water echoed in the room, but all Tara could hear was the loud silence inside her chest.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror across the room. A bride. But one without a groom.
He didn't even look at me properly.
When he returned, now dressed casually, he didn't come toward her. Instead, he went back to his phone. Sat on the couch. Again.
Tara's heart ached—not from anger, but confusion.
Wasn't this supposed to be our night? Didn't he say he loved me? Didn't he fight his family for me? Then why does it feel like I'm a burden tonight, not a bride?
She stood up slowly, the silence cutting deeper than any harsh word. "Vish..." she whispered.
He didn't look up. "I'm really tired, Tara. It's been a long day. Let's just sleep, okay?"
Sleep.
So that was it.
Tara nodded, even though he wasn't looking. She turned away, quietly removed her bridal jewelry one piece at a time—each one falling away like the expectations she had held onto all week.
As she lay down on the far side of the bed, her back to him, she blinked up at the ceiling.
He didn't hold my hand.
Didn't say I looked beautiful.
Didn't even ask me how I felt.
Tears prickled at the corner of her eyes.
Does he even love me? Or was I just... convenient?
Was this wedding something he wanted... or something he simply allowed? It's just the first night.
She turned her head slightly, glancing at Vishal through the darkness. He was still on the couch, phone in hand, completely detached.
A soft tear rolled down her cheek.
I gave up everything for him. My dream wedding, my voice, my expectations.
But tonight—he didn't even give me a moment. It doesn't even feel like we've been in love with eachother for 3 years.
Her eyes closed slowly, not out of peace—but exhaustion. Of trying. Of hoping.
Next day...
Tara slowly opened her eyes as the soft morning light crept into the room through the half-drawn curtains. Her body felt stiff, but it wasn't just from sleep. It was something heavier — something hollow.
She turned to her side instinctively, reaching out with sleepy fingers — but the space beside her was cold and empty.
Her heart sank.
She sat up immediately, her eyes scanning the room. Vishal was nowhere to be seen. His sherwani from the night before was gone, and so was he.
The clock on the side table blinked 6:24AM.
Tara's gaze fell to the wedding bangles on her wrists, the red sindoor in her parted hair still faintly visible. But instead of feeling like a new bride, she felt abandoned.
Her thoughts replayed the previous night. The way he hadn't even looked at her. No soft words. No warmth. Not even a smile.
"Kya sirf rishton ka naam hi mila hai mujhe?" she whispered to herself, tears slowly pooling in her eyes. (Did I only get the name of a relationship?)
She tried to reason with herself.
Maybe he was tired... maybe it was just stress... maybe...
But the excuses were starting to wear thin.
If this is how he behaved on the first night... what about the days to come?
A small sob escaped her lips as she pulled her knees to her chest.
Did he ever really love me? Or... was it always just a lie I believed too much?
She didn't have the answers — only a heart full of doubt and a silence far too loud for a newly married bride.
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