Nirvaan Singh Rathod

At one in the night, here I am, standing in my kitchen, making noodles and manchurian. My mind is anything but calm, swirling with emotions I don't know how to name, let alone understand. Every time I'm near her, it's as though an invisible force pulls me in. Her presence has a way of drawing all my attention, leaving me restless and frustrated. I'm not supposed to feel this. I was never meant for emotions that make you vulnerable. My life has been about fulfilling roles-whether as a brother, a son, or now, her husband.

I never had the luxury of figuring out who I was. Losing my mother at eight, with a six-year-old brother and two-year-old twins relying on me, and a father lost in his grief, I became the glue holding everything together. My own identity took a backseat and watching my father drown in his grief didn't leave me time for such questions. I became what I needed to be-strong, dependable, unshakable.

And now, this feeling for Nivya-it unsettles me. I've never allowed myself to be close to a woman before. There's always been a wall, one I couldn't let anyone cross. It wasn't fair to anyone, and in a strange way, it wasn't fair to her either. Whether or not I love her isn't the question-she's my responsibility, and I never abandon my responsibilities.

But love? That's an emotion I've never truly known. I don't think I ever can. How can I give something I've never felt? My siblings depend on me out of necessity. My grandfather sees a successor in me, not a grandson. And my father... he doesn't even see me at all.

I sigh, turning my attention back to the manchurian balls frying in the oil. Cooking, of all things, became something I liked. Not because I wanted to, but because of her. It started months ago, after overhearing Nivya telling Ivaan she wanted a husband who could cook. I couldn't offer her love or emotional support, but this-this was something I could give her.

I remember sneaking time out of my packed schedule to learn from the chefs at my hotels. I didn't bother with fancy cuisines. I focused on the things she liked-spicy Indian dishes, Indo-Chinese, the occasional Mexican, and her comfort foods like pizza and burgers.

I place the fried manchurian balls on a tissue to soak the oil and stare at them for a moment. I never thought I'd enjoy this, but somehow, it's become my quiet solace. A way to feel in control amidst everything else that feels like it's slipping.

Tomorrow, I marry her.

The words feel heavy in my chest, like a weight pressing down on me. I've been telling myself for weeks that this is just another responsibility, another role to fulfill. I am a son, a brother, a CEO-and now, I will be a husband. But tonight, as I stand here in the quiet of the kitchen, the reality feels different.

I stir the noodles absentmindedly, letting the aroma fill the air. Cooking is something I've come to enjoy, though I don't know if it's the act itself or the thought of making something she might like. Months ago, when I overheard her say she wanted a husband who could cook, I couldn't ignore it. It wasn't about impressing her. It was about preparing myself to meet at least one of her expectations, even if I couldn't meet them all.

But marriage? It's not supposed to be about feelings, not for me. And yet, every time I look at her, I can feel my resolve slipping. She's so... present. Her smile, her laughter, the way her eyes light up when she talks about something she loves-it pulls me in, and I don't know how to stop it.

I didn't even realize when I had started enjoying cooking. It worked like a stress booster for me. As I switched off the stove and plated the noodles, an annoying voice broke through my thoughts. Closing my eyes in frustration, I prepared myself for what was coming.

"What are you doing here, Bhai?" Ivaan asked, yawning as he walked toward me.

I turned to glare at him, but before I could say anything, he was squeezing my cheeks dramatically. "You're getting married tomorrow! What if you get dark circles?" he teased.

Shaking my head at his antics, I walked away to finish plating the manchurian. Few minutes later, I returned to find him holding some cream in his hand. He began applying it under my eyes while I stood there, letting him.

Ivaan is like a male version of my fiancée, I thought to myself. He never listens to anyone except himself, speaks way too much, is ridiculously proud of his looks, and seems to enjoy annoying me more than anything else.

"Why did you make these?" he asked, his eyes lighting up as they landed on the plates of food. Then, with a smirk, he wriggled his eyebrows at me suggestively.

Annoyed, I tapped him lightly on the head. "Eat them if you want," I said curtly, leaving the kitchen before he could retort. I knew him too well; the food wouldn't last five minutes in his presence.

When I first started cooking, I used to make Akshat try everything before letting anyone else taste it. As I got better, I began sharing the food with the kids near the temple. It became a habit I looked forward to, visiting the temple every Tuesday and Saturday. My mother had instilled that in me when I was young, taking me along every week. After her death, I kept the tradition alive, not out of obligation but because I found peace in the temple's calm atmosphere.

Cooking and the temple-two things that bring me solace in the chaos of my life.

When I came back to my room, I leaned against the bed, drained. A thousand thoughts swirled in my mind, but I lacked the strength to confront any of them. I simply closed my eyes, hoping sleep would come.

I don't want to hurt Nivya, but I don't want to hurt myself either. The fear of what lies ahead grips me. I believe in love-I really do. I've seen its intensity firsthand, the way my mother loved my father and the way he loved her. But that same intensity shattered my father. After her, he became a shell of the man he once was. It's as if, with her passing, his heart died too.

The loving, devoted father I knew as a child disappeared. He threw himself into his work, drowning in responsibilities, leaving little space for anything else-not even his children. Sometimes, I catch glimpses of what he used to be, but they're fleeting. Before my mother's death, he was the best father anyone could ask for.

He would indulge my whims, even if it meant driving out for ice cream in the dead of night. He played with me, helped me with homework, and shared stories that lit up my childhood. He was warm, kind, and present.

I feel lucky to have experienced that side of him, even if only for a while. My siblings-especially the twins-weren't as fortunate. They never knew the loving father I once had. They only know the man who barely looks their way, lost in his grief and responsibilities.

It aches to think about how much has changed, how much we've all lost. And now, as I prepare for this new chapter in my life, I can't help but wonder: Am I destined to follow the same path? Will I become a shadow of myself, like my father?

The thoughts kept swirling, and when I drifted into slumber, I didn't even realize it. The next time I opened my eyes, it was nearly nine in the morning. I sat up abruptly, alarmed. I had never slept this long. I usually ensure six hours of sleep-just enough to keep my body functioning healthily. Most days, I wake up by five, and today, I had overslept.

Quickly, I made my way to the bathroom, freshened up, and stepped into the shower. The warm water cascaded down, washing away the lingering grogginess. Once out, I dressed in a simple orange kurta pyjama for the Mayra function.

My mother had married against her family's wishes, and as a result, her brother wouldn't be performing the rituals today. Instead, my father's close friend, Omkar Raghuvanshi, whom my mother had tied rakhi to years ago, would step in as my mama. My bua was also there to complete the remaining rituals, ensuring tradition was upheld.

Time seemed to fly as the function began, and soon, the moment for Nikasi approached. I was dressed in a gold and cream sherwani, its intricate embroidery reflecting the careful craftsmanship that had gone into its making. A red shawl rested in pleats on my right shoulder, its other end wrapped elegantly around the wrist of my left hand.

One of my cousins' wives stepped forward and carefully tied the safa on my head, adjusting it just right. Afterward, she placed our hereditary necklace-a stunning piece of pearls and diamonds-around my neck. It was a symbol of our lineage, passed down through generations.

The ceremony began, and I was made to sit in front of the gathered guests. More rituals followed, each one steeped in tradition and significance. As I sat there, surrounded by people, I felt a mix of emotions-anticipation, nervousness, and a sense of responsibility for what lay ahead. The weight of the moment was undeniable.

As the Nikasi rituals concluded, it was finally time for me to mount the horse, a tradition that signified the groom's departure to bring his bride home. The heavily adorned mare stood waiting, its bridle decorated with intricate golden patterns. I adjusted my safa one last time and climbed onto the horse, my cousins cheering and whistling around me.

The baraat began its procession with music from the dhol and band, the beats echoing in the air as the crowd danced with unrestrained joy. I sat upright, holding the reins, maintaining a composed demeanor, though inside, the gravity of the moment weighed on me. It was a mix of pride and anxiety-a realization that my life was about to change forever.

Our first stop was the temple, an age-old family tradition. We arrived amidst the chants of priests and the fragrance of marigold and sandalwood. I dismounted the horse, careful with my steps as the ceremonial shawl draped over my shoulder swayed lightly. Inside, I offered my prayers to the deity, seeking blessings for the journey ahead. The priests performed a small ritual, tying a sacred thread around my wrist as a token of divine protection and good fortune.

Once the temple visit concluded, the procession continued toward Nivya's house-or rather, her family's grand palace. It stood tall and majestic, adorned with fairy lights that sparkled like stars against the twilight. The gates opened to reveal her family waiting to receive us.

As we approached, I saw Nivya's brothers and cousins standing at the entrance, their expressions a mix of excitement and formality. The women in her family held plates of aarti and garlands, ready to welcome me. I stepped down from the horse with my father's assistance, adjusting my shawl before moving forward.

Her mother led the welcome ceremony. She circled the aarti thali around me, murmuring blessings under her breath before placing a small dot of vermillion on my forehead. The fragrance of incense mingled with the soft jingling of her bangles. As she completed the ritual, her gaze lingered on mine, a mix of emotions clouding her eyes-pride, hope, and perhaps a trace of hesitation.

I smiled softly, trying to ease the nerves that were bubbling under the surface as I performed the neem chadi rasam. The ceremony was brief yet significant, and soon after, I was led toward the grand open hall. At its center stood the mandap-an epitome of regal splendor.

The hall radiated royalty.

"Bhai, she must be coming," Ivaan whispered in my ear, catching me off guard. His tone held a playful edge, and when I turned to him, I caught the glint in his eyes.

"What?" I asked, genuinely confused. I wasn't looking for her.

"Kya ab aapki aankhon ke bhi pair hain jo baar-baar seedhiyon ke paas jaa rahe hain?" Akshat chimed in with mock sarcasm, barely able to suppress a chuckle. {Do your eyes have legs now, that they keep wandering to the stairs?}

I frowned. "The whole place is so beautifully decorated with all these roses-mainly off-white and red. I was just admiring that." My explanation tumbled out before I even realized it, catching me by surprise. I never explained myself to anyone, let alone these two.

Both of them exchanged knowing glances before shaking their heads, their grins evident.

"The stairs are decorated with a carpet and golden flowers," Yug corrected as he approached, his poker face in place, but his tone carried a subtle teasing.

I let out a sigh.

Was I really that desperate to see her?

I averted my gaze, pretending to focus on the roses, when a subtle shift in the room's energy drew my attention. The quiet hum of conversation stilled, and all eyes turned toward the staircase. My own followed, almost involuntarily, and the sight before me made me take a step back in awe.

Nivya.

I had always known she was beautiful-celebrated as one of the most stunning women in the country. But tonight, she transcended every definition of beauty I'd ever known. Clad in a regal red lehenga, she looked nothing less than divine, like a goddess descending from the heavens.

Her movements were graceful, deliberate. She held the dupatta delicately over her head, her posture confident yet poised. Her expression exuded a quiet strength, but her beauty... I couldn't find the words. She wasn't just stunning; she was otherworldly.

The room seemed to hold its collective breath, everyone too mesmerized to look away. I wasn't immune-I couldn't even blink, afraid that she might disappear if I did. She was breathtaking, an ethereal vision in red.

And then her eyes. Those eyes. They were so radiant, so captivating, they made my heart stutter. A rush of warmth spread through me, and I took another step back, overwhelmed by emotions I couldn't quite name. My throat felt dry, and I swallowed hard, trying to regain my composure as she glided closer, her every step tightening the invisible hold she had over me.

She stood in front of me, while I just stood frozen, only coming out of my shock after Ivaan pushed me slightly towards her.

"Don't worry. You look absolutely stunning as well," Ivaan whispered teasingly in my ear, his tone laced with mischief. I shot him a half-hearted glare, brushing off his comment as I moved toward her.

Extending both my hands, I offered them to Nivya. She hesitated for a fleeting moment before placing her delicate fingers into my palms. I curled my hands securely around hers, helping her ascend the final two steps to the mandap. Once beside me, she stood gracefully, her poise impeccable as always.

I cast a quick glance around the hall, and my chest tightened. Everyone's eyes were still glued to her, their gazes brimming with awe. It made me uneasy, a discomfort I couldn't fully explain. Before I realized what I was doing, my hand slipped into my pocket, retrieving a bundle of notes.

In one swift motion, I circled the bundle around her head, following the age-old tradition meant to ward off any negative energy. Nivya's eyes widened, her expression shifting to one of sheer disbelief. She opened her mouth slightly, perhaps to say something, but then closed it, taking a steadying breath. I handed the notes to the man standing by the stairs and turned back to face her.

She looked at me, confusion evident in her eyes, as though trying to decode my impulsive action.

The truth was, I didn't know either. There was something about her-something inexplicably overwhelming-that made me act irrationally, as though she unraveled the very fabric of my self-control.

A while later, the stage stood empty except for Nivya and me. Two of our cousin sisters approached, each carrying a large plate with the varmalas delicately placed on top. They handed us the garlands with wide grins before scurrying off, leaving us alone in the center of the grand mandap.

Facing each other, our eyes met and lingered. I carefully placed the varmala around her neck, the soft petals brushing against my fingers. She looked radiant yet so small next to my towering frame of 6'2". A faint strain of Rajasthani music played in the background, adding a regal touch to the moment.

When it was her turn, she hesitated, holding the varmala up and glancing at me with a tiny pout. She stretched on her toes, but it was no use-my height was too much of an advantage. Her lips twitched into an adorable frown, her eyes darting toward her brothers as if summoning them for help.

Before they could act, I leaned down slightly, closing my eyes to make it easier for her. She gently placed the garland around my neck, her delicate fingers brushing against my collar as she did so. The room erupted into cheers, a wave of jubilant energy surging through the hall.

As we turned toward the audience, a flurry of balloons ascended into the air, their colors vibrant against the evening sky. Nivya and I instinctively tilted our heads back, marveling at the spectacle above.

Skywriting emerged slowly, spelling out our names intertwined-a moment that drew gasps and murmurs from the crowd. Drones lit up the sky, forming intricate patterns: a glowing heart, a blooming flower, and finally, a cascade of sparkling lights that mimicked bursting fireworks.

The last burst startled Nivya, and she flinched, her petite frame leaning closer to mine. Without thinking, I wrapped a steadying arm around her back, offering silent reassurance. Her tense shoulders relaxed under my touch, and she continued watching the display above, her lips curving into a smile of pure awe.

We were later made to click pictures, several of them while we both just tiringly accepted whatever the photographer said, doing it. Her lehenga was very heavy, having the design with zari and golden threads which made her all the more tired.

Finally, it was time for Sajjan Goth, the ritual where the bride and groom eat together for the first time after marriage. We sat side by side, surrounded by family and a few close relatives, the ceremonial plate placed before us. Tradition dictated that we eat from the same plate, but I could sense her discomfort.

I gestured to the waiter, intending to request a separate plate for her, but her hand brushed against mine, stopping me mid-motion. Startled, I glanced at her, only to see her shake her head in a quiet refusal before withdrawing her hand.

As I offered her the first morsel, my cousins erupted into cheers, their claps and laughter echoing through the hall. Nivya, however, chewed the bite with a calm exterior, though the fire in her eyes was hard to miss. She was upset-angry even-but I couldn't decipher the reason. I wanted to ask, to understand, but I knew better than to push her at this moment.

When it was her turn, she prepared a bite for me, but the tangy punch of too much pickle hit me like a storm. The sourness was overwhelming, yet I smiled through it, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me falter. My feigned calmness clearly irked her, and I found a strange sense of victory in that.

I noticed her struggling with her food, the intricate nath swaying gently as it got in the way of her eating. It was clear she was trying to manage without asking for help, her brows furrowed in concentration.

Unable to watch her struggle any longer, I leaned closer and carefully held her nath to the side, keeping it away from her lips. She paused for a moment, startled by my gesture, before continuing to eat.

Her eyes flickered toward me, and then, something unexpected happened-a soft smile graced her lips. It wasn't forced or polite, but a genuine smile meant for me, the first one I had seen towards me.

In that fleeting moment, it felt like the distance between us had lessened just a little. Her smile lingered in my mind, warming a part of me I hadn't realized needed it.

Later, her frustration began to make sense. Her lehenga-resplendent and regal to anyone watching-was a burden for her. Its weight was no small thing, restricting her movement and even her ability to stand. It looked ethereal, yes, but carrying that beauty came at a cost. The realization annoyed me. Was it truly necessary for her to endure such discomfort to fulfill an image?

The time came for the Mangal Pheras. As the priest instructed us to rise, I got up with ease, but Nivya struggled. Her mother rushed forward to help, but she held out her hand in quiet defiance. She wanted to stand on her own.

I watched her try again, her face a mixture of struggle and pain. Unable to hold back any longer, I bent down and extended both my hands, locking my eyes with hers. She froze, shocked, before darting a glance around. Slowly, she placed her hands in mine, their delicacy stark against my grip. I helped her rise, steadying her as she bit her lip in frustration. She let go of one hand, but I refused to release the other, afraid she might falter.

Hand in hand, we circled the sacred fire, the seven pheras binding us in promises meant to last seven lifetimes. Each vow echoed with the gravity of responsibility and the silent fear in my heart. What if I fail her? What if I fail myself? The weight of these questions bore down on me, but her firm grip grounded me. Her resolve sparked something within me-a reminder that I have carried my duties well for the past sixteen years, and I would continue to do so now as her husband.

As the Saptapadi concluded, it was time for the final rites-the Sindoor Daan and Mangalsutra Dharan. I took the vermilion and gently filled her partition. A small amount dusted her nose, a detail that didn't go unnoticed by the smiling women around us. Then, I took the delicate mangalsutra and tied it around her neck. Her eyes met mine, shimmering with unshed tears, and I hated it.

I hated seeing those tears, not because they were hers, but because they carried a weight that shouldn't have been there. She was strong, yet she seemed trapped in a battle she couldn't voice. Did she think this marriage was a prison?

I was not caging her. Was it that hard for her to understand?

This union wasn't about holding her back or binding her-it was about walking beside her, creating a life together. I wanted her to see that, to feel that. But how could I convince her when the shadows of doubt clouded her every glance?

I exhaled deeply as the ritual concluded. Maybe time would show her the truth, or maybe I would spend my life proving it to her. Either way, I wasn't giving up.

------

Whatever it is, Nirvaan won't give up on their marriage.

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