Nivya Nirvaan Rathod

 I am married.

The words echoed in my mind like a declaration I couldn't escape. My hand brushed against the vermilion in my partition, a tangible mark of the promise I was bound to. The mangalsutra swayed lightly around my neck, a delicate yet heavy symbol of my new identity.

Nivya Nirvaan Singh Rathod.

A tear slipped down my cheek, unbidden, tracing the contours of my face. I wiped it away quickly, hoping no one noticed. But inside, the question clawed at me: Is this who I am now? Is this what I'll always be?

It wasn't Nirvaan's fault. How could it be? He wasn't the villain of this story. I knew it was unfair to blame him for circumstances he couldn't control. I didn't hate him—no, I couldn't. He didn't give me a reason to. I resented him before in my foolishness, but soon I realized it was useless to blame him.

But then, how could I ignore the crushing reality that at twenty-two, my life wasn't mine to steer anymore? I hadn't chosen this marriage. I had been thrust into it, manipulated by my father's threat to abandon my mother if I refused. The weight of that choice—or lack of choice—buried me, leaving a hollow ache in my chest.

The room blurred as tears welled in my eyes, my thoughts drowning out the congratulatory murmurs around us. The laughter and cheers sounded muffled, distant, as though I wasn't part of the moment.

Nirvaan sat beside me, his posture as straight as ever, but there was a flicker in his eyes—shock, perhaps? Or was it something else? I couldn't tell. His face remained unreadable, a calm mask he wore so well.

And then there was Revaan. My younger brother, whose fierce loyalty had made him Nirvaan's staunchest opponent, now seemed softened. A single gesture from Nirvaan—something so small I hadn't even noticed—had won Revaan over. He wasn't just accepting of Nirvaan now; he looked almost... content.

It stung, that shift in him. Was it so easy for everyone to move on, to embrace this new reality? Meanwhile, I sat here, a tangle of emotions, struggling to find a foothold in a life that felt borrowed.

Nirvaan was many things—dutiful, composed, a man of principle. He had shown me kindness, small acts that revealed he cared, even if only out of obligation. But that was it. Obligation.

He didn't love me.

The difference was stark. The duties he had before—toward his siblings, his family—they were steeped in love. But his duty toward me, his wife, felt devoid of that warmth. I was a responsibility, another role he was determined to perform with precision, not passion.

As I looked around the room, at faces full of joy and celebration, I felt the weight of expectations settling over me like a shroud. My gaze returned to Nirvaan, and for a moment, I wondered if he felt as lost as I did. Did the stoic exterior hide the same turmoil I carried?

For now, I had no answers. Only the certainty that I was bound to a man who might never love me and a life I hadn't chosen.

My eyes landed on the man responsible for orchestrating this chaos—my Bade Dadaji, who was smiling as if he'd achieved something monumental.

Mann toh kar raha hai inke bache-kuche daant tod doon. {I feel like breaking his teeth.}

The thought made me smirk inwardly, but I composed myself as the pandit ji instructed us to stand and seek blessings from the elders. Nirvaan rose gracefully, and before I could make an attempt, he bent slightly, offering his hand to help me up.

No. I wasn't going to seek blessings from people who had manipulated and forced me into this marriage under the guise of tradition. I glanced around, trying to steady my emotions, and walked with Nirvaan toward his grandfather. Together, we bent to touch his feet, receiving his blessings. Nirvaan's father and my mother followed suit.

But when I approached my father, I let out a soft gasp and pretended to stumble.

The room stilled, all eyes turning to me as Nirvaan instantly gripped my arms, steadying me with concern etched on his face.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice firm yet gentle.

I nodded, lowering my gaze slightly. "This lehenga... it's too heavy. Bending down is difficult."

Nirvaan didn't waste a second. Holding my hand firmly, he guided me to a nearby cushioned sofa, helping me sit comfortably. I caught a glimpse of Bade Dadaji, his jaw tight with irritation, while Ivaan and Revaan were biting their lips, trying to stifle their laughter. They knew I was acting, and I was doing it flawlessly.

"No need to bend. Sit here comfortably," Nirvaan said softly, surprising me with the tenderness in his voice. He unscrewed the cap of a mini water bottle, holding my nose ring delicately to keep it from moving as he helped me drink.

The room buzzed quietly as the few remaining relatives looked on. Most of the guests had already left for the hotel, leaving only close family.

"It's a ritual. She's supposed to seek blessings from her elders," Badi Dadiji interjected, her voice sharp as her narrowed eyes zeroed in on me.

Nirvaan's words echoed in the room, his voice steady yet commanding, silencing everyone around us. "No ritual is more important than my wife's comfort," he said, his eyes unwavering as they met Badi Dadiji's.

For a moment, I felt the weight of his statement settle over me, but doubt lingered in the back of my mind, gnawing away. Does he really care about me, or is this just an act to maintain his image in front of everyone?

"And if she doesn't bend to seek blessings, does that mean her happiness doesn't deserve your good wishes?" he added, his tone calm but firm. His words left no room for argument, and Badi Dadiji simply pursed her lips, glancing away without a response.

The room grew quiet, the tension palpable as all eyes shifted between Nirvaan and me. My heart raced, confusion clouding my thoughts. I wanted to believe there was sincerity in his actions, that he was standing up for me—not just for the sake of appearances but because he truly cared.

Nirvaan's hand rested gently on my arm as he helped me sit back down, his touch firm but not forceful. He turned to address the rest of the family, his words measured yet resolute. "I hope we can all agree that her well-being is more important than any tradition."

I looked at him, searching his expression for a hint of pretense, but all I saw was calm determination. Still, the question lingered, unspoken yet heavy in my chest. Is this the man I've been tied to for the rest of my life? And if so, can I ever truly understand him?

My family exchanged silent glances, their expressions a mix of disbelief and quiet disapproval. No one said a word, but the subtle shake of their heads spoke volumes. I caught my mother biting her lip, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her sari as she averted her gaze.

One by one, they began to disperse, their murmured conversations fading into the background as they left to prepare for the Bidaai ceremony. The hall felt emptier, quieter, yet the tension in the air remained, like an unspoken accusation hanging between Nirvaan and me. 

Thankfully, before the silence could stretch into something unbearable, my cousins, friends and brother swooped in, their cheerful chatter cutting through the tension. Mahi was the first to approach, a mischievous grin plastered across her face.

"Where are my shoes?" Nirvaan asked, glancing at his feet.

Kashvi stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. "You need to listen to whatever she says because the wife is always right. Okay, jiju?"

I suppressed a chuckle as Nirvaan shook his head in disbelief. Beside me, I cradled the warm kulhad chai my brother had handed over. The cold night air was biting, and the warmth seeped into my hands, calming me.

Mahi dashed in, holding a bright pink piece of paper with a huge grin. "You need to sign this!" she said, placing the paper before Nirvaan.

Curious, I peeked over to see a hilariously worded joota chupai contract: he had to accept that I was always right, treat me like a queen, buy me whatever I wished, and even cook for me. And, of course, the girls had named their price.

Nirvaan glanced at me, and I couldn't help but smile softly. This was the man who'd bought me a villa without batting an eye—money wasn't the problem here. He signed the paper with a calm smile, much to the cheers of the girls.

Ivaan, ever the troublemaker, handed over a mere 101 rupees, claiming they'd buy new shoes. But one pointed glare from Nirvaan had him pulling out the checkbook.

The girls whooped loudly as they received the check. Nitya, my little sister, beamed as she picked up his jutti, cleaning it with her dupatta before placing it carefully in front of him. Nirvaan's smile softened as he patted her head gently in thanks before slipping on the shoes.

The atmosphere felt lighter now. For a fleeting moment, I could almost believe this wasn't all forced—that this warmth, this connection, could someday feel real.

After a while, the moment I had dreaded for so long had finally arrived—the time for Bidaai. The flickering flame of a diya lit by me mirrored the somber atmosphere that enveloped the room. I didn't try to force myself to cry, but the weight of the moment broke through my defenses. As I stood there, my eyes filled with tears when Revaan pulled me into a tight hug. The warmth of his embrace, so familiar and comforting, unraveled the last shreds of composure I had managed to hold onto.

A single tear slid down my cheek as he whispered soothing words in my ear, trying to reassure me. But my heart ached—not just for me, but for him. How would he manage without me? Revaan had always leaned on me, finding solace in my presence. I was his comfort, his safe space. Who would take that place now?

He pulled away, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he kissed my forehead and wiped away my tears. Nitya was next, clinging to me like the little girl she still was in my eyes. Her sobs wracked her tiny frame as I kissed the top of her head, silently promising her that no distance or bond could sever the love we shared.

Then came the ritual. My hands clasped a handful of puffed rice, and I threw it behind me over my shoulder, each handful feeling like I was leaving behind a piece of my heart. It was my way of showing gratitude to this home, the walls that had seen me grow, the people who had been my entire world. Step by step, I walked toward the exit, each one feeling heavier than the last.

I folded my hands in front of my grandfather, who stood at the exit, a smug expression etched on his wrinkled face. My lips curved into a smile—a smile that carried no warmth, only a veneer of civility.

"Bade Dadaji," I began, my tone calm but laced with unmistakable disdain, "iss janam mein jitne paap aapne kiye hain na, bharpai toh aapko issi janam mein karni padegi." {All the sins you have committed in this life will have to be repaid in this very life.}

My words weren't loud, but they sliced through the murmurs of the surrounding crowd like a sharp blade. A stunned silence fell over the gathering as people turned their attention toward us. It was clear—I had publicly insulted the patriarch of my family.

I could see the flicker of shock in his eyes, quickly masked by indignation. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. Perhaps he wasn't used to being challenged like this in public by me, least of all by someone he had always seen as powerless.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my mother's gaze. Her head was shaking, her eyes silently pleading with me to stop. But I couldn't. Not this time.

I ignored her, my glare fixed on the man who had orchestrated so much of my misery. Every fiber of my being burned with righteous anger, and for once, I let it show.

Beside me, Nirvaan stood frozen, his posture stiff, his jaw clenched. I could feel the tension radiating off him. Whether he was shocked, disapproving, or silently supportive, I couldn't tell.

The weight of my lehenga made each step deliberate as I turned on my heel and walked away, my head held high. My fingers gripped the heavy fabric, lifting it slightly as I approached the palanquin.

The murmurs started as soon as I passed, the crowd recovering from their stunned silence. My boldness had left its mark, and I could feel their eyes boring into my back.

As I climbed into the palanquin, I allowed myself one final glance back. My grandfather still stood rooted in place, his expression unreadable, a mixture of anger, shock, and perhaps, just perhaps, a glimmer of shame.

For once, I felt a small, fleeting sense of triumph. I had said what needed to be said, and no one—not even the man who thought he controlled my fate—could take that away from me.

I settled into the palanquin, my heart caught in a whirlwind of emotions. It was carried by Revaan, Advik Bhai Sa, and his brothers—a symbolic gesture of support from the men who had always shielded me. As they lifted it, I turned back for one last look at the house that had been my sanctuary.

The memories of my childhood, of laughter ringing through these halls, of all the little moments that had made me who I was, flooded my mind. They now felt like whispers of a life I was leaving behind. I had often heard people say that the house where a daughter is married off is no longer hers. And today, I understood the cruel truth of those words. This was no longer my home. My memories would stay here, but I wouldn't.

As the palanquin moved forward, tears blurred my vision. I realized this was not just a goodbye to these people who controlled me; it was a goodbye to the life I had known, to the girl I once was. Ahead lay a new path, with Nirvaan by my side. Whether it would be a journey of joy or struggle, I did not know. All I knew was that I was leaving a part of me behind forever.

As we reached the main exit, the weight of the moment pressed harder on my chest. The car stood waiting. Nirvaan gently guided me toward the car, his hand steady on my back. My steps faltered as I looked back one last time at the house I had always called home, its familiar walls now seeming distant and unreachable.

Revaan stepped forward, a coconut in his hands. His face lit up with smile, masking the vulnerability beneath. With a swift motion, he broke the coconut on the ground, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent surroundings. It was a traditional gesture, symbolizing the removal of obstacles and seeking blessings for the journey ahead. For me, however, it felt like the final severance, the last thread binding me to this life snapping.

He bent slightly, placing his hand on the car door. His eyes glistened, and for a brief moment, I saw the little boy who used to hide behind me when he was scared. The boy who trusted me to shield him from the world. How ironic that now, I was the one terrified, and he couldn't do anything but watch me leave.

The door clicked shut, enclosing me in a space that felt foreign and suffocating. Nirvaan took his seat beside me, his presence steady and unmoving, yet somehow distant. The car lurched forward, and with that, I was moving away—from my home, my family, my past.

I turned my head to the window, watching as the figures outside blurred into the distance. My father, stoic as ever, stood like a pillar. Revaan wiped his tears quickly, not wanting to show his weakness, while Nitya clung to Maa, her sobs shaking her small frame. The image burned into my memory, a reminder of everything I was leaving behind.

As the car crossed the gates, my breath hitched. The house was no longer in view, and with it, the life I had always known. From here on, I really have no one. Revaan, Nitya, my mother—they were still there, but not for me. Not like before.

I'm on my own now.

Ivaan was driving the car, his laughter filling the quiet atmosphere. He kept stealing amused glances at me through the rearview mirror, his voice tinged with humor.

"Show ke liye hi ro leti," he teased, trying hard to keep a straight face but failing miserably. {For show, you could have cried.}

I rolled my eyes at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. My tears had been minimal, reserved only for when I hugged Revaan. Nirvaan, who was seated beside me, leaned back comfortably on the seat, his posture casual yet composed.

Without a word, he picked up a bottle of water from the side and passed it to me. His expression was unreadable, his eyes focused on the road ahead. I took the bottle gratefully, my fingers fumbling with the sealed cap. The delicate jingling of my bangles echoed softly in the silence, but the cap refused to budge.

Before I could say anything, Nirvaan reached over, his hand brushing against mine briefly as he took the bottle. He opened it effortlessly and handed it back to me.

"Thanks," I murmured, my voice barely audible. He didn't reply, only giving a slight nod in acknowledgment.

"Anyone want tea?" Ivaan asked suddenly, his tone cheerful.

I perked up instantly, my eyes widening as I turned to look out the window. The faint aroma of fresh chai wafted in the air from a small roadside tea stall. The sight of the vendor pouring steaming tea into clay cups was too tempting to resist.

It was nearly four in the morning, and though I had tea not long ago, the craving for another warm cup was irresistible.

Nirvaan, catching the look on my face, simply nodded at Ivaan. "Stop the car," he said, his tone quiet but firm.

The car came to a halt, and Ivaan stepped out, grinning as he made his way to the tea stall. I glanced behind us, noticing the car carrying the bodyguards also stopping a short distance away. Most of our relatives had already left for Nirvaan's house to prepare for my official welcome.

A few minutes later, Ivaan returned with two cups of chai. He handed one to me and the other to Nirvaan. I accepted mine eagerly, savoring the warmth of the clay cup in my hands. 

Nirvaan, however, hesitated, his fingers brushing against the rim of the cup. It was a fleeting moment, but I noticed the subtle shift in his expression—a trace of doubt, perhaps reluctance. Then, as if sensing my silent gaze on him, he raised the cup to his lips, taking a small sip.

I sighed, setting my tea down in the cup holder as the irritation became unbearable. Reaching up, I carefully unhooked my nath, finally freeing myself from its weight.

Relief washed over me instantly, and I let out a small breath. The intricate piece had been bothering me throughout the wedding, constantly tugging and shifting. I didn't even have a nose piercing, and wearing it had felt more like a test of endurance than an adornment.

I quickly wrapped my hands around the clay cup, savoring its warmth as it seeped into my cold fingers, soothing away the lingering chill. The earthy aroma of the tea mingled with the faint scent of the early morning air, creating a moment that felt oddly comforting.

Ivaan resumed driving, humming a soft tune under his breath, his voice low but cheerful, adding a gentle background melody to the serene silence inside the car. I leaned back against the seat, cradling the chai in my hands, taking slow sips that seemed to melt away not just the cold but a bit of the tension lingering from the long day.

Beside me, Nirvaan sat quietly, his presence steady yet unobtrusive. There was no need for words right now. The silence between us wasn't heavy or awkward—it was an unspoken acknowledgment of the shared moment, a rare thread of calm amidst the whirlwind that had been our wedding.

Ivaan's voice broke the silence, his words low but firm. "You shouldn't have said that to your bade dadaji."

I turned to glare at him, my eyes sharp and unwavering. His words stung. I knew he was trying to keep the peace, to calm the storm I had just unleashed, but the words felt hollow.

It wasn't planned, not at all. My actions had come from an outburst—a deep, unspoken anguish that had finally spilled over. I hadn't been able to control myself. That man lived for respect and power. His entire existence thrived on making others feel small, subservient, and insignificant.

But I had drawn the line. I refused to let him enjoy the fact that he had trapped me in his web of manipulation and control for so long. He had made my life hell since childhood, a constant reminder that his authority knew no bounds. And now that I was finally free, truly free from him, I couldn't let him win. Not this time.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady the emotions threatening to rise again. My heart pounded in my chest as I thought of everything: my childhood, my sacrifices, the quiet moments when I felt powerless under his influence. This was my moment. I wouldn't let him take this victory, even if it meant angering the people around me.

Ivaan looked at me with uncertainty, his face a mix of concern and disbelief. I could feel his attempt to smooth the situation, but I wasn't sorry. Not for this. I had said what I needed to say. I had spoken the truth—a truth that had been buried for too long.

My gaze turned away from him and back toward the horizon, the palanquin swaying slightly beneath me as we continued on the journey. The weight of the lehenga felt heavier now, but it wasn't just the fabric—it was the burden of generations of expectations, chains, and suffering.

And yet, I felt oddly lighter. I had confronted my demons, spoken my truth, and that felt liberating.

Nirvaan didn't said a single word, rather focusing on the phone on his hand, reading something online. 

He hadn't touched much of his tea, while my cup was already empty.

"You're not going to drink it?" I asked, lightly tapping his knuckles to pull his attention away from his phone. He looked up, mildly confused, his brows slightly furrowed.

"Huh?" he mumbled, clearly lost in thought.

I shook my head with a sigh, taking the clay cup from his hand before he could react. His eyes widened in surprise as he watched me take a sip, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.

"This tea is really good," I said, shrugging nonchalantly. "I couldn't resist."

From the driver's seat, Ivaan bit his lip, clearly trying to suppress his laughter. His eyes flicked to his brother through the rearview mirror, mischief dancing in them.

"I already drank it," Nirvaan murmured softly, his gaze shifting away to the window as he pocketed his phone.

I froze mid-sip, blinking at him in disbelief. "Wait, what?" I narrowed my eyes, clutching the cup a little tighter.

"Bhulo mat," I said, narrowing my eyes at him. "Saat pheron ke saath saat vachan bhi diye hain mujhe. Sharing included, Mr. Rathod."{You had taken seven rounds and with that, seven vows with me.}

Ivaan couldn't hold back his laughter anymore, his chuckles echoing in the car. "Nivya, Nirvaan bhai sharing karein, toh din mein chaand dikhne lagega!" he quipped, grinning widely. {If Nirvaan Bhai started sharing, then you will see moon in daylight.}

Nirvaan sighed, shaking his head but said nothing, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Such a stingy man," I muttered under my breath, finishing the tea with exaggerated satisfaction. His faint smile lingered as he turned back to the window, while Ivaan kept chuckling.

Nirvaan didn't say much, but his lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, barely noticeable unless you were paying close attention.

"Main bhoolta nahi," he said softly, his voice low but firm, eyes still focused out of the window. "Aur na aapko bhoolne dunga." {I don't forget} {Neither will I let you forget.}

The words hung in the air for a moment, their weight making me blink. It wasn't the response I was expecting—certainly not from someone who had barely spoken much to me earlier.

Ivaan let out a chuckle from the driver's seat, clearly amused by the exchange."Nivya, Nirvaan Bhai is like that only. Sharing and caring don't exist in his dictionary!"

I glanced at Nirvaan, noticing the way his posture stiffened at Ivaan's teasing remark. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, though he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the window, as if trying to ignore the comment.

A pang of discomfort settled in my chest. I didn't like what Ivaan had said either. Nirvaan wasn't just "stingy" or unwilling to share—he was someone who had grown up guarding his emotions, fiercely protective of those he loved because, for so long, that love and care were all he had to hold onto.

"Sharing doesn't mean giving up something that's yours," I added, looking at him intently. "It's just... letting someone else be a part of what you already have. And sometimes, it's okay to share."

Nirvaan's gaze flickered to mine, his expression unreadable, but I could sense the tension ease slightly in his shoulders. He didn't say anything, just nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before turning back to the window.

Ivaan cleared his throat awkwardly, realizing he might have overstepped. "Sorry, bhai. I didn't mean it like that," he said quietly, the playful grin gone from his face.

Nirvaan sighed, rubbing his temple as he leaned back against the seat. "Nothing like that," he said, more to himself than to us.

"Achha, toh ab mujhse yeh cup ka fine charge karenge kya aap?" I asked, trying to lighten the atmosphere which again turned somber, thanks to my best friend. {Will you charge fine for this cup from me?}

He finally turned to look at me, his expression a mix of exasperation and something softer, almost like amusement. "Aapke liye koi fine nahi," he said, shaking his head lightly. {There is no fine for you.}

"Waah, what a privilege!" I replied, smirking, while Ivaan laughed again.

The rest of the drive carried on like this, the earlier tension melting into a strange but comforting ease. Maybe this wasn't the worst start after all.

-----

Nivya has already started to understand him.

I can't write complete cold male lead, I am incapable of that.

Wedding done. Suhaagraat cominggg..

Thankyou<3