The day had arrived. The early morning light streamed through the windows, casting soft shadows on the walls. The air was thick with excitement, and the house hummed with activity. Arati could hear the sounds of people rushing to and fro—her mother barking instructions at various relatives, her father coordinating with the wedding planner, and her younger sister, Shyama, running around gathering last-minute details. The usual calm of the household had been replaced by a whirlwind of preparation. The scent of incense, fresh flowers, and the faint traces of jasmine garlands hung in the air.

Arati stood before the mirror, staring at her reflection, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the pleats of her saree. The deep crimson fabric shimmered as it caught the light, the rich gold borders gleaming brightly. The saree was traditional, a symbol of centuries of ritual and custom. But as she looked at herself, she felt strangely distant from it, almost as if she were wearing someone else's skin. It wasn't just the saree—it was everything about the day, the overwhelming sense of change, of moving from one life into another.

Her mother was beside her, arranging the folds of her saree, her face glowing with pride but also with something else—an emotion that was a mix of joy and wistfulness. 

"Arati, my darling," she said softly, her voice filled with awe, "You look so beautiful. Just like your grandmother, you know? You have her grace. I can't believe you're getting married today."

Arati blinked, her throat tight. Her grandmother—whom she had never met—had been a pillar of strength in their family. Her mother's words stirred something in Arati, but she couldn't quite place what it was. 

"I... I don't know, Ma," she said quietly, "I feel like someone else when I look at myself."

Her mother smiled warmly, smoothing down the pleats, 

"You're becoming someone new, Arati. And that's not a bad thing. You'll still be you, but you'll be Rishi's wife, too. It's a beautiful change, and I'm proud of you."

Before Arati could respond, her brother, Somnath, poked his head through the door. He stood there for a moment, his playful grin replaced by something more serious. 

"Tia" he said softly, his voice slightly hoarse, "Look at you...you look... different. Older. Are you sure you're still my sister?"

Arati felt a lump rise in her throat. Somnath, with his teasing nature and infectious laugh, had always been the one to lighten the mood in any room. But today, he was quiet, and his usual bravado had disappeared. It was as if he, too, was feeling the weight of the occasion. 

"I'm still your sister, Dada," Arati said, her voice thick with emotion, "But I guess it feels... different, doesn't it?"

Somnath nodded, then looked at her earnestly. 

"Yeah. It's like I'm saying goodbye to the old Arati. But I know you're still here. You'll always be my sister." 

He walked up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder, "And I'll always be here for you."

Arati smiled, a tear slipping down her cheek despite herself,

"Thank you."

Their moment was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. It was Shyama, her younger sister, her face flushed as she stood shyly at the threshold, her hands clasped nervously before her.

 "Di... " she trailed off, her voice barely above a whisper.

Arati's heart softened at the sight of her youngest sister, who was a quiet presence in the house but whose heart was just as full. Shyama had always looked up to Arati, though she never said much. She was shy, almost painfully so, and Arati had always been her protector, her confidante. But today, it seemed that Shyama was more fragile than usual.

Arati opened her arms, and Shyama stepped into them, wrapping her arms around her sister in a tight hug. 

"You look... like a goddess, Di," she whispered into Arati's shoulder.

Arati smiled, a bittersweet warmth filling her. 

"Thank you, Shyama. You're going to make me cry."

Shyama pulled away slightly, looking up at Arati with wide eyes,

"Don't cry, Di. You'll look like a mess," she said, trying to lighten the mood with a small smile, though her own voice shook slightly.

Arati chuckled, wiping away a stray tear. "I won't. But I'll miss you. I don't want to leave. Not really."

Shyama's eyes filled with tears at her sister's words, and she threw her arms around Arati again, holding on tightly. 

"I'll miss you too, Di. But... I'll always be here. Don't forget me."

"I could never forget you, Shyama," Arati replied, her voice full of affection, "You're my baby sister. I'll carry you with me always."

Just as they were sharing their moment, their mother returned, her eyes shining with unshed tears. 

"Arati, it's time," she said gently. "Everyone's waiting."

The wedding hall was filled with the vibrant colors of the decorations—bright red, gold, and green, with marigold garlands draped from the ceiling and fragrant flowers scattered along the floor. Guests filled the seats, and the sound of chatter and music filled the air. Arati walked slowly toward the altar, feeling the weight of the crowd's eyes on her.

Rishi stood at the altar, his back straight, looking every bit the part of a groom, though Arati noticed that he, too, was a little tense, his eyes flickering nervously. For a moment, she met his gaze, and something passed between them—a recognition of the strange and wonderful journey they were about to embark upon.

Her heart thudded heavily in her chest. Was this really happening? She had always known the wedding would come, but now, standing here, she felt a rush of emotions she had not fully anticipated. There was fear. There was excitement. But most of all, there was a strange calmness, as if, at some deep level, she knew this was the right thing. Not just for her family, but for her.

The ceremony began with the lighting of the sacred havan fire, its warmth filling the space. The priest spoke the ancient mantras, and the sound of the chants, the steady rhythm of the words, seemed to carry Arati away into a dreamlike state. Her mind flickered between the present and the past—the years spent growing up in her childhood home, the moments shared with her family, and the quiet, unspoken bond she had with Rishi.

But then came the kanyadaan, and everything became intensely real.

Her father stepped forward, his eyes glistening, and his hands slightly shaking. Arati's heart skipped a beat as he took her hand in his, gently placing it into Rishi's. 

"I give you my daughter," he said, his voice filled with emotion, "to care for, to love, to honor. She is now yours, Rishi. May you cherish her always."

Arati's throat tightened, her chest aching with an unexpected sense of loss. She was leaving her father's house, and no matter how much she had prepared for this moment, she wasn't sure she was ready. Her father was her anchor, the one who had always been there for her, who had supported her through every step of her life.

She turned to him, her voice barely a whisper, "Baba, I'll always be your daughter."

Her father smiled, though his eyes shone with unshed tears, "You will always be my little girl, Arati."

Then, with a final, silent gesture, her father stepped back, his hand falling away from hers, and Arati felt Rishi's strong fingers wrap around her hand. She didn't look at him—didn't need to—because the gesture was as comforting as it was final. Her hand, now in his, felt right.

The saat pheras followed, and with each round they took around the sacred fire, Arati could feel herself growing more certain. The vows they spoke were not just words—they were promises that anchored them both to each other. With each step, she felt herself letting go of old fears, old doubts, and embracing the future, step by step.

At the last phera, the priest declared them husband and wife. The words floated in the air, and for a moment, Arati could barely hear them through the ringing in her ears. Everything was suddenly so quiet, so still. She felt a deep connection to Rishi then, a quiet bond that had grown stronger over the last few months. It wasn't love yet, but it was something—something solid, something they could build on.

The evening had transformed into a whirlwind of celebration, the air filled with a soft, warm glow that contrasted the rush of activity earlier in the day. Laughter and chatter buzzed around Arati as she and Rishi stood in the center of the room, still caught in the tender aftermath of their wedding vows. Their hands rested quietly beside each other, and though the world spun in joyous chaos around them, Arati could feel a strange stillness deep within her. She was a shy, soft-spoken girl, and this was all new—far more visible, far more spoken for, than she ever had been before. But tonight wasn't about the weight of tradition. It was about laughter, and light-heartedness, and tiny, playful glimpses of the future.

Her love of books had often made her retreat into worlds of imagination, where words and stories wove together a sense of comfort, far removed from the bustling world of marriage she now stood at the center of. But there was something about these old rituals, these moments shared with family, that held their own kind of quiet poetry.

Arati glanced at Rishi, standing next to her, still adjusting to his new role as her husband. He met her gaze with a half-smile, and for a moment, it felt like she could escape into that silent understanding between them, away from the expectations of the evening. But then the laughter of her family, along with the gleaming eyes of the elders, brought her back to the present.

The first game of the night—the mukut and topor—began.

A large brass bowl was set down before them, and the traditional headgear—Arati's mukut and Rishi's topor—were placed gently into the water. The crowd gathered around, murmuring in anticipation.

Arati, self-conscious but trying to embrace the moment, couldn't help but think of how much of this felt like a page from a book—one where she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to be the protagonist, but where she had to be. The mukut and topor floated in the water, their tips just touching the surface, waiting for their gentle destiny to unfold.

Her fingers lingered at her side, trembling just a little. She had always been one to stay out of the limelight, to retreat into the quiet corners of the world. The idea of her mukut leading the way was daunting, but as the ritual unfolded before her eyes, she couldn't help but be drawn into its simplicity.

The tips of both the mukut and the topor began to float gently in the water. For a few moments, they seemed to sway evenly, but then—ever so subtly—the mukut began to glide ahead, the topor trailing behind it like a follower.

The crowd's laughter and murmurs filled the room, but Arati, for a moment, wasn't sure whether she should laugh or feel something else. It was as though the world had decided for her—you will lead.

Kali, standing behind her, smiled fondly. 

"It's a sign, Arati. You will lead Dabhai, with love and care, as you walk this path together."

Rishi's voice, a little softer than usual, broke through her thoughts. 

"I don't mind following," he said, his smile kind, his eyes full of something unspoken, "I'll follow wherever you lead."

Arati didn't answer right away, but the warmth of his words settled deep inside her. She could feel the weight of the moment, but also, strangely, the gentleness of it. Perhaps, in a way, this game was a reflection of what was to come—of her own inner strength quietly steering the course of her life, even if she didn't fully know how yet.

The next game was a bit more whimsical. A brass bowl was placed before them, filled with petals, water stained with alta, and milk. Arati had watched this game being played at weddings before, but never as part of the spectacle herself. She had always admired it from a distance—just like the rest of the wedding—wondering what it would feel like to be in the center of such tradition. But now that she was here, she felt almost like an observer in her own story.

Rishi knelt beside her, their hands reaching into the cool water, fingers grazing the flower petals and coins, seeking the gold ring hidden among them. The water was thick with color, swirling beneath their hands, but Arati couldn't help but wonder about the deeper meaning behind this playful tradition. To find the ring—well, it felt almost like finding a key to something. What was it? Happiness? The beginning of a shared life?

She felt a flicker of uncertainty, and then—there, under her fingertips—the ring. It was smooth and cool, and as she pulled it from the water, she felt the small thrill of having accomplished something small yet significant.

"I think I found it," she said, almost shyly, holding the ring up.

Rishi's smile was easy and genuine, "You did. I guess that means you'll be making all the important decisions after all."

Arati smiled, her soft laugh blending with the cheerful sounds of her family, "I'm not sure about that, but I suppose we'll figure it out together."

And there it was again—the quiet connection, the unspoken understanding. This wasn't a competition, after all. It was just a way of easing into the rhythm of their new life together.

The final game of the evening was the one that Arati had been dreading the most—though not because of any particular dislike, but because it involved a fair bit of clumsiness. Rice, turmeric, and shells were scattered across the floor as part of the game, and Arati couldn't help but feel the weight of every grain that fell. She had always been meticulous in her life, keeping things in order—whether it was the neat rows of books on her shelf or the carefully written pages in her journals. But this game—this playful mess—felt almost like a test of patience. A test of control.

Arati and Rishi sat down on the floor, each facing one of the small earthen pots filled with the rice and shells. The idea was simple: topple the pots, and then collect the ingredients back into the pot. Whoever cleaned up the most mess would be the "more organized" one.

Arati's heart was racing as she knocked her pot over gently, spilling the rice and shells onto the floor. Her hands shook slightly as she bent to collect the spilled grains, but she focused, quietly gathering the pieces one by one. Rishi, though, was quick—almost too quick—but his movements were deliberate, like someone who was quietly taking in the moment rather than rushing through it.

Despite herself, Arati found herself smiling at his determination. 

"I'll beat you at this," she said, though her voice held no real competition—only amusement.

Rishi looked at her. 

"It's not a race," he said, a hint of warmth in his voice, "It's about patience. We'll both finish this together."

Arati nodded, realizing that, for all the external mess, the two of them were quietly weaving a connection between them that would last beyond these games. Perhaps, she thought, this was what marriage was really about—not winning or losing, but quietly learning to clean up the messes together.

By the end of the evening, Arati felt something she hadn't fully expected—a growing sense of comfort in her new role, in her new life. It wasn't grand or loud. It wasn't a sudden revelation. But, in the midst of playful games, teasing smiles, and tender moments shared with Rishi, she realized that the future they were about to build together didn't need to be perfect—it only needed to be shared. And somehow, that was enough.