Author's POV

The mandap stood beneath a twilight sky bathed in gold and deepening blue. Fragrant flowers twined through every pillar - marigolds, jasmine, roses. Amaan stood at the center in his cream-and-gold sherwani, laughter still on his face from teasings by his cousins.

Then the conch blew, and Isha entered.

She walked under a canopy of white flowers held by her brothers, what Amaan's eye got was Abimaan too holding her canopy, every step measured, every eye on her. Her lehenga shimmered like embers catching light. She met Amaan's gaze soft, steady, a silent promise already forming.

The crowd hushed.

The priest smiled and gestured us for the varmala

Isha stood on a low stool, a gentle push from her best friend helping her reach as she raised the varmala, a garland of white and red blooms. Amaan, playfully dodging at first, bowed his head at the last moment so she could place it over him.

Then it was his turn.

He slipped the second garland around her neck with a slight grin and whispered, "Now you're stuck with me."

"Good," she whispered back.

Laughter rose from the guests, and someone showered petals over them from above.

The fire crackled in the center of the mandap.

Now, Her father stepped forward, hands trembling slightly, but his face held a quiet strength. Isha's mother stood beside him, tears in her eyes but a smile on her lips. Together, they held their daughter's hands and placed them in Amaan's open palms.

The priest's voice rose in cadence.

Yam Kanyam Daddato Mahan Yashasvi Bhavati..."
(He who gives away his daughter in marriage earns eternal blessings.)

Isha's father paused, his thumb brushing the back of her hand. "She's always been our light," he said softly, just to Amaan. "Take care of her like she's still ours because she always will be."

Amaan's grip tightened around her hand. "I promise."

A few petals fell from above someone had tossed them gently. A hush fell over the gathering as the sacred thread was tied, the vows taken, the phera completed with quiet laughter and occasional stolen glances.

They weren't loud. They didn't need to be.

Everything between them was understood.

Next the priest recited each vow in Sanskrit, and they took the seven rounds of Saptapadi - together.

With every round, their fingers stayed linked.

For nourishment.

For strength.

For prosperity.

For family and happiness.

For mutual care.

For health and peace.

For friendship and loyalty.

By the final round, Isha's steps matched Amaan's rhythm perfectly as if they'd been walking together their whole lives.

As the chanting softened, the moment turned solemn. Amaan held the Mangalsutra, the sacred necklace that would symbolize their bond. His hands were steady as he tied it gently around her neck, the black beads resting just below her throat.

Then came the sindoor.

Isha bowed her head slightly. Amaan dipped his thumb into the red powder and brought it to the parting of her hair. His hand lingered a moment longer than needed, reverent, certain. A little amount of sindoor fell on her nose symbolizing that his love is growing.

Her eyes closed.

When she opened them, she was his wife.

Their parents stepped forward first. Amaan touched his mother's feet, then his father's. Isha did the same her father's hand trembled as it rested on her head. Her mother whispered something only she could hear: "You'll always be our daughter, even in someone else's home."

Isha blinked away tears. Amaan quietly slipped his hand into hers.

His younger sister, Niya, threw flower petals over them and said, "Uff, finally. You're officially boring and married." Everyone laughed.

Amaan's best friend lifted him up suddenly and chanted, "Bhai ho gaya banda shaadi ke laayak!" (He's finally worthy of marriage!)

Isha's friends swarmed around her, fixing her dupatta, making her blush, teasing, "Hope he knows how lucky he is."

"I do," Amaan said, overhearing.

Just after the saptapadi, when Amaan sat for the next set of rituals and removed his shoes, he didn't notice the sneaky whispers happening behind him.

Isha's cousins and younger sister, Naira, had locked eyes earlier, and now they were crawling-literally-under the chairs with the precision of trained spies. And finally took the shoes.

When the rituals ended and it was time to leave the mandap, he looked around for his shoes.

Then the chaos begins.

As they found the shoes were already taken by the brides squad.

"Alright," he said, addressing Isha's mischievous army. "What's the ransom?"

Nisha stepped forward, arms folded. "25,000. Non-negotiable."

"Twenty-five what?" Amaan raised an eyebrow.

"Plus cold coffee for the rest of the year," another cousin added.

Amaan turned to Isha, deadpan. "Did you marry me or sell me?" and looked Abimaan for as his girl and her demands

She tilted her head and said sweetly, "Depends. Can you bargain?"

He smirked, then looked back at the girls. "10,000 and a box of Ferrero Rocher."

Nisha gasped. "Sir, this is not Flipkart. It's a tradition."

Isha burst out laughing, covering her mouth.

In the end, Amaan had to part with 15,000 rupees, two Starbucks coupons, and a promise to a movie night for the entire cousin squad.

And he turned towards Abimaan with a grin patted his shoulder as he can see his future 🤭

They returned his shoes triumphantly one wrapped in a gift box, the other tossed to him like a football.

Amaan slipped them on, muttering, "These are the most expensive shoes I've ever worn."

Isha leaned in with a grin. "Worth every rupee."

And Someone handed them coconut sweets. Someone else shouted for music.

Then the drums began.

The courtyard lit up. Strings of fairy lights blinked overhead. Friends pulled Amaan into a dance circle, his cousins showing off their Bollywood moves, his sister stealing the spotlight. Isha laughed so hard her stomach hurt.

But when Amaan reached for her hand and pulled her in gently, the world slowed again.

They danced not for the crowd, but for each other. Every step, every smile, every soft touch was their own quiet language.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't wild.

It was joy, pure and whole.

Later, after the final rituals, the moment everyone had been holding back finally arrived.

Isha stood at the gate of her home, now in a simpler red saree, eyes glistening with the weight of everything she was leaving behind. Her mother hugged her first long and was wordless. Her father held back, but when she turned to him, his shoulders sagged, and he finally pulled her close, holding her like it was both the first and last time.

"You're not leaving us," he whispered into her hair. "You're just expanding us."

Isha tried to smile, but the lump in her throat wouldn't let her.

Amaan stepped beside her, quiet and steady. No grand gesture. Just presence. His hand found hers again, and she held on like an anchor.

She turned back for one last look at the house, the windows she used to peek out of, the swing her dad built, the mango tree her mother tied her first rakhi under. She picked up the rice, turned it, and tossed it back over her head.

A soft shower of grains hit the ground, blessings falling in reverse.

And then, she stepped into the car beside Amaan.

He looked at her, and with the faintest smile, said, "Ready?"

She exhaled slowly, still emotional, but steadier now.

"With you? Yeah."

The car rolled away slowly down the tree-lined street, the sound of laughter and soft crying mingling behind them. But inside the car, everything was peaceful. Still. Warm.

Her head rested on his shoulder. His fingers laced with hers.

And just like that, a new life began not with fireworks, but with peace.

The car pulled into the driveway, and the front door was already open warm light spilling out, the scent of sandalwood and ghee lamps drifting through the air.

Amaan's mother stood at the threshold in a soft gold saree, holding a copper Kalash of rice, eyes shining. The moment she saw Isha step out, she smiled wide, already emotional.

Isha, now slightly nervous, stood barefoot at the entrance.

Amaan's mother gestured with a soft nod. "Beta, gently tip the kalash with your right foot."

Isha did, her toe nudging the pot. The rice spilled forward into the home, symbolizing prosperity walking in. Then came the red alta-filled thali. Isha stepped into it, leaving behind red footprints on the marble floor as she walked slowly inside. With each step, her presence marked something sacred.

Amaan trailed behind her not as a shadow, but as someone ready to walk beside her through every room of this life.

She turned once and met his eyes. He just smiled.

Home.

After the grihaprevesh, Isha had barely gotten comfortable when Amaan's cousins dragged them both into the middle of the living room.

A large silver bowl was placed on a velvet cloth, filled with rose water, milk, and floating rose petals. Somewhere at the bottom: a gold ring.

Amaan raised an eyebrow. "What is this? A magic trick?"

His sister grinned. "Nope. This is judgment day."

Isha looked amused. "For what?"

"Who will rule the marriage," Niya said dramatically. "The first one to find the ring wins."

"Wins what, exactly?" Amaan asked, rolling up his sleeves.

"Eternal bragging rights," said one cousin.

"And the remote control," added another.

Everyone laughed.

Amaan and Isha sat on either side of the bowl. Their hands hovered just above the surface.

"On three," someone called out. "One... two... three!"

Their hands plunged in.

The water splashed as petals swirled, giggles erupted from all corners, and the couple's eyes locked across the bowl. Isha was focused, methodical. Amaan, of course, started with chaotic speed, fingers sweeping like he was chasing a lizard.

"Careful," Isha teased. "You'll churn butter at this rate."

"Strategy, Mrs. Amaan," he replied, grinning. "You wouldn't understand."

Just then, Isha smirked, her fingers closing around something.

"Got it," she said.

"No way," Amaan muttered, lunging in again.

But Isha pulled her hand out empty. "False alarm," she said sweetly.

The entire room groaned. Amaan laughed. "You played me."

"You've been warned."

Suddenly, both of them froze.

Their hands brushed under the surface.

Amaan's fingers were closing around something round so were Isha's.

"Is this it?" he whispered.

"I don't know," she said, eyes narrowing, playful war in full force.

Neither let go.

They surfaced, hands clenched tight. Rose water dripped from their wrists as the crowd leaned in.

"Three... two... one - open!"

They both opened their palms and there it was.

The ring sat perfectly in Isha's hand.

The room erupted.

Cheers, claps, playful groans from Amaan's cousins. Someone threw rose petals in the air.

"I guess she rules now," Amaan said, mock-defeated.

"Now?" Isha teased, standing up. "I thought that was clear since the varmala."

Amaan stood too, smiling as he leaned in, voice low just for her. "You may have won the game..."

She raised a brow. "But?"

"But I get to spend my whole life trying to win you over."

She looked at him, heart soft, fingers still damp from the game, and said quietly, "You already did."

Peacefully the wedding is done.
Let's see what life has got in their fate...

Thank you for reading 😊
See you in the next chapter