“Left?” Mishti’s voice cracked. “Now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The caretaker didn’t meet her eyes as she left, shutting the door quietly behind her.
He left. On their wedding night. Where?
Her mind couldn’t grasp it.
She walked slowly to the door and locked it from inside as a hollow ache grew in her chest. Leaning against the door fora second, she tried to calm her racing thoughts, but they kept coming again in the form of images, moments, flashes of the day she would never forget.
She remembered the priest’s voice.
“Ab aap pati-patni hue. Yeh vivaah sampann hua.”(Now you are husband and wife. The marriage is complete.)
The way Karan had looked at her, devoid of any warmth or affection, as he had made her wear the Sindoor and mangalsutra.
And then, after the rituals, he had grabbed her wrist, almost dragging her toward his car as she tearfully hugged her family and friends goodbye. He hadn’t waited for anyone. He hadn’t smiled once.
He had driven to the mansion like a man possessed. Every turn, every sharp brake had made her flinch, but he never glanced her way.
When they reached, she thought maybe things would soften. Maybe the traditions would ease some of the tension. But he had cut them all off.
Nogriha pravesh, no welcoming rituals, no post-wedding games. When the caretaker, Maria, had approached with a kalash of rice and kumkum, he had snapped at her, too.
“It’s not needed, Maria. Just take her upstairs.”
His phone had buzzed that very moment with the caller id‘Kanika’,and without even bothering to make his wife comfortable in his home, their home,he had turned away like she wasn’t even there. Like he had to be somewhere else at this moment. Like, attending that call was more important to him than welcoming her.
Who was Kanika?
Her mind tried to piece it together, but failed.
Mishti walked to the mirror, staring back at her reflection of a bride in red, with sindoor on her forehead, shimmeringbangles, mangalsutra and the worry on her face of where her new life would lead her.
For a moment, she didn’t recognise herself.
This wasn’t the girl who used to laugh easily, who believed in dreams. This was someone else.
She began removing her jewellery one by one. When she opened the closet to put them away, she froze again.
Every inch of space was already taken. The closet was filled with neatly arranged suits, crisp shirts, polished shoes, and expensive watches lined in rows.
She looked around for a space to keep her belongings but found none. The closet, much like the man, had no room for anyone else.
Maybe that said everything.
With a weary sigh, Mishti walked back to the bed, and turning off the lights, she sat down, fingers brushing the mangalsutra as if to remind herself that this was real. That no matter what, she was his wife now.
Her gaze lingered on the door again.
Maybe he wouldn’t come home tonight.
Maybe that’s what she should expect from a man like him.
Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer she wasn’t sure would ever reach the heavens, and slowly lay down, still holding the Mangalsutra between her fingers.
It was a symbol of their marriage. Of unity. Of a bond she was yet to understand.
