The Age of Almost
SITARA
Twenty-five is a strange age. You’ve lived your whole life surrounded by family, pretending to know who you are, convincing yourself you’re happy—until one day, every relative you’ve ever met suddenly remembers your existence. Overnight, they decide you’re not just their niece or cousin anymore. You’re now a ticking clock. A biological time bomb. And every conversation starts with “So, when are you getting married, beta?”
And before you even realize it, you’re dressed in red silk, staring at your reflection, wondering how exactly you ended up here.
I sigh. Loudly. It echoes through the dressing room, bouncing off the mirror like it’s mocking me. I’m getting married today. And God help me, this lehenga is tighter than it was yesterday. Or maybe my body just gave up pretending to cooperate.
I press a hand against my stomach and mutter, “Thank you, PCOD. You’ve officially ruined another milestone in my life.”
My reflection stares back, unimpressed.
I’ve been starving for a week. Or maybe a month. I’ve tried detox teas, salads that taste like regret, and workouts that made me want to sue whoever invented squats. But no matter what, the scale refuses to move, and the mirror refuses to flatter.
It’s almost poetic — being starved, dressed, and decorated like someone else’s dream.
“Stop glaring at yourself, you look beautiful.” I turn around to see Meher bhabhi-sa standing at the doorway, her smile soft but knowing. There’s a kind of calm that follows her everywhere she goes. Maybe it’s because she’s seen enough storms to recognize peace when it finally arrives. Her dupatta is pinned perfectly, her eyes warm, her tone gentle.
Behind her, Poorvi walks in, phone in hand, scrolling through something and shaking her head. “You know, if you keep sighing like that, Sitara, people will think you’re getting sentenced to life imprisonment, not marriage.”
“Feels like the same thing,” I mutter.
Bhabhi-sa chuckles under her breath, coming closer to fix a stray strand of my hair that’s escaped my bun. “You’re nervous,” she says.
I laugh—the kind that sounds more like a breath than amusement. “Nervous? I’m terrified. My hands are shaking, and I’ve convinced myself I might faint right before taking pheras. That’ll be a great family story, won’t it?”
Poorvi looks up from her phone finally. “You? Faint? Please. You’re the calmest yet dramatic person I know.” She smiles and I roll my eyes, pouting at her for the effects.
“That’s because I’m good at pretending,” I reply, staring back at the mirror. “It’s my favorite hobby—right after overthinking.”
Bhabhi-sa’s reflection meets mine. “Pretending isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes it’s how we survive.”
I smile faintly. “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”
“I am,” she says quietly. “But you’ll be fine. You always are.”
I wish I believed her.
I sit down carefully, making sure the heavy lehenga doesn’t wrinkle too much. Every inch of this outfit screams royalty—intricate embroidery, subtle shimmer, layers of fabric that weigh more than my self-esteem. My jewelry glints under the lights—family heirlooms, chosen by Maa-sa herself, who’s been... trying lately. Redeeming, they call it.
The word feels too grand for what redemption really is—small, hesitant steps towards forgiveness that sometimes hurt more than the mistake itself.
Bhabhi-sa crouches next to me, straightening the border of my dupatta. “You look like a bride straight out of a fairytale.”
“Except this one didn’t choose her prince.” I murmur.
She chuckles. “Fairytales never mention the pressure before the happy ending.”
Poorvi sits on the couch, adjusting her earrings. “Okay, but let’s be real. You’ve had, what, twelve blind dates in the last four months? At least you picked someone halfway decent. That’s a win.”
I roll my eyes. “Twelve disasters, you mean. One of them talked only about his car collection. Another one asked me how soon Icould quit my ‘art hobby’ after marriage because, apparently, his mother doesn’t believe women should work. The one before that told me I was ‘pretty for my size.’”
Poorvi groans. “Men are such a disappointment.”
“Tell me about it,” I sigh. “So when Ayush showed up—polite, educated, relatively normal—I figured, why not? He’s the least worst option.”
Bhabhi-sa gives me that patient smile again, the one that hides understanding. “That’s not exactly a glowing start to a marriage, Sitara.”
