I sit on the edge of the bed, my lehenga pooled around my feet, fingers clenched in the fabric as if I can anchor myself here by sheer will. My bangles clink when I move, the soundsharp in the quiet room. Somewhere outside, voices murmur—priests packing up, staff moving, the world continuing as though nothing monumental has just happened.
But my world has tilted.
A maid knocks softly and steps in without waiting for my answer. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and she smiles like she’s trying to be brave for me. “It’s time, Rani-sa.”
Rani.
The word lands wrong. I’m not sure what I am anymore.
I nod because that’s easier than speaking. If I open my mouth, something will break open, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to gather myself back together again.
When I stand, my legs wobble. I steady myself against the dressing table, catching sight of my reflection. The girl staring back at me looks composed, regal even. The sindoor at the parting of my hair is fresh, the mangalsutra cool against my skin. My eyes, rimmed with kohl, look too large for my face.
She looks like someone who knows what she’s doing.
She doesn’t.
The walk to the courtyard feels longer than it should. Every step echoes with memories—running through these halls as a child, hiding behind pillars during family gatherings, rolling my eyes at my brothers’ antics, sitting quietly beside Meher bhabhi-sa as she taught me how to breathe when anxiety clawed at my chest.
The courtyard is full, but not crowded. Just family. Only the people who matter. Somehow, that makes it worse.
Devraj bhai-sa stands near the front, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched in a way I’ve seen only a handfulof times—when he’s trying very hard not to fall apart. Vihaan bhai-sa is beside him, one hand gripping Poorvi’s fingers like a lifeline. Veeraj bhai-sa stands slightly apart, his eyes already glassy, blinking far too often.
And then there’s Maa-sa.
She stands stiffly, hands folded, face unreadable. Our relationship has always been… complicated. Love wrapped in expectation, affection tangled with disappointment. I search her face now, wondering if she’s proud, or relieved, or heartbroken—or all three. She doesn’t meet my eyes.
My throat tightens anyway.
Meher bhabhi-sa is the first to step forward when she sees me. And that means a lot considering she’s not much of a hugger. She doesn’t wait for permission. She doesn’t worry about propriety. She simply opens her arms, and I fall into them like I’ve been waiting all morning to do just that.
Her embrace is warm, grounding. She smells like sandalwood and comfort and all the things I associate with safety. “I will miss you so much,” she whispers into my hair, her voice breaking despite her effort to stay strong. “I’m always here for you. Just a call away.”
I nod against her shoulder, unable to speak. My fingers clutch at the back of her blouse, and for a moment, I am not a bride or a sister or anything else. I am just a girl who doesn’t want to leave the people who made her feel whole.
Poorvi is next to step up as she hugs me tightly, “You are very kind, Sitara,” she looks at me, cupping my cheeks, “and so beautiful in and out, never forget that.” I nod, a chuckle escaping my lips because she’s still lecturing me about self-esteem and all, “You can always talk to me about anything.”
Vihaan bhai-sa clears his throat loudly, a telltale sign that he’s on the verge of tears and absolutely hates it. “You know,” he says, attempting humor and failing spectacularly, “this is highly inconvenient. Who’s going to insult Veeraj now?”
Veeraj bhai-sa scoffs, but his voice wobbles. “Like you don’t do that enough.”
I laugh—a short, broken sound that turns into a sob before I can stop it. Vihaan bhai-sa’s face crumples instantly, and he pulls me into a hug that’s too tight, too desperate.
“Don’t,” he mutters, his chin resting on the top of my head. “Don’t cry. I’ll—” His voice breaks completely, and he presses his forehead to mine. “I’ll come visit. All the time. I swear.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I know you will.”
Veeraj bhai-sa joins us next, his arms wrapping around both of us, his grip firm like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. “You better call,” he says gruffly. “Every day. No excuses.” He tugs lightly at my hair. “Call me so much that I feel like blocking you.” He chuckles, his eyes shining from unshed tears.
“I will,” I promise, my voice muffled against his shoulder as I laugh. “But that is a very easily attainable task. You will get annoyed after a single call.”
Devraj bhai-sa waits until the others step back. When he finally comes to me, there is no gruff sarcasm, no protective posturing. He cups my face gently, his thumbs brushing away tears I didn’t realize had fallen.
“You’re still my little sister,” he says quietly. “Marriage doesn’t change that.”
My lips tremble. “I know.”
“And if he ever—” He stops himself, glancing briefly over my shoulder.
