Mehandi

1 Month later~

Only three days remained until the wedding, and the atmosphere around was charged with excitement. The date had been fixed a month ago, and now, the ceremonies were about to begin. While the grand wedding was to be held at the majestic Singhania Palace in Jaipur, all the pre-wedding rituals were taking place in their respective homes.

At the Jain residence, joy filled every corner. Their only daughter, Saanvi, was about to step into a new life. The house echoed with laughter, music, and endless chatter.

Today was the mehndi ceremony. The henna artists had already arrived and begun their work, applying beautiful, intricate designs to Saanvi’s hands. Guests moved around, admiring the décor, clicking pictures, and enjoying the moment.

But amid all the celebration, the bride sat quietly, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Saanvi’s face lacked the glow one would expect from a bride. There was no excitement in her eyes, only a heavy stillness.

One of her relatives noticed and came closer. “Saanvi, you look so pale, darling. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Saanvi forced a small smile. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of exhaustion, I guess. So many things to take care of… it’s been hectic.”

The relative chuckled, brushing it off lightly. “Oh, this is just the beginning, dear. Once you're married, you’ll have to manage your husband, the in-laws… and when the baby comes, even more! Better start getting used to it now, ha-ha!”

Saanvi nodded slowly, offering a polite, fake smile. But inside, her heart sank a little deeper. Her silence wasn’t just tiredness — it was the weight of a choice she hadn't fully made, the sound of her own voice getting lost in the noise around her.

In Singhania palace~

The Singhania Palace shimmered under the golden afternoon sun, draped in rich silks, fresh marigolds, and strings of lights. Servants moved swiftly, decorators adjusted final touches, and guests poured in — the wedding of the year was just days away. The family was glowing with excitement. After years of waiting, their eldest son, Viyansh, was finally getting married.

But behind the cheerful chaos, three people wore hidden frowns — Poonam, his mother, watched everything in silence; Muskan, his younger sister, had bitterness laced in her expressions; and Kritika, the girl everyone once thought would be the bride, stood rigid in a corner, her eyes dark with rage.

Muskan threw a sharp glance at the bride’s photograph lying on the decorative table, scoffing under her breath. “I still don’t understand how bhai agreed to marry her. Just look at that girl — she doesn’t even belong in the same frame as bhai. Kritika is a hundred times better… in class, looks, everything.”

Kritika’s jaw clenched, her fingernails digging into her palm, fury simmering behind her stillness.

Poonam exhaled, her voice heavy with something between resignation and disbelief. “Believe me, I couldn’t accept it either. The day your father told me that Viyansh said yes… I was stunned. I thought he would fight back. But then I found out… the terms of the agreement.”

Both girls turned to her instantly, eyes narrowing.

“What agreement?” Muskan asked, her voice low and suspicious.

Poonam looked away for a moment, her gaze distant. “He agreed on one condition — that to the world, they’ll appear as husband and wife. But in reality, they’ll live like strangers. No bond. No expectations. Just a name.”

The weight of her words lingered in the room like a silent storm.

Elsewhere, Manish stood by the main hallway, frowning. He turned to Shaurya, “Where is Viyansh? Everyone’s asking for him. Today is his mehndi, and he’s nowhere to be found.”

Shaurya adjusted his sherwani, hesitating. “He’s still at the office.”

Manish’s shoulders slumped. “This boy…” he muttered and immediately dialed his son.

After a few rings, the call was answered.

“Viyansh,” Manish’s voice rose with impatience, “you’re getting married in three days. Today is your mehndi! Why aren’t you home yet?”

Viyansh’s tone was cold, unbothered. “Papa, I already told you. I’ll be there on the day of the wedding. I have no interest in these meaningless functions. Please don’t force me anymore.”

And just like that, he disconnected the call.

Manish stared at the phone, silent. He sighed deeply, frustration mixed with sadness lining his face.

Shaurya tried to ease the moment. “Don’t worry, uncle. Once he’s married, things will change. He’ll change.”

Manish gave a small nod. “That’s why I chose Saanvi. I believe she has the strength to soften him… maybe even heal him.”

Meanwhile, back in the ornate courtyard, Muskan and Kritika stood side by side, still processing Poonam’s revelation.

“So that’s what happened,” Kritika whispered, eyes narrowed. “Uncle forced him into it.”

Muskan’s lips curled into a slow smile. “Exactly what I suspected. There’s no way bhai would willingly accept a girl like her. He did it because of Dad’s pressure.”

Their eyes met, an unspoken plan starting to form. The smiles they shared weren’t kind — they were calculated, dangerous.

I never imagined my life could flip so drastically — a complete 360-degree turn, all in a moment. Just a few days ago, I was living a carefree life, laughing with friends, making future plans, dreaming freely. And now... here I am, sitting in the middle of a vibrant mehndi ceremony, my hands being adorned with the name of a man I’ve never even spoken to.

Life really is unpredictable. No one warns you when your world’s about to shift.

The room around me was alive with color and noise — music playing, relatives laughing, the scent of rosewater and marigold hanging in the air — but none of it touched me. It all felt distant, like I was watching someone else’s life unfold.

I sat still, lost in my thoughts, staring at the swirling henna patterns forming on my palms when a relative crouched beside me and said with a concerned smile, “Saanvi, why do you look so pale, beta? You’re the bride — you should be glowing with happiness!”

I blinked and quickly snapped out of my daze. What could I even say to her? That I was heartbroken? That I felt like a prisoner in an elaborate celebration meant to honor something I didn’t choose? Of course not. So, like I’ve done for weeks now, I put on the best fake smile I could muster and said softly, “Nothing like that, just tired. There’s so much to take care of before the wedding, and it’s been a little overwhelming.”

She chuckled, not sensing the weight beneath my words. “Oh, darling, this is just the beginning. Once you’re married, you’ll have much more to manage — your husband, your in-laws… and once a baby arrives, then you’ll really know what exhaustion is like! It’s good you’re getting used to it now, ha-ha!”

Her words echoed in my ears like an unsettling premonition. Husband. Child. Family.

My smile faded slightly as her voice blurred into the background. I remembered myself just a few days ago, teasing Akansha, saying, “It’s too soon for babies!” And now look at me — about to marry a man I neither love nor understand. A man I’d prayed I’d never cross paths with. And yet, here we are, bound by fate and a decision I couldn’t run from.

I’ve never even met him. Forget meeting — I haven’t exchanged a single word with him. Not even over the phone. And still, I’m expected to spend my entire life with him. My entire life with someone who’s practically a stranger.

My chain of thoughts broke when the mehndi artist looked up from her work and asked, “Ma’am, do you have a nickname for your soon-to-be husband? Something sweet we can hide in the design?”

Nickname?

The word felt strange. Cold. Foreign.

I hesitated. “No… there’s nothing like that. Just write his name — Viyansh.”

The artist grinned mischievously. “Oh come on, ma’am! Hide it well. Make him earn it. The longer he searches… the more desperate he gets. And men do interesting things when they’re desperate.”

I suddenly felt my cheeks burn, and I snapped a little too quickly, “Viyansh. Just write that. That’s enough.”

I could feel my face flush a deeper red. Embarrassed, I muttered under my breath, “shameless… mummy ne kaise kaise log bula liye hain…”

Just then, my friend arrived, holding a plate filled with snacks and sweets. She took one look at my face and raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong? Why are you blushing like that? Are you feeling okay?”

I quickly looked away. “No, no, I’m fine. It’s just… really hot today, that’s all.”

She frowned, clearly unconvinced. “Hot? Saanvi, it’s the middle of monsoon. No one’s sweating today.”

Before I could answer, the henna artist chimed in playfully, “It’s not the weather, ma’am… it’s the imagination.”

My friend turned to me, curiosity lighting up her face. “imagination? What imagination?”

I gave the artist a warning glare, and she chuckled to herself, going back to her work.

“Nothing, yaar,” I sighed. “Ignore her. Oh! You brought food for me? Thank god. I’m starving.”

Sensing that I didn’t want to talk, she smiled and quietly began feeding me, one bite at a time — no questions, no pressure. Just quiet understanding.

And in that moment, as I chewed slowly and stared at the name being written on my hand, I couldn’t help but wonder — is this what the rest of my life will look like? Pretending, smiling, and trying to swallow things I never chose?

It was well past midnight when I finally made it back to my room. The mehndi ceremony had ended hours ago, but its echoes still lingered — the distant hum of music, fading laughter in the halls, the faint scent of flowers clinging to my clothes. My body ached with fatigue; it had been a long, draining day. A blur of smiles, camera flashes, rituals, and voices I could barely process.

I closed the door softly behind me and exhaled, my shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion. For a moment, I just stood there, letting the silence sink in, wrapping around me like a fragile shield after a day spent performing joy I didn’t fully feel.

I sat on the edge of the bed and instinctively looked down at my palms. The intricate designs had now dried completely, and to my surprise, the mehndi had turned a deep, rich shade — a bold blend of dark red and almost black, far darker than I had ever seen on my skin before. It looked beautiful... hauntingly so.

I stared at it for a moment, unable to look away. Every line, every swirl, felt more vivid under the soft yellow light of my bedside lamp. It was strange. Mehndi had never taken this kind of color on my hands. It always dried into a soft orange, sometimes barely visible. But tonight… it was different. Was it the quality? Some new chemical they used? Or was it something else — something people say in hushed tones — that the darker the stain, the deeper the love of your partner?

I scoffed at that thought almost immediately. Love? What love? I don’t even know the man I’m marrying. We’re strangers bound by fate. Rituals like this weren’t symbols of affection for me — they were masks, layers of expectations being wrapped tighter with every passing hour.

Still, I couldn’t deny the beauty of it. A part of me wanted to feel something in that moment — hope, maybe. Excitement. But all I felt was... tired. Deeply tired.

I gently brushed my fingers against the fabric of my lehenga, careful not to smudge anything, and slowly made my way to the bed. The mattress welcomed me like a soft whisper, and as soon as my body touched it, a heavy sigh escaped my lips.

I didn’t even pull the blanket over myself. My eyes fluttered shut the moment my head touched the pillow. And just like that — the sounds of the day faded, the thoughts stilled, and I let the darkness of sleep take me in.

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