The three days slipped by like smoke- visible, tangible, but impossible to hold on to.

Diya filled them with motion. She left home earlier than usual, lingered at work longer than needed, as if hours spent under fluorescent lights and clicking keyboards could distract her from what loomed ahead.

Her planner overflowed with emails, calls, audits, notes– anything to drown the quiet reminders that waited at home. And when she did return, it was only to bury herself in books, her syllabus suddenly more comforting than silence.

It wasn't escape. It was denial disguised as routine.

Meanwhile in a house not too far away, Vedant's world had slowed to a hush. He hadn't returned to the glass towers of Whitestone. Not since that night, when dadu's chest tightened and everything blurred into hospital walls and hushed prayers.

Instead, he worked from home, if it could be called that. A few emails. A couple of calls.

But mostly, he stayed in Dadu's room. Always close. Always watching. Even when Dadu drifted off to sleep, Vedant remained, quiet, constant, a silent guardian who never left, though he never let it show.

They were living different days, in different rhythms, one rushing, one stilled but at the core of both, the same thought pulsed quietly.

Today.

The roka.

The moment neither of them had fully looked at, yet couldn't stop circling in their minds.

It was coming.

Ready or not.

And they both... weren't.

I let the water run over me, steam curling around my skin like a veil I hadn’t asked for. Three days of pretending. Three days of spreadsheets, ledgers, and textbooks. Three days of staying up too late and waking up too early, all to avoid thinking about… this.

And now, this had arrived.

Today was my roka.

And I was going to see the man I was meant to marry— for the first time.

Sounds absurd, doesn’t it?

Not even the arranged marriages I used to mock as a teen moved this fast. At least they offer a trial run these days. A few dates. Conversations. Some illusion of choice.

But this?

This wasn’t a meeting.

It was a transaction sealed with rituals.

A part of me wanted to laugh— at the irony, at the absurdity, at myself.

I had always been the one to question things. I believed marriage was just another institution designed to tilt a woman’s life out of balance, adding more weight to her shoulders just so a man could walk lighter.

But that wasn’t even what scared me. I wasn't afraid of losing myself to someone else's idea of being a wife. I knew how to hold my ground, how to bite back when needed.

Except… with my father.

I hadn’t always been like this. There was a time when I argued, when I spoke up. When I believed being right meant being heard.

But over the years, life chipped away at that girl, the one who raised her voice without fear, the one who didn’t flinch at disapproval.

What stood now was someone else. The elder daughter. The peacekeeper. The quiet shield. I learned how to stay silent, not for him, but for the ones I couldn’t bear to see hurting.

If keeping the house from falling apart meant burying my voice…

I did it.

Not out of weakness.

But out of love.

The water was still running, a steady stream tracing down my spine like it was trying to wash away the weight of what I’d just admitted– even if only to myself.

I stepped out of the bathroom, the bathrobe clinging to my damp skin as I walked toward the bed.

My outfit was waiting for me.

A maroon anarkali lay folded with quiet precision, the gold borders of the dupatta catching the morning light, glinting softly, like they already knew what the day held.

I wore it.

Not because I wanted to.

But because it was time.

I didn’t reach for makeup, no liner, no gloss. There was no point. Nothing could mask the weight clinging to my gaze, the kind of ache that settled deeper than skin.

Only a pair of small gold earrings found their place, slipped on more out of habit than intension.

My hair was left open, falling in quiet waves around my shoulders– undone, unstyled, just like the rest of me.

The mirror didn’t offer a reflection. It offered a stranger.

She looked… graceful.

But unfamiliar.

There was something distant in her eyes. Like she knew she was dressing up for a ceremony she hadn’t asked for. Like she was watching it all from outside her own body. A quiet surrender. A muted rebellion.

I adjusted the dupatta over my shoulder and stared at the girl in the mirror for a second longer.

Then I turned away.

Downstairs, the Sharma house stirred with the tender excitement only a roka morning could bring. No chaos, just that soft, deliberate rhythm of a family getting ready to mark something sacred.

Every sound felt crisper, every step a little lighter, as if the air itself knew this day would be remembered.

In the kitchen, the aroma of cardamom and ghee wafted through the air as mithai boxes were lined up neatly on the counter, besan laddoos, kajukatlis, all homemade.

The staff moved like clockwork— swift, silent, practiced. Setting out plates, wiping counters, fixing the flowers at the entrance just right.

The living room had turned into a soft chaos of celebration. Tables were covered in light fabric, trays of sweets and dry fruits waiting to be placed near the front door.

The florals had arrived,  marigold strings now looped along curtain rods and the main door frame. Nothing grand, but every corner had been touched with care.

Ananya moved through the space with quiet focus, adjusting the flower garlands and straightening a few trays on the table. She peeked into the kitchen where her mother was checking on the samosas, exchanged a quick nod, then slipped back to her tasks.

Aarav followed his father around with exaggerated seriousness, holding plates, setting out water bottles, occasionally trying to sneak a laddoo and getting caught every time. He didn’t fully understand what a roka meant– just that it was something big for his sister, and that everyone was smiling a little more today.

The house was ready. Not just for guests. But for the beginning of something it hadn’t dared to imagine until now.

🪔

Meanwhile, at the Malhotra mansion, the household was quietly busy, preparing to leave. The staff moved efficiently, packing gift trays with neatly arranged sweets, silver wrapped dry fruits, and crisp shagun envelopes. Rolls of fine fabric, boxed saris, and carefully selected jewellery were double checked by Vedant's mother herself.

The air wasn’t rushed, but it carried a quiet urgency, everything had to be just right.

In the living room, Meera Malhotra— Vedant’s mother sat cross legged on the sofa, holding her phone up at just the right angle as the video call connected.

The screen lit up with her younger son’s face, a familiar mix of sleep-mussed hair, faded college hoodie, and the soft morning light spilling through the window behind him.

Vivaan Malhotra, currently in London, was halfway through his business degree. Though from the looks of it, he’d just stumbled out of bed.

“Tu abhi tak so raha tha?” Meera teased, smile curling at the edge of her lips.

His hair was a mess, sleep still visible in his eyes, but his smile brightened at the sight of her. “Maa, it’s barely seven here " he yawned. "What’s going on? Why do you look all dressed up this early?"

She exhaled, the teasing fading into something gentler. “Dadu had a cardiac episode three days ago.”

The shift in Vivaan’s expression was instant, sleep vanished, replaced by alarm. “What? Is he okay now? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

“He’s better now. Resting. But you’re coming home.”

Vivaan frowned. “Of course I am. I’ll book the first flight—”

Meera cut him off with a calm smile. “You’re coming home… because your brother’s getting married.”

Vivaan froze, “What!?” then shouted. “Vedant bhaiya?! With who? Wait— how did he even say yes?!”

Meera laughed softly. “We’ll talk about it when you’re here. Just know the roka’s today. And you better be here when we fix the wedding date.”

Vivaan stared, completely thrown, then muttered, “I’m dreaming. This is a dream.”

Meera chuckled, shaking her head. “Book your flight. I’ll message you the details.”

He nodded, still dazed. “Text me everything. I’m coming.”

The call ended with her soft “Take care,” still hanging in the air.

From the driveway, the familiar sound of heels clicking against stone carried in, followed by a voice that always made its presence known before she did.

"Still bossing people around, bhai?"

Atharv turned from where he was instructing the drivers on the gift arrangements and looked up— his expression shifting instantly as his twin sister walked in through the gate, her dupatta fluttering behind her like it had somewhere urgent to be.

"You're late," he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm fashionably on time," Avni replied with a smirk, wrapping him in a side hug. "Don’t act like you didn’t miss me."

Atharv rolled his eyes. "Where's Kiaan?"

"Left him with his dada-dadi. He insisted he had more important cartoons to watch than attend a grown up ceremony."

"And where’s Misha?" Avni asked, peeking behind him like she half expected her niece to come running out with her usual chaotic energy.

"Inside. Probably terrorizing the mithai boxes."

They both laughed, slipping back into step like they hadn’t missed a beat.

🪔

Upstairs, Vedant Malhotra was getting ready.

He stood before the mirror.

A crisp white shirt clung to his shoulders, the black suit layered over it like armour. He adjusted the cuffs, then buttoned the jacket slowly, as if every movement held weight.

The watch clicked onto his wrist. But nothing in the reflection gave anything away.

His face, calm. His posture, composed. But there was a stillness in the room that felt too dense, like silence had pulled up a chair and sat with him.

He looked ready. But wasn’t.

He adjusted the collar once, then turned to leave. But just as his hand touched the doorknob, something in him paused.

He turned back.

Crossed the room in a few strides, pulled open the bedside drawer and reached inside.

Fingers curled around the little thing he hadn’t parted from in days.

He pulled it out. Small. Familiar. He didn’t look at it. Just slipped it into the pocket of his trousers like it was a part of the outfit. Like it had always been meant to be there.

Because... he needed it today.

Unaware, of course, that it was the last thing he’d need— because the girl who once wore it around her neck was about to become impossible to ignore.

🪔

The Malhotras arrived at sharp 10 a.m., the gentle purr of their cars breaking the calm hum of the Sharma neighbourhood.

One by one, the vehicles rolled to a halt at the gate, polished to gleam under the soft sun. The car door opened slowly, and Atharv stepped out first, eyes alert, hands steady as he reached in to help Dadu out.

Wrapped in a crisp ivory shawl Dadu looked frailer than he once had, but his steps were firm. Recovery had been slow, but steady. And that was only because Vedant had made sure of it. Never leaving a gap in care.

Vedant stepped out right after, slipping into place beside Dadu with quiet precision, as if his instincts knew exactly where to be.

Behind them, trunks were unloaded, gold embroidered trays carrying mithai boxes tied with satin bows, baskets of dry fruits wrapped in cellophane, and carefully folded silk suits and sarees meant for the bride’s family.

Staff moved with trained precision, unloading, straightening, and adjusting under Kavita Chachi’s sharp but kind eyes.

Marigold garlands swayed slightly with the warm breeze as the Malhotras stepped through the main gate of the Sharma house, the quiet grandeur of the moment not lost on anyone.

Today wasn’t loud. But it was momentous. And it had just begun.

As the Malhotras stepped inside, they were welcomed by the warm hum of conversation and the comforting clatter of preparations in full swing. Diya’s parents stood at the entrance, their smiles wide, hands folded in greeting.

Anita’s eyes scanned each face with the kind of grace only a host could carry, while Anil moved forward to welcome the guests with quiet dignity. Diya's siblings, Ananya and Aarav, stood respectfully beside them, greeting the elders with soft smiles.

The two families exchanged pleasantries as they made their way into the living room. The air was rich with the scent of incense and fresh flowers, the soft clang of tea cups against porcelain adding to the soft domesticity of the morning.

The staff moved seamlessly between the rooms, laying out plates of dry fruits, sweets, and savoury snacks. The women from both sides sat together, their chatter soft but enthusiastic, the men joining shortly after.

Misha, instantly began circling the living room, her tiny feet tapping across the marble floor as she eyed the laddoos on the tray, drawing a chuckle from the elders.

Amid the soft greetings and settling conversations, Anil stepped forward to greet Dadu with a respectful bow, bending to touch his feet. Dadu placed a weathered but warm hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle pat.

“Yaad hu main tumhe, beta?” Dadu asked with a teasing smile, his voice gravelly but kind.

Anil blinked, confused. “Sir, I don’t think we’ve ever met...”

Dadu shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Meri yaad-dasht bhi kamzor ho gayi hai, kaise yaad hoga? Tab toh tum Leh mein posted the, beta.”

Anil paused, clearly surprised. “Aapko... iske baare mein kaise...”

Before he could finish, Vanraj began, “Papa, yeh sab aap—”

But Dadu raised a hand gently, cutting him off. “Jaanta hoon. Yeh soch rahe ho ki mujhe sab kaise pata? His chuckle was light, but carried something heavier underneath. "Tumhe kya lagta hai, hamare parivaar tum dono ki wajah se mil rahe hain?” He chuckled again.

He paused before saying it: “Eknath mera jigri yaar tha.”

The words hung in the air like an old song remembered. Anita’s eyes widened, and her face softened with recognition.

“Vishwanath... Kaka?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

Dadu nodded slowly, a faint smile playing on his lips. Anita stepped forward instinctively and touched his feet again, this time not just out of respect, but affection.

“Aapne aana kyun band kar diya tha, Kaka? Aur ye sab...?”

He gestured for everyone to sit. “Baitho. Batata hoon.”

And so they did. The room grew still, quiet except for the muffled sounds from the kitchen and the soft chime of Misha playing in the corner.

Dadu began to speak, his tone calm yet rich with memory, recounting the foundation of the two families’ legacy.

The Malhotra and Sharma empires had not been built in isolation. They were born from a friendship— Eknath and Vishwanath, two ambitious men who met in the earliest days of their ventures, bonded not by blood but by shared struggle.

It was during the incubation period of their businesses that they became inseparable, building their dreams side by side.

Anil Sharma, however, had not always been a businessman. His path had first led him to the Indian Army, a dream he had chased with unshakable resolve since the age of nineteen. Most of his service had been in high altitude regions like Leh, Jammu & Kashmir, and he had been deployed with the Rashtriya Rifles twice during his service. His life had been a constant rotation of duty calls and distant postings.

Even after his marriage, Anil remained away for months at a stretch, returning only briefly before being called away again. Anita had stayed behind with his parents, managing the household in his absence. No matter how much she missed him, she had always carried pride in the uniform he wore and the values he stood for.

When Anita was pregnant with Diya, Anil had taken a rare six-month leave to be by her side. But before Diya was born, duty had summoned him once again. He had never met Vishwanath Kaka— not once. His paths had simply never crossed with the old friend of his father. Anita, however, had met him several times. Vishwanath had been a regular visitor at the Sharma house back then, checking in on his friend’s family during Anil’s long absences.

Everyone in the room sat in still silence, eyes fixed on Dadu, their expressions a mix of surprise, reverence, and an ache that only old names can stir. The mention of Eknath Sharma pulled at the air, thickening it with memories that hadn't been spoken aloud in years.

Dadu continued, voice softer now, almost reflective. "When Vanraj first spoke about the Sharma family, I didn’t think much of it. Only when he mentioned Diya did I realise— it was Eknath’s granddaughter.” It was a name he hadn't expected to hear, a name that brought back more than just memories.

Across the room, Vedant had been listening in silence, arms folded, gaze steady— detached, almost. But the moment the name left Dadu’s lips, something in him stilled. Diya.

It wasn’t just a name— it was a shift. Something in him paused, stuttered, rearranged itself without permission. The noise around him dulled, the conversation a distant blur, as if the air itself had thickened.

He didn’t know her. Not really. But the name lingered, threaded with something unplaceable. Like déjà vu wrapped in silence.

And before he could untangle the feeling, the conversation moved on— leaving him still, but not the same.

“She must’ve grown up so much,” Dadu murmured. “She was just four the last time I saw her.”

Anita’s voice broke through, soft and almost accusing. “Kaka, why did you stop coming? She used to ask about you every day.”

Vishwanath let out a slow breath, the kind that carried years.

“After Eknath was gone, I... I couldn’t come back,” he said quietly.

“This house, these walls— everything reminded me of him. His voice, his laughter... it was everywhere.”

After his passing, returning had felt unbearable. Every corner whispered his absence. And so, Vishwanath had stayed away, not out of indifference but out of grief.

He paused, eyes fixed somewhere the rest couldn’t see.

But then he smiled, brushing off the heaviness in the room with practiced ease. “But look at fate,” he said with a hint of irony. “It found a way to bring me back. If Anil and Vanraj hadn’t become friends, our last meeting would’ve stayed nineteen years behind.”

Anil looked at Vanraj, a flicker of guilt surfacing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Vanraj shook his head, equally surprised. “I just found out myself.”

Sensing the shift in the room— the emotions teetering too close to sorrow, Anita gently intervened, asking everyone to have snacks. Her voice was warm, but her eyes betrayed the emotion simmering underneath.

She didn’t wait for agreement. Just smoothed the edge of the tray on the table and glanced toward her daughter.

“Ananya,” she said softly, “go call Diya.”

Ananya nodded and slipped out, her footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

And just like that, the room stilled again.

Conversations quieted. Cups paused midair. The air turned expectant.

Everyone waited.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Did I just hit you with a cliffhanger? Oops... totally on purpose 😋

How did the chapter feel? Did it hit where it was meant to?

An

d most importantly– are we finally ready to meet? 👀✨

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Thank you so much for reading 🌷

– M 💌