I wasn’t sure what pulled me out of sleep — the faint chill on my back, the early light leaking through the curtains, or the soft warmth pressed against my arm.

When I glanced down, the answer settled quietly in my chest.

Diya was curled into my side like it was the most natural place for her to be.

Her head rested against my arm, her breath brushing warm and uneven across my skin, the kind of closeness I’d never imagined sharing with her…

But what rooted me to the mattress wasn’t her leaning into me, it was lower — her hand.

Her fingers were wrapped around mine, loose but unmistakably there, like some part of her had reached for me even after her mind had shut down.

And as if holding my entire hand would have been too much, she settled for two of my fingers instead.

The smallest touch, but it felt like she was holding something far larger.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

For a moment I stayed completely still feeling her weight against me, the steady rise and fall of her breaths, the warmth where our skin touched.

My heart reacted first, tripping over itself, stumbling into a pace too fast for morning.

She had never been this close, not even by accident.

Her hair was scattered across her cheek, hiding half her face from me, a few strands clinging to her skin in soft, messy waves.

Something in me tightened at the sight, so soft, so vulnerable, so unguarded.

Before I realized what I was doing, my hand moved on it's own, slow and careful.

I brushed the strands away from her face, letting them fall gently behind her ear. Her skin was warm beneath my fingertips, warmer than it had ever been.

And in that suspended breath, with her fingers still around mine, it felt like morning had paused just for us.

The second my fingers left her skin, she stirred. Her lashes fluttered, a faint crease forming between her brows as her eyes blinked open.

I froze.

She looked at me through a sleepy haze, pupils unfocused, confusion flickering for a breath… and then, without a word, she burrowed deeper into my arm, pressing her face further into me like she thought I was a pillow.

“Diya,” I murmured, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Do you want to get up?” I asked softly, because I had no idea how to wake someone who was using my arm like a pillow she didn’t want to let go of.

She shook her head against me, a small, stubborn motion that warmed the skin she was pressed against.

“You should...” I tried again, keeping my voice low.

“It’s Sunday,” she mumbled, words muffled into my sleeve.

A huff of surprise almost escaped me. “We have a ritual to get ready for,” I reminded her quietly.

A sleepy little sigh escaped her. Then she nuzzled deeper, as if that solved everything.

“You go first,” she murmured, still in her sleepy haze, completely unaware of what she was doing to my heart.

I closed my eyes briefly, fighting a smile tugging at my mouth, the one that came without permission.

I exhaled helplessly. “Okay… let me.”

Slowly she lifted her head, eyes barely open. For a second she just blinked at me, groggy, confused, and soft around the edges.

Then realization hit her.

Her gaze dropped to my arm, to the sleeve she’d been nuzzling, to how close we were.

And just like that, she snapped upright, pulling away so fast the air rushed in to replace her warmth.

For a second she just sat there, spine straight, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between her ribs, like she was waking up on the wrong planet.

Then her gaze dropped to my hand, to her hand still curved around two of my fingers in the softest, most unintentional hold I’d ever felt, something enough to knock the breath from my chest.

Her fingers jerked back instantly, like she’d touched live electricity, like the realization itself had scorched her.

Her cheeks flushed so quickly it was almost startling, color blooming across her skin like someone had lit a match beneath it, the heat so visible it made my own pulse stumble.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, scrambling off the bed. “I— I didn’t mean to—”

She couldn’t even finish the sentence.

She just stood there, flustered and breathless, before bolting toward the bathroom like escape was the only reasonable solution.

I stared after her, still half lying down, my hand frozen midair, two of my fingers still tingling where she had held them.

It felt absurd that something so faint could feel this… significant.

The bathroom door slammed shut.

“I thought you wanted me to go first,” I said, voice deliberately soft, meant more for the door than for her.

But she was already inside, water already running, already trying to erase the morning from its existence.

A part of me wanted to laugh. Another part… didn’t know how to breathe correctly.

I exhaled slowly, letting my head fall back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, letting the last traces of sleep fall away.

Then I glanced at my hand again, the one she had held on to… and before I could stop it, a small, involuntary, and unavoidably real smile formed on my lips.

🪔

I fastened the last button of my kurta, smoothing the fabric down out of habit.

The white suited the morning light a little too well, crisp cotton, clean lines, simple in a way that made me feel too visible. The sleeves brushed against my wrists as I moved, the collar sitting neatly against my throat.

By the time I finished getting ready, the room felt too still.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, then stood, then sat again. The kind of restless waiting I didn’t want to examine too closely.

Tanya had taken Diya to her room to help her get dressed and I told myself I wasn’t waiting for her.

But every few seconds, my eyes drifted to the door anyway.

Listening, expecting...

The house moved faintly around me — distant clatter from the kitchen, footsteps crossing hallways, voices too soft to make out. But nothing from her, not yet.

It was ridiculous how long a few minutes could stretch.

Then it happened.

Not a sound, not a voice, not even a footstep.

Just a quiet, subtle pull in the air, like the room tightened around me for a breath, like my body knew before my mind did.

She was coming.

Her footsteps were soft, almost hesitant, but the moment she entered the room, every thought in my head stilled.

A vivid fuchsia, bright enough to catch the eye yet soft enough to feel gentle, a color that shouldn’t have worked on anyone this seamlessly, yet on her it looked… inevitable.

As if someone had chosen the exact shade her skin was born to carry.

The fabric draped fluidly around her, light and airy, almost translucent near the edges. The border shimmered faintly, a delicate line of gold thread that caught every stray beam of morning light and held it for a breath.

The pallu rested over her shoulder in an effortless fall, swaying slightly with each step she took, brushing against her arm like it knew exactly where it belonged.

Her hair had been left loose in long, soft waves falling over one side, dark against the bright saree, framing her face in a way that made it impossible to look anywhere else.

For a moment, I forgot to move.

She paused too, just inside the doorway, her fingers slid across the edge of the saree as if to steady herself, her gaze dropping in that quiet, instinctive shyness she always folded into.

But she lifted her eyes once, just once. Our gazes caught, held, breathed the same air for barely a second.

I stepped toward her at the same moment she stepped toward me. An unplanned pull, something instinctive, something I didn’t have a name for yet... as if walking together had already begun to feel… natural.

But before either of us could speak or make sense of whatever this morning had become, Maa appeared in the doorway.

“There you both are,” she said, relief warming her voice.

Before either of us could speak or understand whatever this morning had become, Maa’s voice cut gently into the quiet.

“There you both are,” she said, stepping into the doorway, relief softening her expression.

Her gaze landed on Diya first and for a moment, she didn’t bother hiding her awe.

The same awe I felt but couldn’t show.

“So pretty,” Maa murmured, her voice softening the way it only ever did around Diya.

She reached out and took Diya’s hand in both of hers, her thumb brushing over her knuckles as if she were blessing her.

“It’s been more than a week since you two got married,” Maa said, turning to both of us with a tired but affectionate smile. “I know the rituals have been never ending… and you’re both waiting to get back to normal life. But this one is the last.”

We nodded in unison, an unspoken relief hidden beneath the surface.

“There’s a temple forty kilometers from here,” she continued. “Every married couple visits it within the first two weeks. It’s a tradition to pray for the life you’ll build together.”

A faint laugh almost slipped out of me, at the irony.

But it died quickly when Maa went on.

“There’s a holy pond inside the temple complex,” she said, her tone shifting into something more serious. “You both have to take three dips in that water together before entering. It’s believed to bring protection, peace… and good fortune for the marriage.”

My hand lifted instinctively to rub my forehead — my own private reaction ritual — but Maa caught my wrist halfway, gently lowering it with a look that had scolded me through childhood.

“It’s important, Vedant,” she reminded me softly. “Do it sincerely. And once the ritual is done, go take blessings from the goddess.”

We nodded again — this time slower, absorbing the weight of it.

She reached into the bag she had brought in and handed it to me. The cloth was warm from being held under her arm.

“These are fresh clothes,” she said. “Change into them after the dips. Both of you.”

Her eyes flicked toward the wall clock.

7:30 a.m.

“Hurry now,” she urged. “The temple closes at noon. You shouldn’t be late.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

The moment it did both Diya and I exhaled, the same tired breath, the same quiet surrender to fate.

For a moment, neither of us moved. We just… looked at each other.

The fuchsia of her saree, the white of my kurta, the morning light falling between us, it all felt strangely weightless.

Then, quietly, almost reluctantly, the same words left both our mouths: “Let’s get this over with.”

🪔

The drive was long, fields blurring past us in slow, patient stretches of green and gold. Morning sun slid across the dashboard, warming the edges of the car, catching on the glass bangles on her wrist.

I kept my eyes on the road.

At least… I tried to.

But every few minutes my gaze drifted sideways, pulled to the woman sitting beside me no matter how many times I forced myself to look away.

The way her saree pooled gently around her, bright against the car’s dull interior, the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear when the wind pushed it forward, the way her fingers held the edge of her pallu, almost absently.

Every small movement felt amplified in the stillness. Every breath, every shift, every stolen glance.

We didn’t speak for a long while — the quiet stretching between us, soft and strangely comfortable.

Until she shattered it with the last thing I expected.

“How old are you?” she asked, eyes fixed stubbornly on the road ahead. Not at me, not even a glance.

I turned to her slowly, trying to figure out where that came from. “Why?”

“Just making sure I didn’t end up marrying an…” She paused, lips pressing together in deadly seriousness. “…ancestor.”

She delivered it so calmly, so matter of factly, that it took a full minute for my brain to understand what had just been said.

And another minute to recover from it.

I blinked twice. Her words hit so unexpectedly I needed a moment to buffer. “If that’s your way of checking whether I’m older, you overshot by a century.”

Nothing, not even a twitch of guilt. Just calm, blank faced audacity.

I blew out a slow breath. “And isn’t it a little late for whatever background check you’re trying to run on me?”

Only then did she turn her head, giving me a puzzled look, like I was the one speaking in riddles.

“Twenty eight,” I finally offered, giving her the answer she wanted.

She hummed, thoughtful, then turned back to the road ahead.

“How old are you?” I returned the question before I could stop myself.

She didn’t miss a beat. “Why?”

“Just so I know whether to buy you coffee…” I paused, knowing I was walking into danger “…or Complan.”

My entire nervous system told me to shut up, but the words had already escaped.

Her head snapped toward me, eyes wide with offense. “I’m twenty-three,” she hissed, the kind of lowercase screaming that could dent steel.

“Coffee then,” I muttered under my breath.

The silence that followed wasn’t silence at all, it was thick with passive aggression. A quiet storm building beside me.

It was… honestly impressive.

I didn’t mean to laugh, but the sound slipped out anyway — a small, helpless chuckle.

She turned so fast I felt the air shift. “What’s so funny?”

Your face. Your adorable, offended, painfully cute face. But I said none of that.

“Nothing,” I said instead, focusing on the road, even though the edges of my mouth refused to straighten.

Her annoyance radiated in a steady pulse beside me, but beneath it was softness and warmth. The kind that made the long drive feel shorter than it should.

🪔

The drive took nearly eighty minutes. By the time we reached the temple grounds, the world felt quieter than usual.

Wide sky, unbroken sunlight, wind cutting through the stillness. The temple was empty, almost deserted, set too far from the city for casual visitors.

Just us, the sound of gravel under our shoes, and the steady thud of my own heartbeat that refused to behave itself.

We took our things from the car and started walking in.

The moment the pond came into view, Diya looked at me and that familiar tension, sharp, wordless and impossible to outrun settled back into the space between us like it had been waiting.

“Let’s go,” I said, taking the lead.

We reached the stone steps leading down to the water and placed our belongings neatly on the dry edge.

The pond was larger than I’d imagined, stretching wide beneath the open sky.

Sunlight glimmered on the surface, but the wind kept threading through the air.

For a second I simply stood there, staring at the water, the clarity of it, the depth. Then I exhaled and reached for the hem of my kurta.

I hesitated, not for the water.

For her.

The sun was painting the temple steps gold, as I stood bare chested at the edge of the water. My heart thudded unevenly, maybe from the chill, maybe from the weight of this moment.

I stepped down the stairs, the stone cool beneath my feet, water waving below like a quiet dare.

The steps were slick beneath our feet, coated with a thin film of moss that made each descent careful, calculated. I knew she was nervous even before she showed it, so I extended my hand toward her.

“Don’t slip,” I said quietly.

She looked at my hand for a second, not long, but long enough for me to see the hesitation flicker through her eyes before she finally placed her palm against mine.

Her grip was tight from the start. And with every inch we waded deeper, she clung harder, fingers tightening around mine like the cold water was stealing her balance inch by inch.

When the water reached our waists, we stopped. The surface rippled around us, humming with wind and sunlight.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

She wasn’t, anyone could see that. But she nodded anyway.

I held her hand a little more firmly. Together, we bent forward. The world went silent under the water, a cold, heavy quiet that swallowed everything.

When we surfaced, she gasped, a sharp startled breath and before I could process anything, her arms shot around my neck like a lifeline, pressing her body flush against my bare chest.

The fabric of her saree was soaked, soft against my skin, and I could feel the rapid beat of her heart through her ribs.

I froze.

Then instinct took over.

One of my arms wrapped around her waist, steadying her. The other rose to her face on its own, brushing wet strands of hair back so I could see her expression.

“What happened?” My voice softened without my permission.

Her breaths were uneven, almost shaky. “I’m scared,” she whispered.

“Of the water?” I asked gently, even though she was pressed so tightly against me I could barely think straight.

She shook her head as her grip tightened around my neck, small but frantic. “What if I drown?”

Something in my chest tugged painfully at that. “You won’t,” I said softly, fingers tightening just a bit around her waist to ground her. “I’m here.”

She let out a shaky breath and nodded, still clinging to me as if I was the only solid thing in this world.

Her fingers tightened slightly on my shoulder, her body bracing itself, and something in me braced with her.

I held her waist firmer, steadier, maybe more than necessary, but I couldn’t help it.

We inhaled together, then dipped under. The second time felt different. The cold wasn’t the shock, it was the closeness.

Her body pressed fully against mine as the water swallowed us, her hands gripping my shoulders like she didn’t know where else to hold on, her forehead brushing my jaw on the way down.

When we emerged, her breath hitched then she immediately pressed her face against mine, warm skin against cold cheek.

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

I didn’t say anything, just held her tighter, my hand splayed across her waist, anchoring her the way she needed.

Her lashes lifted slowly, heavy with water, and I brushed the wet strands off her face without thinking, my thumb lingering a beat longer than it should’ve.

Then she whispered it again. “I will drown.”

The way she said it — not scared of the water but scared of letting go.

“I won’t let you drown.”

Her grip loosened for half a second not out of fear, but trust.

God. I felt that everywhere.

We drew one last breath and dipped again, slipping beneath the water.

When we surfaced this time, she didn’t gasp, she didn’t flinch, she simply clung.

Her face buried in my collarbone as she whispered into my skin, “Don’t leave me.” Her words were fragile, almost childlike.

A quiet ache bloomed in my chest.

“Never,” I murmured, the word low enough that only the water and my heartbeat could hear it.

She coughed softly, pulling away from me.

Her breath was uneven, cheeks flushed from the cold and the adrenaline, and the wet fabric of her saree clung to every curve of her, soft and heavy.

Without a word, I slid my arms under her, lifting her into my arms right there in the water.

I was still recovering from the shock of the last dip — the cold, the closeness, the way my heart hadn’t quite decided how fast it wanted to beat when suddenly his arms swept under me.

Before I could even register what was happening, I was off the ground, lifted cleanly out of the water.

My hands flew to his neck on instinct, a startled grip, fingers curling into his wet skin as if that would steady the world spinning around me.

The words tumbled out before my brain caught up.

“Ye aap... kya kar rahe hain?”

(“What... are you doing?”)

He didn’t even look down at me, not a glance.

Just a calm, maddeningly unfazed reply:

“Pehli baar nahi utha raha hoon.”

(“It’s not the first time I’ve picked you up.”)

Heat punched through my cheeks so hard I was surprised the water didn’t start steaming around us.

It took me a whole, embarrassing moment to realise what he meant.

That night; the one I had spent days pretending never happened.

And now he was casually bringing it up at a temple pond with actual human beings around us.

There weren’t many people here, but still people. Witnesses to this... whatever this was.

I immediately buried my face in the curve of his collarbone, hiding the way my entire existence caught fire.

His skin was warm from the sun, from the water, from everything I didn’t have the courage to name.

I stayed hidden until his steps changed, the shift of stone under his feet telling me we’d reached the dry platform.

Only then did he set me down, slow and careful.

My hands slid from his neck reluctantly, my palms brushing his shoulders before falling away, leaving my skin tingling from the contact.

I stood there, drenched and breathless, trying to convince my heart that this was still just a ritual.

“There’s a changing room,” he said quietly, pointing to my left.

We gathered our things and walked in opposite directions, him disappearing behind one door, me behind another, the silence between us still vibrating from what had just happened.

The moment I peeked inside the bag, my soul left my body.

A saree. A full six yard saree. How was I supposed to drape this in the middle of nowhere?

For a whole minute, I stared at the fabric like it had personally wronged me.

Then, with the calm of someone seconds away from a breakdown, I pulled out my phone and typed what might be the most desperate search of my life:

how to drape a saree quickly.

Signal was terrible. The tutorial kept buffering, but I persisted, because my survival instincts were stronger than common sense.

The first two steps were easy: wearing the blouse and underskirt, all manageable. I completed about twenty percent of the task without crying.

But then came it.

The villain of my morning.

Six yards of fabric, slippery, stubborn, entirely committed to making my life miserable.

Every time I wrapped one end, the other end escaped, every time I tucked one pleat, two others revolted.

The saree was winning but I tried. I really, genuinely tried.

I’m a fast learner, at least that’s what I told myself.

So I watched the tutorial again, slowed it down, rewound it, paused it at the exact angle the woman folded her pleats.

And somehow… somehow… I draped the base perfectly.

I even felt proud for a whole three seconds.

Then I blinked, and fifteen minutes had vanished into the black hole called pleat making.

Despite all my effort, focus, and sheer desperation, I was still left with a rebellious mountain of fabric pooling around my feet.

Every pleat I tried to tame decided to multiply instead.

After another five minutes of wrestling with the saree there was a knock on the door.

“Diya?”

His voice.

I froze like a criminal caught mid crime.

What was I supposed to say? As if drowning wasn’t enough, now I’m drowning in fabric too.

Before I could gather any dignity, he asked again: “Are you done?”

My soul considered leaving my body entirely.

“No,” I said, the word tiny, pitiful, the verbal equivalent of me hiding under a table.

“Okay. I’m waiting,” he replied, completely calm.

I stared at the door. Who was going to tell him that he’d be waiting till midnight at this rate? Because at the pace I was going, I’d master quantum physics before I mastered these pleats.

I gave it another try, tug, fold, tuck and the fabric slipped right out of my fingers again, fluttering to the floor like it was mocking me.

Another five minutes crawled by. Another pile of defeated pleats gathered around my feet.

Then came the second knock.

“Diya?”

I panicked. The kind of panic that makes you speak before your brain approves anything.

“Can you come inside?” I blurted, cutting off whatever he was about to say.

“Are you alright?”

No. Absolutely not. But I couldn’t form actual words, so I stayed quiet.

“Open the door,” he said softly.

Fine. If I had any dignity left, it needed to fend for itself.

I cracked the door open and slipped behind it instantly, hiding myself.

He stepped in quietly.

And before I could even beg him to turn away, his eyes were already closed.

“What happened?” he asked, voice calm, patient and unbearably gentle.

I swallowed the last bits of my dignity and said it.

“I… partially don’t know how to wear a saree.”

“Partially?”

I glared at the puddled at my feet.

“Yeah.”

Because I had draped the first half myself, so I wasn’t completely incompetent. I deserved at least a participation award for trying.

He waited.

“I draped it till here on my own,” I said, gesturing helplessly to the mess around my waist.

A tiny sound escaped him, almost a laugh but he hid it well.

“Do you…” I paused, hope flaring in the stupidest corner of my heart, “…do you know how to drape one?”

“No.”

The hope died an immediate, dramatic death.

“Now what?” I asked, as if the entire disaster was his fault, as if he had personally invented sarees to torment me.

“Now we learn,” he said simply.

Then he reached for his phone, turned his back to me, and started typing something.

A second later, the exact same tutorial I’d been watching minutes ago began playing from his speaker, the same cheerful voice, the same confident woman demonstrating pleats.

Two grown adults, one terrified of pleats, one pretending to be calm, both stuck inside a changing room at a temple, following YouTube tutorials at nine in the morning.

What a great sight!

I stared at his back, broad and steady. And somehow, some tiny knot of panic inside me loosened.

He watched the five-minute video with the focus of a man negotiating a million dollar contract. Except this time, the stakes were my dignity.

When the tutorial ended, he paused, then asked quietly:

“Can I turn around?”

I looked down at myself and sighed.

Not like I had a choice.

“Yes,” I said, trying to sound normal.

He turned.

His eyes flicked to my face first before sliding to the mess of fabric I’d created. He didn’t say anything.

He just stepped closer and reached for one side of the saree, gathering the fabric in his hands with a care that made my breath trip.

His long fingers worked quickly, folding and smoothing the cloth with a confidence I absolutely did not feel.

I watched, speechless.

There it was again, that quiet competence he carried in everything he did. How did he learn anything so fast? Even a saree pleat?

“Tuck it in the middle,” he said, offering me the set of pleats he’d made in under two minutes, neat, even, better than anything I’d managed in the last half hour.

I took them from him carefully, ready to tuck them in, when his hand suddenly caught my wrist.

“Here,” he murmured, guiding my hand a little lower, positioning my fingers exactly where the pleats needed to be.

His touch was brief, precise and far gentler than necessary.

The moment my hand was in place, he looked away, turning his face toward the wall like the act of watching me tuck fabric was somehow too intimate.

I tucked the pleats quickly, grateful for the distraction.

Then, without a word, he reached for the long end of the saree lifting it with both hands. He let it fall softly over my shoulder, arranging the folds.

He secured it with a safety pin, fingers working close to my collarbone but never once brushing my skin.

Then he stepped back.

His eyes moved from my face… to the drape… to the pleats… to the fall of the fabric — slow, deliberate, a silent inspection of his work.

Without warning, he bent down, straightening something near my hem the edge, one last precise adjustment.

“Done.”

He straightened, a hint of unmistakable pride in his voice.

I stared down at the saree.

I looked down at the saree again, contemplating the appropriate response.

A thank you? Maybe. If he hadn’t made it look like the easiest thing in the world, I might’ve even meant it.

But no, if I had long fingers and unnerving precision, I would’ve made perfect pleats too. So he didn’t exactly deserve the full gratitude package.

So I did what he always does.

I gave him a small, silent nod and slipped out of the tiny room before he could read anything more on my face.

We walked toward the temple together, our footsteps falling in an almost shared rhythm, the quiet between us soft rather than awkward.

The moment we stepped inside, the familiar scent of incense and cold stone wrapped around us. Sunlight spilled through the tall entrance, glinting off brass lamps and marigold garlands hung along the pillars.

I raised my hand to ring the bell. A sharp wave of deja vu washed over me the moment another hand slid over mine.

I looked up, and our eyes met.

He didn’t pause, didn’t second guess, didn’t wait for anything. He simply guided my hand forward, his palm covering the back of mine as he helped me ring the bell.

The sound echoed, deep, clear, spreading through the morning air like something ancient waking up.

We stepped inside together, still wordless, and joined our hands in prayer.

Meera aunty had told us to pray for our future... our future, the life we were supposed to build side by side.

A life neither of us asked for.

And as I closed my eyes, the question settled on my tongue like something bitter: Is he going through the same dilemma?

If he’s standing here, hands folded, eyes lowered… is he pretending too?

I don’t hate him, but I hate that this marriage wasn’t our choice.

And I can’t bring myself to pray for something I don’t believe in — not for a future I’m terrified to imagine.

But him?

I can pray for him.

So I did, quietly, sincerely and without any expectation in return.

I hope he gets whatever he’s praying for — whatever his heart is asking for in this moment, I hope he receives it.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐