I sit in the back of the car, my hands trembling on my lap, my throat heavy with unshed tears. Today is the worst day of my life.

They say time heals wounds, but what if time keeps making them deeper? What if every breath feels like salt on an open cut?

My mother she left me when I was barely two years old. I don't even remember her face. People used to whisper about her, some said she was selfish, some said fate was cruel. But to me, she was nothing more than a missing piece—a shadow that never touched my life. From two years old until twenty, it was always my Baba who stood by me. My Baba my everything.

He wasn't just a father. He was my mother, my best friend, my safe place. Unlike other men in the village who saw daughters as a bhoj—a burden to be married off, silenced, or ignored .He saw me as his most delicate flower. I was never "less" because I was a girl. In his eyes, I was enough. More than enough.

He'd tell me, "Diya, your hard work will lead you toward the brightest future. Dreams aren't just for stories; they are for people like you." And I... I listened to every word. I soaked them up like parched soil drinks rain. Whatever he said, I followed. Whatever he taught, I learned. His dream was for me to become a collector one day, and that dream became mine too. It wasn't just a goal—it was our promise. Our fairytale.

For a while, life really did feel like a fairytale. Like the stories you hear when you're a child—the kind where hard work and goodness are rewarded, and love holds everything together. But maybe... maybe someone cast an evil eye on us. Maybe fate got jealous of our happiness. Because one day, my fairytale cracked into pieces I couldn't put back together.

Baba... he left me. Just like that. Without warning. Without goodbye.

I thought the world would stop with him. But no , the world kept moving, cruel and indifferent, while I stood frozen in place. A year without him has been like walking barefoot through hellfire. Every day I wake up with an ache in my chest, an emptiness no one can see. People think grief fades with time—but it doesn't. It just changes shape, digs deeper, and follows you everywhere.

After his death, I had nowhere to go. So I moved in with Chachaji and Chachiji. At first, they treated me kindly. They smiled, gave me food, and promised to keep Baba's wishes alive. For a moment, I thought maybe I wasn't completely alone. Maybe family could fill the gap.

But kindness has an expiry date, doesn't it?

After just one week, Chachiji's smiles turned into sharp commands. Her hands, once warm, turned into tools for pointing at chores. I, Diya Tanwar—the girl who never lifted anything heavier than her books, the girl who was always told she was a flower was suddenly shoved into the role of a servant. Cooking, cleaning, washing, fetching... everything became my responsibility.

And my books? The ones Baba placed into my hands with so much pride, the ones that smelled of hope and futures? They became nothing more than dusty showpieces on a shelf. Untouched. Forgotten. Like me.

My dream, once solid, began to feel fragile. Like a vase on the edge of a table, trembling with every step, waiting for the moment to fall and shatter.

And then... it did.

One week ago, Chachaji told me my wedding was fixed. To the Sarpanch of Bagore village.

The words hit me harder than any slap. My ears rang, my body went numb. How could I explain to them that marriage wasn't my dream? That Baba never raised me to be a bride chained to someone else's expectations? He raised me to be a collector, to stand tall on my own feet, to fight for something bigger. But none of that mattered to them. To Chachaji, I was just another responsibility to pass on. Another mouth he didn't want to feed.

And so the vase of my dreams finally shattered. Not into two pieces that could be glued back together, but into thousands—tiny, sharp fragments too small to ever make whole again.

Now, as the car jolts forward, I stare out of the window, my reflection blurring against the glass. I don't see myself anymore. I see a stranger. A girl who had dreams once, now dressed in chains she never asked for.

What hurts most isn't just the marriage. It's that Baba isn't here. If he were alive, this would never happen. He would have stood by me, fought for me, protected my dreams like the warrior he was. But now... I'm alone.

I clutch the edge of my dupatta and close my eyes, willing the tears to stop. They don't listen. They fall, hot and relentless, sliding down my cheeks. Each drop feels like a memory—of Baba's voice, his smile, his hand ruffling my hair. Of the way he said, "Diya, nothing is impossible if you believe."

But what am I supposed to believe in now?

This isn't a fairytale anymore. This is reality. A harsh, unkind reality that doesn't care about dreams, or love, or promises made between a father and daughter.

And yet... somewhere, deep in the hollow of my chest, a small flame still flickers. Weak, fragile, almost gone but alive. A flame Baba lit himself, years ago, when he whispered to me about hope. About resilience. About believing.

Maybe I am broken. Maybe my dreams are scattered across the floor. But I can still feel that flicker inside me, daring me not to give up completely.

I don't know where this road will take me. I don't know what kind of man this Sarpanch is, or if my life will ever hold joy again. But I know one thing—my Baba's voice still lives in me. And as long as it does, I am not truly alone.

The car screeches to a sudden halt, jolting me forward. My heart thumps wildly, not just from the stop but from the weight of the moment pressing down on me. I can't see anything. The heavy ghoonghat draped over my head has turned the world into a blur of red fabric and suffocating darkness.

My breath catches as the side gate clicks open with a creak. The sound echoes in my ears like a judgment. My hands clutch the edge of my lehenga tightly, trembling, cold despite the suffocating heat trapped inside the veil. And then, I see it no, feel it a hand stretching out in front of me.

Broad. Strong. Waiting.

But I freeze.

How could I hold that hand? A stranger's hand. A hand that doesn't promise safety, doesn't promise dreams—only chains. To me, it feels like destruction dressed in human skin. If I place my palm into his, it's like signing away every ounce of freedom Baba once whispered I had.

My chest tightens, the fabric pressing against my lips making it harder to breathe. I remind myself not to cry not here, not in front of them. Not when every step I take already feels like a betrayal of my Baba's dreams.

So I still my heart. I calm my mind. Slowly, without hesitation, I step out of the car—but not by holding his hand. No. My feet touch the ground first, my own body carrying me forward. If I must fall into darkness, I will do it on my own terms.

The air outside is different. Heavy. Grand. I can't see much beyond the crimson blur of my veil, but I can tell from the shift in sound, in scent, in space this place is not like my home.

Back in Tanwar house , walls were cracked but warm with Baba's laughter. Rooms were small, filled with the fragrance of his old books and chai. Every corner carried a piece of him.

Here it's different. The ground feels polished under my sandals. My ears catch faint echoes, as though the walls are too high, too wide, too distant. There's a faint perfume of roses mixed with sandalwood, far too rich for my comfort. It's big. Too big. Cold. Unfamiliar.

The footsteps in front of me guide me further, and though I cannot see who they belong to, I follow. Because what else can I do?

My heart whispers, This is not home.

But my mind reminds me, This is your destiny now.

And so, blindfolded by tradition, shackled by fate, and haunted by dreams that no longer belong to me, I take one hesitant step after another into a house that is not mine into a life that feels like the edge of a cliff I'm being pushed from.

The footsteps ahead of me finally stop, and so do mine. My breath hitches, the weight of the ghoonghat pressing heavier against my face, suffocating me in a sea of red. Somewhere deep in my heart, I want to rip it off and just breathe, but all I can do is wait.

A soft, melodic voice breaks through the silence. "Bahu"

I lift my head slightly. Through the veil, a blurred figure bends toward me, her hands heavy with bangles that jingle as she brushes my shoulder gently. Then she says words that freeze me—words I never imagined hearing from her lips.

"I am your saas( mother-in-law) from today, this is your house, and I am your maasa."

Mother.

The word pierces my chest, raw and painful. A word I've been starved of all my life. For a second, it feels like someone dangled water in front of a parched traveler in the desert. But I know better. I can hear the undertone in her voice, the rehearsed warmth of tradition, not the embrace of love. She is not my mother. She can never be my mother.

Before I can think further, she moves to the side. A tray shimmers in her hands—silver polished bright, holding a small lit diya, some roli (red vermillion powder), rice grains, and petals of fresh marigolds.

It is the toran and aarti ritual.

She circles the tray in front of me, her bangles clinking, the flame from the diya casting strange shadows on the veil covering my face. The faint smell of ghee from the diya mixes with the fragrance of flowers hanging from the entrance. Above me, I hear rustling—strings of toran made from mango leaves and bright marigolds sway gently, tied across the doorway to welcome me, to ward off the "evil eye."

But inside me, the evil has already settled.

Her voice rises softly as she sings a prayer under her breath, the melody low and rhythmic, carrying the weight of generations of women who stood in this very doorway before me. I stand motionless, a statue draped in red, as she waves the tray around my face thrice, her words falling on me like rituals I cannot escape.

Then comes the Kalesh ritual.

"Step forward, bahu," she instructs.

I glance down. At the threshold of the grand doorway, a small brass pot—the Kalash—sits brimming with water, decorated with mango leaves around its mouth and a fresh green coconut perched carefully on top. A swastika drawn in red roli marks its front, shining proudly.

The Kalash is not just a pot. It symbolizes abundance, prosperity, a promise that the new bride brings goddess Lakshmi herself into the household. And I... I am supposed to be that goddess. The irony twists like a knife in me.

My toes curl nervously inside my sandals as I lift my foot to nudge the Kalash. It wobbles, the water spilling slightly, darkening the polished stone below. The coconut rolls gently, tapping against the doorframe before settling near the wall. A hush falls as the water trickles my symbolic act of "bringing prosperity" into this house.

But all I feel is emptiness.

As I step inside, another ritual awaits. A wide thali filled with vermillion water is placed before me. The color is deep red, thick and shining under the faint flicker of oil lamps placed around the room. I'm instructed to dip my feet into it, and then walk into the house.

My heart beats hard. Baba's words echo in my mind: "Every step you take should lead you toward your brightest future."

But these steps? They feel stolen. They feel cursed.

Still, I obey.

I press my foot into the plate, the cold wetness of the red liquid seeping between my toes. When I lift it, the outline of my foot stains the clean floor. One step. Then another. My red footprints follow me as I walk slowly, heavily, like a ghost being dragged through unfamiliar halls. To them, these are marks of Lakshmi's arrival. To me, they're just stains of surrender.

And then, the sound begins.

At first faint, like a whisper. Then louder.

The women of the house begin to sing the old Rajasthani folk welcome—"Padharo Mhare Desh."

The melody rises like smoke curling into the air, wrapping itself around me. "Padharo mhare desh, mhara desh me padharo sa." Their voices are warm, full of cultural pride, but each word feels like a chain tightening around my ankles. "Come to our land, welcome to our home."

The rhythm is steady, graceful, accompanied by the soft clap of hands. I hear the beat of a dholak somewhere, its thump vibrating faintly under my feet. Women sway gently, smiling, their bangles clashing as they clap in unison.

To anyone else, it would sound like heaven—sweet voices rising in celebration. To me, it feels like a dirge disguised as joy.

I can't see their faces clearly through the veil, but I can sense the eyes on me. Watching. Weighing. Measuring whether I am worthy of the Shekhawat name.

I swallow hard, my throat aching as if I've swallowed stones. My lips tremble but remain sealed. Inside my mind, the song twists no longer a welcome, but a reminder that I belong here now. Whether I want to or not.

The aarti plate circles me one last time, marigold petals falling into my lap. I'm told to bow my head and touch the threshold before stepping inside fully. My knees bend automatically, as though they no longer belong to me. I touch the cold stone, then press my fingers to my forehead, the red powder staining my skin.

And then it's done.

I am inside.

The Shekhawat haveli towers around me—vast, cold, unyielding. The air smells of incense and rosewater, of something grand but distant. My red footprints trail behind me like silent screams, marking the floor as though to say, she is here now. She cannot leave.

My heart aches, Baba's face flashing in my mind. He wanted me to step into a collector's office with pride. Instead, I stepped into a stranger's haveli with chains hidden under silk.

The women cheer softly, the song fading into laughter and blessings. But inside, I feel nothing but silence. A silence so loud, it drowns everything else.

This house may call me their Lakshmi, their bahu, their daughter-in-law. But I know the truth. I am just a girl whose dreams were shattered, walking barefoot on a floor stained red—not with prosperity, but with the blood of every sacrifice I never agreed to make.

As soon as the grihapravesh is done, I feel my body trembling like a leaf in the storm. The echoes of "Padharo mhare desh" still float in the air, and my footprints  red and wet  still gleam on the marble floor behind me like marks of surrender. My heart beats heavy, and just as I'm about to take another step, a voice cuts through the murmurs.

It's hers.
The voice of my "Chachiya Saas" my "co-mother-in-law." But here, in this haveli, her words hold the weight of ritual and power.

"Bahut der ho gayi," she says firmly, though her lips curve into a faint smile. "Ab iss ghar ki bahu ka muh dikhayi karna hai."

Muh dikhayi.
The words land heavy on my ears. The ritual where the bride's face is revealed for the first time before the women of the family, the neighbors, the well-wishers. A ritual where gifts are showered, where laughter bubbles, where blessings pour. But for me it feels like another test. Another moment where I must sit silently while strangers decide whether my beauty, my fate, my worth measure up.

I lower my gaze, my lashes trembling against the edge of the ghoonghat that still covers me, hiding me from their eager eyes.

Beside me, I feel a faint shift in the air — him. My husband.
The one I haven't seen clearly yet, the one who is both my destruction and perhaps my only savior.

"Beta," my chachiya saas turns to him with an almost practiced smile, "Thane andar ja, thoddo sukh le lyo. Bahu ne main lai jau, auratan baithi intzaar kar ri."

He doesn't argue. At least not here, not now. He steps away, his footsteps echoing down the long corridor. I strain to hear them until they vanish, leaving me feeling strangely more alone than before.

Then her hand clasps my arm lightly — soft, yet commanding — and she guides me toward the verandah.

The Shekhawat haveli verandah is vast, open on three sides, shaded with carved arches. The evening breeze flutters the toran of mango leaves strung overhead, and the fragrance of incense wafts through the air. And there, seated on rugs and charpais, is a circle of women.

Neighbors. Relatives. Village ladies draped in vibrant lehengas and odhnis. Their bangles clink as they clap softly, their anklets jingle as they adjust themselves. Curious eyes gleam beneath veils, whispering to one another as I am led forward.

They place a low chauki — a small wooden stool — in the center of the circle. Decorated with a red cloth and scattered with rose petals, it looks more like a throne for sacrifice than a seat of honor.

I am guided to sit. My knees fold, my lehenga spreads around me like a red ocean, and I keep my gaze pinned to the floor. My hands clutch the edge of my dupatta, holding on as if it's the last piece of dignity I own.

Then, the ritual begins.

One by one, the ladies lean forward. Their fingers — roughened by years of work, softened by henna, or heavy with gold rings — brush against my veil.

They laugh. They tease.
"Dekho dekho, koyi jhada mat utha liyo kahi aisi sundar nikli to sarpanch ji to aur ghano fida ho jase"

"Bahu baisa ro muh dekhne se pehle main keh du, jaisi baat raniyo mein hove se, vaisi chaal-chalan bahu mein hove se"

"Arre bahu ro muh aisa to na ho jo ghunghat ke piche hi sahi lage aur bahar nikte hi sab ko darave"

Their voices pierce me, their curiosity thickening the air.

And then, slowly, my ghoonghat is lifted.

First, just a corner. A sliver of light enters, and I blink rapidly, the sudden brightness making my eyes sting. Then another hand pulls it a little higher, revealing the line of my lips, the curve of my chin. A murmur ripples through the women. Finally, with a soft tug, the veil is pulled back completely.

The air feels colder against my skin, and dozens of eyes fall upon me.

I feel stripped. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Some women gasp softly. Others smile approvingly. A few nod in satisfaction. My chachiya saas tilts her head, watching the reactions carefully, as though weighing the worth of every glance and murmur.

One aunty leans forward, her eyes glinting. "Ghano pyaro rang ro se"

Another chuckles, her bangles clinking as she presses something into my palm. "Lo baisa, yoh tumhari muh dikhayi ki bakhshish." It's a small gold coin, warm from her hand.

One after another, the women offer their gifts. Coins, silver anklets, bright dupattas, even a packet of sweets. Each offering is placed either in my lap or beside me, like trophies I never wanted. They bless me with long lives, sons, and prosperity — words that sound rehearsed, practiced, like lines in a play.

But through it all, I sit still, my heart screaming silently.
They see a bride. A bahu. A Lakshmi. But does anyone see me? Does anyone see Diya? The girl who wanted books, not bangles? A pen in her hand, not a veil over her face?

The ritual continues. Some women tilt my chin up with the tips of their fingers, peering into my eyes as if searching for signs of fortune. Others tug gently at my hair, commenting on its length, its shine. Someone touches my cheek, and I fight the urge to flinch.

The chorus of their voices rises like buzzing bees:
"She's delicate."
"She's too thin."
"She'll bring good fortune."
"She must learn quickly."

Each word pricks at me, lodging like thorns under my skin.

My chachiya saas smiles sweetly throughout, orchestrating the ritual like a master conductor. She nods approvingly at the gifts, at the praises, at the murmurs. To her, this is victory hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh   another tradition upheld, another performance complete.

But to me, it feels like the first brick being cemented into the wall that will cage me.

Finally, as the last woman finishes, the ghoonghat is draped back over my head, though not as low as before. The circle of women clap softly, the sound of their bangles echoing. The ritual is done.

I lower my head again, my hands trembling in my lap, heavy with unwanted coins and cloth. My chest feels tight, my throat parched.

They all saw my face.
But none of them saw me.

And as I sit there, surrounded by laughter and blessings, I realize that this haveli — this family — doesn't want Diya Tanwar, the girl with dreams.
They only want Shekhawat bahu, the ornament of tradition

The haveli was finally silent.
All day, I had been pulled from one ritual to another — grihapravesh, kalash, toran, aarti, muh-dikhayi every ceremony felt like I was drifting further away from my old self. And now the last step remained.

My saas held my wrist gently and guided me through the dimly lit corridor. Oil lamps flickered on the walls, their golden light dancing over carved arches. The sound of my anklets felt too loud in the silence. My heart thudded so hard that even my dupatta trembled with each breath.

We stopped outside a large wooden door, heavy with brass carvings. She turned to me with a smile that looked practiced, as if she had done this many times before with many brides. From her hands, she held out a folded joda.

"Ee poshak pehan le, bahu," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Aur ek baat sun lyo" She paused, her eyes glinting with something I couldn't name. " yeh doodh ro glass Sarpanch ji ne hi pilav ro se."

(Daughter-in-law wear this dress and one more thing this glass of milk has to be fed only by the Sarpanch ji.)

Her words struck me strangely. Sarpanch ji?
Why did she not say "tumhare pati" or "Nirvaan"? Why only that one title? The word wrapped itself around me like a chain. Sarpanch ji. Like he was not a man but an authority, a position, someone above me  untouchable, unquestionable.

Before I could ask anything, she pressed the joda into my arms and turned away, her anklets jingling as she disappeared down the corridor.

I looked at what she gave me.

The Rajasthani poshak shimmered in my hands  a heavy lehenga of deep crimson, embroidered with gota-patti in golden threads that caught the lamplight like fireflies. The blouse was short-sleeved, its neckline edged with tiny mirror work, glittering like captured stars. The odhni was the most delicate sheer fabric dyed in a gradient of red to orange, bordered with thick zari lace. It smelled faintly of rose water and sandalwood, the fragrance clinging to my fingers.

As I slipped into the room next to the corridor, I began to change. Each layer I removed felt like shedding the last piece of myself. Each hook, each string, each fold tightened around me, making me feel heavier, like I was dressing not for celebration but for sacrifice.

When the poshak was finally draped over me, I barely recognized the girl in the small mirror across the wall. The ghagra brushed against the floor like a pool of molten rubies. The blouse clung to my arms, the odhni covered my head again, falling across my face in a thick veil. My reflection wasn't Diya anymore. It was just "Shekhawat bahu."

I picked up the silver tray laid out on the table. A single glass of milk sat on it, warm and fragrant with saffron strands floating at the top. My hands trembled as I balanced it, the rim of the glass clinking softly against the plate.

That's when my mind betrayed me.

This is for him. For the Sarpanch. For my husband.

The thought dragged me into a whirlpool of fear. My breath quickened. My throat tightened. My baba's voice echoed in my ears — "Tu ek phool hai, Diya. Tera sapna, tera kal, tera roshan mustakbil , tujhse hi likha jaayega."

And yet here I was, walking into a night where my dreams weren't even asked about.

I knew what this was supposed to mean. Suhag raat. The word itself made me shiver. Stories whispered by other girls, half-jokes about wedding nights, and my own nightmares wrapped together into a knot in my stomach.

I didn't want this.
Not like this.
Not tonight.

But what if I said no?
What if sarpanch ji was like the men my chachiji always spoke about — the ones who raised their hands, who silenced every "no" with blows and threats?
What if defiance only brought punishment?

The tray rattled in my hands as I stepped closer to the heavy door. My knees felt weak, but somehow, I pushed it open with my elbow.

The room was dimly lit, large and unfamiliar. The scent of incense mixed with the cool air drifting through the open jharokha. Heavy curtains swayed slightly, and in the middle of the room, on a broad wooden bed draped with white sheets and scattered rose petals, I sat down.

The tray found its place on the side table with a faint clink. I lowered myself onto the middle of the bed, my heart racing so wildly that I thought it might burst through the fabric of my blouse.

I adjusted my ghughat, pulling it low again, covering my face until the world blurred into shadows. My hands twisted together in my lap, my fingers icy cold despite the warmth of the night.

Time slowed.

Every sound outside  a creak of the corridor floorboards, a distant call of a night bird, the jingling of some forgotten anklet  made me jolt. Every second dragged into an eternity.

And in those dragging moments, my fears whispered louder:
What if he comes in angry? What if he doesn't care about my tears? What if tonight changes me forever in ways I cannot undo?

I closed my eyes beneath the veil, clutching the fabric tighter around me, trying to steady my breath. The weight of the poshak pressed on my shoulders, the dupatta felt suffocating, and I sat there like a bride in waiting not for love, not for joy, but for whatever fate was about to hand me.

For the first time that day, I prayed silently.
Not for strength.
Not for courage.
But simply that he wouldn't break me tonight.

༺⚔༻ ༺👑༻ ༺⚔༻

🌸 Author's Note 🌸

"Khamaghani sa!" 🌼
That's how people in Rajasthan greet each other , a word so simple, yet so full of warmth and tradition. And here I am, trying my best to pour that same warmth into this story for you.

I will be honest, my hands are shaking a little as I write this. 🙈 This book means so much to me. it's like holding my own heart out and saying, "Here, take care of it." I feel nervous, excited, emotional — all at once.

Now, I must confess something to you, my dear reader: I have never actually lived in Rajasthan. I have only seen its beauty through pictures, read about its culture, and tried to capture the magic of its people in my words. So if anywhere in this story you find a detail that feels out of place, or a tradition that I may have unknowingly portrayed a little differently , please forgive me. It's not from carelessness, but from the limitations of what I know. 🙏

Rajasthan is vast — its deserts, its havelis, its colors, its folk songs , all carry centuries of stories. And here I am, a small dreamer, just trying to create one more story among them.

But above all, this book isn't just about rituals or culture — it's about dreams, heartbreak, love, and the courage to fight for your destiny. And if even one page of Diya and Nirvaan's journey touches your heart, then I will know I did something right.

So come sit with me, let's step into this village together. Let's hear the sound of anklets on courtyard floors, smell the aroma of bajra roti cooking in clay chulhas, and feel the desert wind whispering secrets of a love that was never written yet waits to be told. ✨

Thank you, truly, for picking up Unwritten Destiny. I promise you laughter, I promise you tears, and I promise you a journey that will make you believe in second chances. 💖

With all my heart,
— Your slightly nervous but deeply hopeful author anuvae 🌸