The car jolts forward, wheels grinding softly against the dirt road, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I don't know where I am going even though I'm the one supposed to lead.

She's sitting beside me. My wife.

The word tastes strange on my tongue. Heavy. Unreal. I glance sideways, but I see nothing except the faint outline of her frame hidden under the ghughat. A girl—no, a child almost. She looks so small, so fragile, wrapped in layers of cloth and silence.

I don't even know her name.

The thought burns in my chest. How unfair. To bind two strangers like this—two souls who had no say, no choice. I didn't want this marriage. She probably didn't either. But fate... or maybe the stubborn elders of this villages didn't give us a chance to argue.

And yet here I am.

The Sarpanch.
The one who people expect to lead by example.
The one who cannot deny duty, no matter how heavy it feels.

So I accept. Not for myself, but for her. For the quiet girl sitting inches away, whose world must have shattered when this marriage was forced upon her.

I sigh softly, resting my arm on the window ledge, eyes fixed on the passing fields. The sunlight stretches across the horizon, silver dust falling over the desert sand, and I make a silent promises
Not to the village , not to tradition.
But to the girl beside me.

"I can't promise you love today," I whisper in my heart. "But I promise you won't have to walk this road alone."

I will try.
I will try to give her everything that destiny stole from her.

If something makes her suffer, I will shield her in my arms until the storm passes.
If tears stain her eyes, then my shoulder will always be hers to lean on.
If the world sees her as delicate, breakable, I won't lock her in glass—I will guard her so no one dares pluck the flower she is.

My gaze drifts to her again, to the stillness of her body, the nervous way her fingers fidget in her lap. She hasn't said a word since we left her house. I don't blame her. What could she even say to a stranger who suddenly became her husband?

She's so quiet and yet, even in her silence, I sense her fear.
It calls to me.
It makes me want to tell her—You are not alone anymore. Even if we didn't choose this bond, I will make sure it doesn't suffocate you.

I wonder what dreams she carried before this.
Was there someone else she trusted, someone she thought would stand beside her on her wedding day?

The thought stings me, but I shake it away. No. I can't let jealousy touch a bond that hasn't even begun.

Instead, I wait.
I wait for the night when I will finally see her face—not as a stranger, but as my wife. I wait for the moment when her lips will part, and she will whisper her name. That single word will be the start of everything the first brick in a bridge we will build together.

And maybe—just maybe—one day, she will look at me not with fear or duty, but with trust.
And then with love.

I shift in my seat, clearing my throat, as the car slows before the haveli gates. Torches burn on either side, shadows flickering against the carved walls, and I suddenly feel the weight of the noon pressing down on me. This is it. The beginning neither of us asked for, but perhaps the only one fate was willing to give.

I clench my fists in my lap, grounding myself. My heart beats steady, strong—like it always has when I have stood before the village. But this time, it's not the village I want to protect.
It's her.

The girl who doesn't even know yet that she has someone silently choosing her, over and over again, even if he can't say it aloud.

I don't know it yet, but soon I will.
Her name.
Her dreams.
Her fears.
Her laughter.
Her tears.

Everything she is, everything she hides behind that veil...
It will all become a part of me.

I don't know if love will bloom in her heart for me, but in mine, it's already planting seeds. Small, stubborn, waiting for sunlight.

And tonight, as I walk beside her into a house that is supposed to be ours, I make the only vow that matters:

Even if the world calls this a marriage of duty, I will turn it into a story of love.
Even if she pushes me away, I will wait with patience.
Even if she feels caged, I will hand her the keys.

Because she deserves more than silence and sorrow.
She deserves every bit of joy the world can give.
And if she lets me, I will spend my life being the man who gives it to her.

The car halts. The driver opens the door, and I see the flicker of torchlight dance against the folds of her ghughat

 I rise up from my seat, the sound of my footsteps heavier than my heart. I walk around and open the car door for her. My hand stretches out a simple gesture, but maybe it carried more meaning than I realized.

She doesn't take it.

Yes, a sting runs through me, but how can I blame her? Trust doesn't grow in a moment. Not when she's been forced into this bond. Not when she's barely had a chance to breathe.

So I compose myself, pull my hand back silently, and begin walking toward the haveli. She follows quietly, her ghughat brushing the floor, and together we complete all the rituals—torana, aarti, kalash. Everything looks perfect from the outside, but inside I know it's only the beginning of a storm neither of us chose.

Just as I'm about to lead her further inside, Chachiji's voice rings out:

"Beta, thane andar jao, thoddo aram kar lo. Bahu ne main le jau, auratan intzaar kar ri han."

I nod silently, leaving her in their care. My steps carry me toward the other verandah where the men are gathered. Their laughter, their easy chatter, the smell of hookah smoke fills the air. I sit down among them, reach for my own hookah habit more than desire.

I take a puff, the smoke curling into the night sky, but then I freeze.

What if she doesn't like this?
What if she sees me as just another village man stuck in age-old ways?
What if she hates the smell, the taste, the idea of her husband wasting nights in smoke?

My chest tightens. With a slow exhale, I set the hookah aside. My mind drifts to her face I haven't even seen, to the fragile way she walked behind me. She deserves better.

But before I can dwell too long, one of the older men chuckles, shaking his head.

"Sarpanch ji, bigni ne sar par na chadha liyo , aurta to pair ki jutti hi sahi hove."

Laughter erupts among them, thick and bitter like poison.

For a moment, rage floods my veins. My fists clench against my knees. How dare they speak like that? About her. About any woman.

Every fiber of me wants to lash out, to tell them she's not a jooti, not a burden, not a toy. She's a person. My wife.

But I bite down the fire on my tongue. Not because I agree. Never because I agree.
But because tonight isn't the night to create chaos. Tonight, she's already fighting too many battles in silence.

So I swallow my fury, lean back, and let the smoke drift away—not from the hookah, but from the fire I caged in my chest.

And in that silence, I promise myself whatever the world says, whatever the men laugh about—she will never be treated like that in my house. Not while I am alive.

༺⚔༻ ༺👑༻ ༺⚔༻

The haveli is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses on your chest, heavier than stone. The men have gone, the laughter of the verandah is long gone, and all that remains is the faint rustle of curtains in the corridors.

I walk slowly, my steps echoing against the marble floor. My heart is racing in a way it never has before. Not in panchayat, not in battles of land, not even when I was handed the responsibility of sarpanch.

But tonight, I am not a leader.
Tonight, I am a husband.

I push the wooden gate of my room open.

And there she is.

Sitting in the middle of the bed, her frame small against the wide white bedsheet. She's draped in a deep red poshak, embroidered with golden gota, heavy dupatta covering her head in the traditional ghooghat. The flicker of the lamp makes the mirrors on her odhni shimmer like fallen stars.

Even with her face hidden, she looks ethereal. Untouchable. Like some goddess sent down but wrapped in beauty.

I step inside, my breath uneven, and close the gate softly behind me. The room feels suddenly too small, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken words. I walk toward her slowly, every step echoing louder inside me than in the room.

When I sit beside her, I feel the air shift. Her body stiffens, her toes curl slightly, and her delicate fingers fight each other nervously, twisting and untwisting as if they want to run away.

She's trembling.

I lean closer, the distance between us shrinking. My hands feel like they carry all the weight of my duty, my heart, my unspoken promises. With both hands, gently, I reach forward.

And I lift the ghooghat.

The moment the veil falls away, my world stills.

Brown eyes. The most beautiful, clear, deep brown eyes I have ever seen. But they are drenched in tears, so swollen that my chest aches just looking at them. Her sharp little nose is red from crying, her lips dry but closed like a stubborn lotus refusing to bloom. Her cheeks are wet, her skin flushed from grief.

And yet, in that brokenness, she shines.
She is pure. She is radiant. She is a diamond—untouched, unpolished, yet gleaming brighter than anything I have known.

But the diamond is cracked with sorrow.

My breath falters. My hands freeze midway. My mind screams with questions.

Why is she crying? Who hurt her? Is it me? Is it this marriage?

I swallow hard, forcing myself to stop overthinking, to stop drowning in assumptions. With as much gentleness as I can muster, I speak, my voice low, hesitant:

"Ka hova? Tho ro kyun ri se?"

("What happened...? Why are you crying?")

Her lips tremble, but she doesn't answer.

I inch closer, not with desire, but with a desperate need to comfort. I want to pull her into my arms, to shield her from whatever storm broke her tonight. My hands rise slightly, ready to wrap her against my chest.

But then, in a broken sob, she whispers:

"Naa... mhane benti se... mhare saat jabardasti mat karo... "

("No... please... don't force me... I beg you")

The words stab through me sharper than a blade. I stop immediately, my arms dropping by my side.

She's terrified.

Of me. Of this room. Of this night.

And suddenly, every dream I ever had of how this night might look, how I might gently learn her name, how I might ease her into this new life—it all shatters like fragile glass.

I take a slow breath, steadying my heart, because the last thing she needs is a man who ignores her plea. She doesn't need another cage, another chain, another hand pressing down.

"Dar mat," I say softly, my voice almost a whisper. "Main thare saath kabhi bhi zor nahi lagav su. Jab tak tho khud tayyar nahi hove, hamare beech kuch bhi na hove. Par is baat ke badle, mhane bhi ek vachan chahiye"

("I will never force you until you are ready yourself, nothing will happen between us. But for this, I need a promise from you as well")

Her eyes, swollen and hesitant, flicker up to meet mine through the curtain of her lashes. She looks at me as if trying to read whether I mean harm or hope. My chest tightens under that fragile gaze.

I swallow hard and continue, my voice steady though my heart is anything but.

"Tho mhane bas e vachan de de... ke tho aiso koyi kaam kabhi bhi na karje jisse mhari izzat ne dhak lage. Sarpanch ro pad mharo farz hove... par pati ro dharm mhari zimmedaari hove. Doni izzat ek doosre pe tikki hove."

("Just give me this promise... that you will never do anything that could stain my honor. Being the Sarpanch is my duty... but being your husband is my sacred responsibility. Both our honors are bound together")

She blinks, her lips trembling before she parts them to speak.

"Main... main aap jo kahoge... jaisa kahoge... vaisa hi karungi," she says softly, her voice breaking between sobs. "Bas mhari benti se... mhane kabhi majboor mat karjo... aur mhare pe haath kabhi mat uthavjo..."

("I... I will do whatever you say... however you say... I will do it that way , I beg you... never ever force me... and please never hit me")

The moment those last words leave her lips, something inside me burns with rage. Maarna? The thought that she even imagines me lifting a hand against her makes my fists clench on my knees. What kind of world has she lived in, that her first prayer to her husband is to not be beaten?

I exhale shakily, forcing myself to soften, because my anger is not for her. My anger is for every moment that made her fear this.

I lean a little closer, my voice firm now, not a whisper, not a request—a promise written in stone.

"Sun Diya... mhari pran se bhi badi kasam, mhare haath thare upar kabhi na uthse. Na krodh me, na majboori me, na koyi wajah hove. Jitni der tho jeevan saans le se, utni der tak mhari taraf si ek bhi galat baat thare upar na aave."

("Diya, I swear on a vow greater than my own life — my hands will never rise against you. Not in rage, not in helplessness, not for any reason. For as long as you breathe, not a single wrong will ever come to you from me")

Her eyes widen slightly at the firmness in my voice. For the first time since I lifted her ghooghat, I see something shift in her tears. A glimmer of relief.

I continue, softer now, "Tho bilkul daro mat, mai thara saharo banunga, dukh kadey na banunga. Main thari deewar banunga, bojh kadey na , ar main thara saathi banunga, saza kadey na banunga."

("Don't be afraid. I will always be your shelter, never your pain. I will be your shield, never your weight. I will be your partner, never your punishment")

Her lips part, and a sob escapes, but it's different. It's not just pain—it's the sound of a heart finding a little space to breathe.

I don't touch her. Not yet. I want her to know that my words aren't just spoken to get closer—they're the truth.

The room grows heavier with silence again, but this time, it isn't suffocating. It's fragile. Tender. Like the silence of a temple where even your breath feels like a prayer.

She lowers her gaze again, her voice barely audible. "I will try that I never make you feel ashamed. But... I am very young... I don't know how to do things properly.."

Her words pierce me. She sees herself as small, unworthy, powerless. But in my eyes, she is already more than enough.

"You are not younger, Diya " i said gently "You are my responsibility and above all, my greatest honor. Whoever you are, however you are, I accept you completely."

Her lashes flutter, and though her tears still flow, I sense the first thread of trust stitching itself between us. Fragile, yes. But real.

I lean back slightly, giving her space, and glance at the glass of milk kept on the side table—the ritual I know she must have been dreading. I chuckle softly, trying to lighten the heavy air.

"And one more thing don't be afraid of me. This whole milk-drinking ritual is just a tradition. If you don't want to, I can drink it alone."

For the first time, I swear I see the corner of her lips twitch. Not a smile, not fully. But the tiniest flicker of amusement at my attempt. And for me, that's enough.

I take the glass, sip from it, and deliberately set it aside.

"See everyone said that on the wedding night, the husband drinks the milk so I did it. Now there's no fear, no pressure. Just rest."

She looks at me again, and this time, there's less fear in her eyes. Not gone. But less.

I shift slightly, making space for her, and say, "Rest now, I am right here. Sleep peacefully tomorrow morning will be a new day. Maybe... a new beginning too."."

Her fingers unclench slowly, as if her body is finally allowing itself to rest. She doesn't say anything more, but she doesn't sob again either.

As she lies down, still facing away, I sit there quietly, my heart heavy yet strangely light.

Because tonight, I didn't gain a wife in the way the world expects. But I gained something even rarer.

Her trust—no matter how little.

And for me, that is enough.

༺⚔༻ ༺👑༻ ༺⚔༻

The night was heavy with silence, yet alive with the murmurs of unseen winds brushing against the old sandstone walls of the haveli. The faint golden glow of oil lamps flickered across the courtyard, throwing long shadows that danced like restless spirits of bygone times. Somewhere deep in the haveli's corridors, a woman's soft anklets chimed as if whispering secrets to the dark. And in the inner chamber, Diya lay beneath her veil, her breathing uneven, eyes wide with the innocence of fear and the heaviness of new beginnings.

But I, the newly-wedded husband, the Sarpanch of this village, felt no hunger for the crude rights tradition had granted me tonight. Instead, I felt the weight of responsibility, the burden of vows that stretched beyond the fleeting desires of flesh. Her eyes had pleaded silently with me earlier, her voice trembling as she said, "Bas mujhe kabhi majboor mat kijiyega... aur mujhe kabhi mat maarna..." The words had lodged in my chest like sharp thorns, and I knew then—tonight was not about me. Tonight was about her peace.

So, I stepped out. Quietly, carefully, I slipped from the room, the heavy wooden door creaking softly behind me. The cool air of the haveli courtyard touched my face, carrying with it the faint fragrance of marigolds strung across the gate for the wedding rituals. The peepal tree at the far corner of the yard stood tall like an ancient sentinel, its leaves whispering under the moonlight.

One of my pehrredaar, a tall man with a turban wound tight around his head, stood near the main arch with a spear in his hand. His sharp eyes softened when they found me approaching. "Sarpanch ji," he said, straightening at once.

I lifted my hand in a gesture of calm. My voice was steady but low, carrying both authority and secrecy"Mhane ek alta la dyo navo hoy to vadhiyo, nai to purano bhi chalega"

("Bring me an alta... whether it's new or even a used one, either will do")

He blinked, surprised for a fraction of a second. Perhaps he wondered why his Sarpanch, fresh from his wedding chamber, would ask for such a trivial, feminine thing at this hour. But he did not question, for loyalty bound him. He bowed his head slightly.

"Sarpanch ji, mhari bhigni paas ek aadi botal padeli hove main ghani der na karun, turant le aavun.."

("Sarpanch ji, my wife has a leftover bottle I will bring it right away")

I only hummed in reply, my hands clasped behind my back as I turned to gaze at the silent expanse of the courtyard. The moon hung high, silvering the old haveli walls, painting everything in a pale, otherworldly light. I stood there waiting, each tick of time stretching long and thin. The pehrredaar's footsteps faded into the distance, and I was left alone with the hushed whispers of night.

Minutes turned into a long half hour. My shadow grew restless as I shifted my weight from one foot to another, the cool marble beneath my slippers hard and cold. Somewhere in the far wing of the haveli, the women's chamber erupted in muffled laughter—the new bride must have been teased, her veil tugged at by curious cousins and aunties. A warmth stirred in my chest at the thought of her, fragile and lost, being pulled into the whirl of rituals she barely understood.

At last, the pehrredaar returned, a small glass bottle clutched tightly in his hand. "Sarpanch ji," he said, slightly out of breath, "eh lo."

("Here , take this")

I accepted it with a nod, the cool glass pressing into my palm. Without another word, I turned away, the fabric of my dhoti swishing softly against the stone floor as I walked back toward my chamber. The pehrredaar's(BODYGUARD) eyes followed me for a second, curiosity brimming, but discipline sealed his lips.

The heavy door groaned softly as I pushed it open again. Inside, the room was dim, the single lamp near the bed casting a pool of honey-gold light. Diya lay there, still beneath her hand, as if carved from silence. Perhaps she thought I had returned to claim the night as custom demanded. But I only glanced at her once, long enough to etch her image into my memory the nervous rise and fall of her chest, the slight tremble of her hands clutching the edge of her veil, the glint of tear-wet eyes beneath lowered lashes.

I did not speak. Words were not needed.

Instead, I moved toward the wooden almirah at the far corner of the room. Its hinges creaked as I pulled it open, revealing a folded chatai, neatly tied with rope, resting inside. With careful hands, I dragged it out and spread it across the floor, its legs scratching faintly against the stone tiles. From the bed, I picked up a single pillow, soft and smelling faintly of rose water, and placed it at the head of the charpai.

The bottle of alta lay quietly at the table's corner, untouched for now. Its red liquid glimmered faintly in the lamplight like a secret waiting for morning.

I lowered myself onto the charpai, its ropes groaning gently under my weight. The floor beneath me was cool, grounding. For a moment, I lay still, my eyes fixed on the canopy above, shadows of the lamp dancing on its carved patterns. My breath grew even, my body heavy with the day's exhaustion.

But before I let sleep claim me, I turned my head one last time.

And there she was Diya. My bhigni. Her figure delicate under the crimson attire, her face half-hidden yet radiant in the soft glow. She still clutched the edge of the bedsheet as though shielding herself from the unknown. And yet, in her quiet, she was beautiful, a promise of tomorrows unspoken.

I let my gaze rest on her, drinking in the fragile serenity of that moment. My heart whispered silently—Tho daro mat, Diya. Main tharo saharo hove, bojh na. Main tharo saathi hove, saza na.

With that final thought, my eyelids grew heavy. Slowly, gently, I surrendered to sleep, the charpai cradling me like an old friend. The night outside stretched endlessly, stars blinking above the haveli like witnesses to vows unspoken.

And in that chamber, beneath the weight of silence and moonlight, two souls lay apart yet bound by threads of destiny—one trembling with fear, the other watching with a vow of patience.

Tomorrow, the sun would rise on a new day. Perhaps on a new beginning.

༺⚔༻ ༺👑༻ ༺⚔༻

The first light of dawn crept silently into the haveli, painting the walls in hues of pale gold. From somewhere outside, birds began their soft chirping, their songs breaking the silence of the night. A cow lowed gently in the courtyard, her call echoing against the stone walls. It was the sound of life, of morning stirring awake.

My eyes fluttered open, heavy with sleep but aware of the stillness around me. For a moment, I lay still on the chatai spread across the floor, watching the faint sunlight kiss the edges of the carved wooden windows. I guessed it must have been around five in the morning—the hour when the village slowly shakes off its slumber.

I rose quietly, careful not to disturb the stillness of the room. Lifting the pillow I had borrowed from the bed last night, I placed it back neatly where it belonged. With practiced hands, I rolled up the chatai finely, folding it into a tight bundle, and placed it carefully inside the almirah. The room, now neat once again, carried no trace of the restless night I had spent apart from my bride.

I turned toward her.

"Diya," I whispered softly, my voice no louder than the rustle of leaves in the morning breeze. "Diya..."

She stirred faintly, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. I called again, gentler, and after two or three murmured sounds of her name, she finally opened her eyes. For a moment, her gaze wandered, lost in confusion, as if her mind still lingered in dreams. Then slowly, as her vision cleared, her eyes fell on me.

And instantly, she hurried upright, her face coloring with alarm.

"Am I late?" she asked, her voice trembling with urgency. "I... I am sorry. I don't know how I slept so late."

Her innocence made me smile. I shook my head. "No, you aren't late. But wake up now and take a bath, otherwise you will get late."

Relief softened her eyes, and she nodded gently. Without a word, she turned toward the almirah, opening it with quiet fingers, pulling out her folded clothes for the morning. Her movements were small, hesitant, as though she was still not sure of her place in this room, in my life, in this haveli that had suddenly become her world.

As she busied herself, I reached for the small bottle of alta lying on the table. My hands moved swiftly yet carefully. I spread the crimson liquid onto the middle-lower part of the bedsheet, the stain blooming dark and rich like fresh blood. I stood back and looked at it—an illusion, a ritual, a performance for the eyes of the world. In this village, reputation was not just a matter of pride; it was survival. And sometimes, a lie wrapped in ritual was kinder than the truth.

Just then, Diya turned back, her eyes falling on what I had done. She froze, her face draining of color. Her lips trembled as she whispered, "This... what's this?"

I met her gaze calmly, my tone firm yet gentle. "Nothing , Part of the ritual. Don't worry. You go and take bath."

Her eyes searched mine, uncertain, frightened even, but she said nothing more. Instead, her voice softened, hesitant. "Uhm... where's the bathroom?"

Without a word, I guided her through the side passage of the haveli, where a small bathing chamber had been prepared. The stone walls echoed faintly with the sound of pouring water as she stepped inside. I waited outside, listening to the rhythmic splashes, the scent of rosewater and sandalwood drifting through the air.

When she finally emerged, the sight of her struck me still.

She wore a deep pink joda, the fabric rich and glowing under the soft morning light. Her hair, damp and unbound, cascaded over her shoulders in dark waves, glistening like wet silk. The droplets clung to her neck, sliding down her collarbone, leaving a shimmer that made her glow like a divine vision.

For a heartbeat, it felt as though a goddess had descended before me—not of stone or temple walls, but of flesh and life. A goddess who had walked straight into my room, into my world, to bless my life with her presence.

She stood there, nervous yet radiant, her hands clutching the edge of her dupatta, her eyes lowered but shining with a shy brilliance. She did not know what she looked like in that moment. She did not know how she seemed to me—like a beacon of hope, like the very promise of happiness showered into a life that had long carried only responsibility and duty.

My breath caught, my words failed me. For a moment, I could do nothing but simply gaze at her.

In that instant, the burdens of being Sarpanch, of being the custodian of my village's traditions, of living up to the weight of family honor—all of it felt lighter. She had unknowingly filled the room with something far more powerful than ritual or custom: grace.

And I, standing there in silence, felt blessed.

Author's Note 🪔

Arre suno re meri kahani ke totay-batuk 🕊️💌 (haan haan, tum sab chhote pyare pakshi ho jo roz aake mera rasgulla jaisa kahani churate ho 😏).

Toh kaisa lagyo aaj ka scene? 😅
Diya ko goddess banadiya maine pink jode mein 🌸, aur Sarpanch ji ne to ekdum "alta wala drama" khel diya! Batao na sach-sach kesa laga apko woh "wahh romance" ya mann mein bola "abe yeh kya nautanki hai"? 😂

Ab yeh apki zimmedaari hai👇
💭 Konsi line pe blush aaya?
😂 Konsi line pe hasi chhutti?
😏 Aur agle part mein kya dekhna chahoge – romance ka extra tadka ya gaav ki rasmein ka full thaali?

Chalo mere totay-batuk, comment daal do warna main bhi tumhari tarah ulti seedhi chhed-chhad likh dungi next time! 🤭

Bye bye mere totay-batuk🕊️💌

                                                yours author anuvae💌