The steam still clung to my skin as I stepped out of the bathroom, drops of water sliding down my back, seeping into the fabric of the fresh pink ghagra choli I had just worn. My odhni draped delicately over my shoulders, and my hair still damp fell in soft waves, leaving the scent of jasmine soap lingering around me. The room felt heavy with silence, except for the faint sound of my anklets brushing against the floor.

He was still there.

Sarpanch ji.

Standing tall near the wooden table, arms crossed behind his back, eyes fixed on me as if I were the only thing that existed. His gaze didn't waver, not even for a breath. For a moment, I thought it was only my imagination—that maybe my mind had created that intensity. But no... he was truly staring.

I swallowed, my palms turning clammy. Why wasn't he moving? Why was he looking at me like that?

I tried to distract myself by adjusting my odhni over my head, but the weight of his eyes made my heartbeat thunder in my chest.

"Sarpanch ji..." I called softly, testing his attention.

No reply. He didn't even blink.

"Sarpanch ji..." I said again, this time louder, my voice slightly trembling with the mix of hesitation and unease.

He snapped out of his trance like someone waking from a dream, shoulders stiffening as he blinked rapidly.

"Huh?" His voice carried a hint of surprise.

I tried to steady my tone though my heart was racing. "Shall we... go to our room?"

For a moment, he only looked at me. Then he gave a single nod. No words, just that. Silent, commanding, unshakable. He turned, and I followed, my footsteps echoing softly against the old marble floor as we entered the room together.

The air was cooler here, the morning breeze sneaking in through the half-opened window, lifting the corner of the curtain. He moved toward the bathroom door and stopped, looking at me briefly.

"You get ready. I will take a bath."

His tone was low, firm, like an instruction rather than a suggestion.

I nodded quickly, lowering my eyes. "Yes."

The door shut behind him, and I was left alone in the silence of the room. My hands shook slightly as I reached for the little wooden box on the table, pulling out the ornaments kept neatly inside. Bangles first, the soft clink of glass echoing as they slid onto my wrists. Anklets next, wrapping my ankles with their delicate chain of silver bells. Then borla resting on my forehead, kanbali on my ears, nathni over my nose, and bichua encircling my toes. Each ornament felt heavier today, maybe because of the emotions swirling inside me.

I walked toward the mirror, holding the tiny silver case of vermillion. The red powder shimmered under the faint morning light as I dipped my finger and drew the line across my forehead, filling my maang. My reflection blurred for a moment as my eyes stung with moisture.

Last night came rushing back. The way he had understood me, the way he hadn't forced me, the way his silence had given me space to breathe. Maybe... maybe I had judged him too quickly. Maybe he wasn't the harsh, dominating man everyone feared. Maybe he was different. A good man.

For the first time since yesterday, I felt a small sense of safety bloom in my chest.

But was it too fast to trust? Too early to decide? I didn't know.

I quickly lifted my veil, covering half my face as my thoughts tangled like threads of a broken dupatta. Just then, the door creaked open. My breath hitched.

He stepped in.

Wearing a simple white dhoti kurta with a dark shawl draped over one shoulder, he looked nothing like a Sarpanch or a feared man of the village. He looked... human. Strong, yet strangely vulnerable. The scent of sandalwood soap clung to him as he walked toward me, his eyes locked only on my face.

I didn't realize my hands had tightened around my veil until he stopped right in front of me. For the first time, he didn't stand tall like a wall. Instead, he bent down, lowering himself onto both knees before me.

My eyes widened, a sharp gasp escaping my lips. I instinctively bent too, placing my trembling hands on his shoulders, desperate to stop him.

"W-what are you doing, Sarpanch ji?!" My voice broke with panic. "This... this is a sin for me! Please, you shouldn't—"

His eyes rose, sharp and unyielding, cutting through my words.

"Enough."

One word. Firm. Commanding. Leaving no room for argument.

His tone wasn't angry—it was absolute. A command that I understood, a command I couldn't disobey.

"Stay still."

My lips quivered, but I couldn't speak. My heart raced, my body stiff. His words pressed against my chest like a weight I couldn't push away. Tears welled up in my eyes, moistening my lashes.

I stood frozen, watching him, trembling as his hands moved toward the hem of my ghagra. The fabric rustled as he gently lifted it, just from my feet.

My breath caught.

"S-sarpanch ji..." My whisper barely left my throat. Fear clawed at me, images of betrayal flashing through my mind. What if he breaks his promise? What if he—

But then I remembered. His eyes last night. His silence. His words that carried no lies. He had promised me.

Still, fear wrapped its arms around me, refusing to let go.

He looked up at me briefly, his gaze calm but unwavering. His hand stopped midway, and his voice—low, steady, almost soothing cut through my storm.

"Hold it."

I stared at him, confused, terrified, yet unable to resist. My fingers trembled as I gripped the fabric, lifting it slightly the way he wanted. My eyes searched his face, desperate for answers.

And all I saw was certainty. No hesitation. No malice. Just... command.

My mind screamed questions, my heart pounded in fear, but my soul strangely waited. Waited to see what he would do.

Because maybe, just maybe, he wasn't the monster my thoughts painted him to be.

The fabric of my ghagra trembled in my hands as I held it up the way he had asked. My heart was beating so fast, I thought it might echo through the quiet room. Fear, confusion, and trust everything clashed inside me, making it hard to breathe.

And then, without a word, he extended both his hands and touched my feet.

For a second, I froze, unable to process what was happening. My breath hitched, my fingers tightened around the cloth. No one... no one had ever done that to me before.

He bent further, his rough yet gentle hands brushing my feet, and then—he lifted those very hands and touched his own head with them, bowing low.

My vision blurred instantly. Tears sprang to my eyes, sliding down my cheeks before I could stop them. I didn't even understand what was happening. Why... why would the Sarpanch, the most powerful man of this village, touch my feet?

I gasped softly, my voice trembling. "S-sarpanch ji...?"

He lifted his head and snapped his gaze to me, his eyes burning with something deep—something unshakable. His voice came out steady, in that rustic tongue that carried both weight and warmth:

"Mhri maasa kehve thi ki bhigni devi roop hove aur devi ro aashirwad bina subah ro aarambh karno uchit koni. Isliy..."

("My mother used to say that a wife is the form of a goddess... and without the blessings of a goddess, it is not proper to begin the morning. That is why...")

The words struck me harder than thunder.

My tears flowed freely now. My throat tightened. Devi...? Me? All my life I had been treated as less, as a burden. A girl whose dreams had been crushed before they could even bloom. A girl who had been told she was too small, too weak, too useless. I had never been anyone's pride, never been anyone's respect.

And here he was.

Calling me a goddess.

Treating me as someone sacred.

My mind wasn't working anymore. All I could do was stand there, shaking, as the tears rolled faster and faster. My lips parted to speak but no words came. I felt unworthy. Yet, in that moment, for the first time, I also felt seen.

He rose slowly, his tall frame straightening as he stepped closer to me. His hand reached out, warm and rough, yet tender as it brushed against my wet cheek. His thumb wiped away the falling tears, one after the other, as if he couldn't bear to see them.

"Don't cry," he said softly, but with a firmness that told me it was not just a request, it was his plea. "Your tears hurt me."

That was it. My chest tightened, my heart ached. I nodded quickly, desperately, unable to argue. My voice was lost somewhere between his gaze and his words. I just... stared at him. Stared like he was the only savior I had left in this world.

And maybe... maybe that was true.

For the first time, I wasn't afraid of him. For the first time, my heart didn't tremble out of fear, but out of something deeper—something I couldn't name.

He took a step back, his hand lingering on my cheek for just a second longer before he withdrew it. Straightening his shawl over his shoulder, he turned toward the door.

"Come downstairs," he said, his tone calm but carrying its usual command. "Everyone is waiting for you. And I am going to the Panchayat. Take care of yourself."

His words settled in me like a strange kind of comfort. He wasn't just leaving me; he was asking me to care for myself—as if my well-being mattered to him.

I nodded, my lips trembling but my eyes never leaving him. "Yes."

And then he was gone.

The wooden door creaked shut behind him, leaving me alone in the room once again. But this time, the silence didn't feel so heavy. My tears still clung to my lashes, my chest still heaved with the weight of emotions, but something had shifted inside me.

Last night, I had feared him. This morning, I had doubted him. And now... now he had shown me a side I never thought existed in men like him.

I touched my own cheek where his hand had been moments ago. It still felt warm, safe. My heart whispered words I couldn't admit even to myself: Maybe he isn't like the rest. Maybe he is the one person who won't let me shatter again.

I pulled my veil back over my head, covering my moist eyes as I glanced at the mirror. My reflection looked different today—not because of the ornaments, not because of the vermillion, but because of the way my soul felt.

For the first time in years, I wasn't just a girl. In his eyes, I had been a goddess.

And that changed everything.

The stairs creaked softly under my feet as I descended, my anklets chiming gently in the hushed morning air of the haveli. My veil covered half my face, my steps were slow, hesitant, and yet there was a strange new strength inside me—strength born from what had happened upstairs with Sarpanch ji. His words, his promise, his respect... they still echoed inside my heart.

When I reached the last step, my eyes found the big courtyard. There, Maasa and Kakisa were standing together, their voices carrying authority as they instructed the maids. The younger maids ran here and there, adjusting mats, arranging vessels, preparing for the morning rituals. In the center of the courtyard, Dadisa sat comfortably on a charpai, her frail yet strong presence dominating the space like an unshaken pillar of tradition.

My heart raced. I had to face them now—the elders, the women of this haveli who held the keys to my acceptance, my identity as a bride in this household.

I walked slowly to Dadisa first. Kneeling down on the cool floor, I bent low and touched her feet with trembling hands. My voice came out soft, respectful.

"Dadisa..."

She placed her wrinkled yet steady hand on my head. Her touch was surprisingly warm, filled with affection. Her voice quivered a little, but it carried blessing and reassurance.

"Thane kadhi bhi koni dikkat hoye, mhane kehje, theek?"
(If you ever face any problem, come to me, understand?)

Her words melted me instantly. My throat tightened, tears almost brimmed again. I nodded quickly, pressing her hand gently.

"Ji, Dadisa," I whispered, my heart swelling with relief. For a moment, I felt like I wasn't alone. At least one person here wanted me to feel safe.

Rising slowly, I adjusted my veil again and turned toward Maasa. She stood tall, her saree perfectly draped, her expression calm—too calm. I bent down to touch her feet, my fingers lightly brushing against her toes. She gave her blessing, her palm hovering over my head for just a second before she pulled it back.

But something inside me stirred uneasily. Her tone, her eyes, even the way she blessed me—it didn't carry affection. It was polite, yes. Respectable, yes. But love? Warmth? No. I felt none of it. It was as though she was performing a duty, not giving a blessing. A strange heaviness settled in my chest, but I didn't question it. Not now.

Then I turned to Kakisa. Her face lit up with a small smile as she extended her hand toward me even before I bent down. Touching her feet, I felt the soft weight of her palm on my head.

Her voice was cheerful, almost teasing as she said, "Bhigni, ab  thane chaula–chauk ri rasam puri karni hai... shuruaat meethe syan karni. Baki Damini Kakisa thari madad kar denge."
(Sister, now it's time for your 'chaula-chauk' ritual... the beginning must be sweet. Damini Kakisa will help you with the rest.)

Her words brought a faint blush to my cheeks. Chaula-chauk... I had heard of it before. The ritual where the new bride begins her first task in the kitchen, usually making something sweet to mark the auspicious start of her journey in her new home.

I nodded shyly, lowering my eyes. "Ji, Kakisa."

She chuckled softly and patted my shoulder before turning to call Damini Kakisa, who was standing nearby.

The maids had already begun to arrange things in the small kitchen set up for the ritual. Pots gleamed in the light, bowls of sugar and flour were laid out neatly. The aroma of ghee floated in the air, mixing with the earthy scent of the haveli walls.

I followed slowly, my anklets tinkling, my heart both nervous and hopeful. I felt the eyes of everyone in the courtyard watching me—the new bride, the one who had to prove herself worthy.

Still, in the back of my mind, I couldn't shake off the feeling that Maasa's presence was... different. Where Dadisa's hand had felt like comfort, and Kakisa's words had felt like encouragement, Maasa's blessing had left me hollow. It was not cold enough to frighten me, but not warm enough to soothe me either. Just... different. Something I couldn't quite name yet.

But I pushed the thought away as I entered the kitchen area. Damini Kakisa guided me with patience, her tone kind, her instructions gentle.

I smiled faintly, trying to focus on the task. My hands trembled slightly as I mixed the ingredients, but I put all my heart into it. This wasn't just about food. It was about acceptance. About showing them that I could be part of this family.

In between stirring and adding ghee, my thoughts drifted back to Sarpanch ji. His words from earlier replayed in my mind: "Biwi devi ka roop hoti hai." A tear threatened to escape again, but I blinked it away quickly. I couldn't cry here, not in front of everyone. Not while they were watching me.

Minutes passed, and finally, the sweet dish was ready. My heart pounded as I placed it in a bowl and brought it out carefully, holding it with both hands.

The courtyard had grown quieter, everyone waiting. Dadisa's eyes softened as she saw me approach. Maasa's face was unreadable. Kakisa smiled warmly, gesturing for me to come forward.

I bent slightly, offering the first bite to Dadisa. She tasted it and nodded approvingly, her eyes shining. Then it went to Maasa, who tasted it without much change in expression—just a curt nod. And finally, Kakisa, who laughed lightly, saying, "Dekha, maari bhigni to badi sughad nikli!" (See, my sister turned out to be so skilled!)

The courtyard filled with murmurs of approval. I lowered my eyes, hiding my small smile.

For the first time, I felt like maybe—just maybe—I was beginning to belong here.

But still, Maasa's expression lingered in my thoughts, like a shadow refusing to leave even under the morning sun.

The aroma of food spread through the haveli like a warm embrace. I carefully placed each dish on the long wooden table, one after the other, making sure everything looked just right. The brass bowls gleamed as I filled them with steaming curries and chutneys.

There it was—ker sangri, cooked in thick masala just the way villagers loved it. Beside it, a bowl of gatte ki sabji, the gravy golden and rich. Next, the sharp punch of lehsun aur papad ki chutney, its fiery red color glowing like embers. A jug of cool chaaj sat ready, its buttermilk froth inviting. For sweets, I had prepared malpua and ghewar, stacked delicately so they looked festive and abundant.

And at the very heart of the meal lay the most important—bajre ki roti. Thick, rustic, and filling.

The men of the haveli began settling on the charpais and mats around the table. As per custom, the garam garam roti(hot chappati) had to be made right when they sat down. That was the rule. Fresh, hot, straight from the chulha to the plate.

So I slipped back into the kitchen. My hands were already stiff, but duty didn't wait for anyone. Kakisa entered right after me, her tone brisk but not unkind.

"Bhigni, ab roti banani shuru kar de. Mard sab bait gaye hai."
(D-i-l, start making the rotis now. The men are seated.)

I nodded silently, tucking my veil a little tighter as I bent down to roll the dough. The chakla belan became my world for the next hour. Press, roll, lift, toss on the tawa. The heat from the fire singed my cheeks, sweat trickled down my neck, but still, I moved like a machine.

One roti. Two rotis. Ten. Fifteen.

The pile grew, but the men ate faster. Every time a maid came running in with empty plates, I rolled faster, pressed harder, ignoring the ache in my arms.

By the time I placed the sixtieth roti on the plate, my palms burned from the flour, and my back screamed in protest. My whole body felt heavy, but the work wasn't over. I knew that.

I leaned for just a second against the wall, breathing hard, when Baba's voice echoed in my head. His words had been my mantra since childhood: "Diya, being Annapurna is a woman's highest duty. To feed is divine, but to clean after is the last step of that divinity."

So, tired or not, I walked out again.

The courtyard was littered with traces of the feast—crumbled rotis, spilled buttermilk, greasy plates. The men had eaten well and women's too, their laughter still echoing from another room, but the battlefield of food was left behind. And it was my duty to make it spotless again.

I bent down, gathering the leftovers, wiping the wooden floor with my dupatta tied tight around my waist. One by one, I collected the vessels, stacked the bowls, picked up the crumbs. My knees hurt from squatting, but I kept moving.

Somewhere behind me, I heard Kakisa's voice. She had returned, her sharp eyes scanning the work I was doing.

"Bhigni, thanne yeh karan ki jarurat koni... tu ja, ab beth jaa ne khana kha."
(Sister, you don't need to do all this... go now, sit down and eat.)

I looked up at her, my hands still sticky with food scraps. My instinct was to refuse, to say I could manage, but something in her tone—half stern, half caring—made me pause. I nodded quietly.

"Ji, Kakisa."

I washed my hands quickly and sat in a corner with a plate. The food smelled divine, the same food I had cooked with my own hands. I ate in silence, each bite filling not just my stomach but my soul with a strange pride. This was my first day serving in this haveli, and no matter how tired I felt, I knew I had done my duty.

But once my plate was empty, the guilt crept back in. Could I really rest while the kitchen looked like a storm had passed through it?

No.

So I rose again, stacking my plate on top of the others, carrying them all back to the washing area. The brass and steel vessels glimmered mockingly in the sun, as if laughing at the long hours of scrubbing ahead. My arms ached, but I dipped my hands into the soapy water anyway.

One plate. Two plates. Dozens. The water turned cloudy, my fingers wrinkled, but I kept going.

When the last katori (bowl)was finally rinsed and stacked neatly upside down, I sighed deeply. My body was begging for rest, but inside, a small spark of satisfaction burned. I had done it. From cooking to serving, from feeding to cleaning—I had completed it all.

This was Annapurna's duty. This was a bride's test. And somehow, I had passed.

As I leaned against the kitchen wall, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the corner of my odhni, I thought of Sarpanch ji again. He had promised me respect, he had seen me as a goddess. Would he know of the sweat and struggle behind this meal? Would he even hear about how many rotis I had rolled, how many vessels I had washed?

Maybe not. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that I had kept the family's honor intact, that I had stepped into my role without faltering.

 My whole body throbbed with exhaustion, but my heart whispered quietly: This is just the beginning, Diya and I knew it was right.

I was in the kitchen, still wiping my hands on the end of my odhni when suddenly Damini kakisa appeared at the doorway. Her face carried that calm but firm authority she always had.

"Bhigni, thane dadisa bulawat hai," she informed gently.

I quickly nodded, "Ji, Kakisa," and walked toward Dadisa's room, adjusting my odhni neatly on my head. My feet were heavy from the long day of work, but inside my heart there was a strange flutter—like something awaited me.

When I entered, Dadisa was sitting on her old wooden charpai, her silver hair tied in a neat bun, her eyes full of warmth. She looked at me, smiled, and patted the empty space beside her.

I hesitated, then slowly sat down. The rough charpai ropes pressed against my legs, but the moment Dadisa's palm rested on my back, I felt a strange comfort. She reached toward the small trunk near her bed, opened it with her wrinkled hands, and took out a pair of beautiful gold kanbalis. They weren't too heavy, yet they shined as if carrying decades of stories.

She placed them in my palms and said softly, "Bhigni, yeh tho tharo chaula–chauk ro shagun hai, rakh le."

("D-i-l, this is the blessing and gift of your chaula chauk ritual keep it.")

My throat tightened. I held the earrings close to my chest, bent forward, and touched her feet. Her blessings came in a murmur, but they felt like a shield wrapping me.

Before I could even compose myself, Maasa entered the room. She stood tall, her expression unreadable, and extended her hand. In her palm lay two thin gold bangles, simple yet elegant.

"Bhigni, le," she said curtly.

("D-i-l , take this")

I lowered my eyes, took the bangles with both hands, and again bent to touch her feet. Her blessing came, but it was different from Dadisa's. There was no softness, no affection, just a tradition being carried out. I could sense that. Still, I nodded respectfully and whispered, "Dhanyawaad, Maasa."

("Thankyou , M-i-l)

As I turned, Damini kakisa stepped closer. Her eyes were misty, and in her hands was a small velvet pouch. She pulled out a beautiful borla—intricately designed, with tiny pearls dangling from the edges.

She looked at me for a long moment before speaking, her voice trembling slightly, "Bhigni, yeh borla mhari maasa ne mhane diyo tho, jab mhun iss ghar aayi thi... ab mhun thare ne de rhun, apni beti samajh kar. Aasha karun chu thare ne futra laagse."

("D-i-l, this borla was given to me by my mother when I entered this home... now I am giving it to you, considering you as my daughter. I hope it will look beautiful on you.")

My hands shook as I received it. For a girl who had always been treated like a burden in her own family, these words pierced me deeper than any jewel could. She wasn't just giving me an ornament; she was giving me acceptance, love, a place in this house.

My vision blurred. Before I realized it, tears were streaming down my face. I couldn't control myself—I leaned forward and hugged her tightly. For a moment, she stiffened, then her hands came up to pat my back.

"Chal, ab chup ho ja naitar mharo beta apni bhigni ri akhiyan ma aansu dekhi samjhse ki mhane koin galti kari su.," she teased softly, pulling me back.

("Now hush, stop crying otherwise my son, seeing tears in his wife's eyes, will think that I have done something wrong.")

I chuckled through my tears, wiping them quickly with the corner of my odhni. The heaviness in my chest felt a little lighter now. I bent down, touched her feet, and whispered, "Dhanyawaad, Kakisa."

("Thankyou, co- m-i-l")

Her eyes softened, and she blessed me again.

After gathering myself, I carefully took the kanbalis, bangles, and borla, and walked back toward my room. Each step felt surreal—as if with every ornament, they weren't just adorning me but weaving me into the family thread by thread.

Once inside my room, I went straight to the almirah. I laid out a small cloth on the shelf, placed the kanbalis gently, set the bangles beside them, and finally put the borla on top. They glittered faintly in the dim oil-lamp light, as though smiling at me.

I closed the almirah carefully and turned the small key to lock it. Then, leaning my head against the wooden door, I sighed deeply. For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like an outsider. Maybe, just maybe, this house could become my home.

༺⚔༻ ༺👑༻ ༺⚔༻

🌸 Author's Note 🌸

Arre suno suno mere 1980s ke Gulab aur Gulaboo 👒✨
Kaisa laga tumko aaj ka rasam–shagun wala scene? 👀 Thoda emotional tha ya zyada senti ho gaya? Batao mujhe comments mein warna main yahi samjhun ki tum sabne malpua khaake mobile side mein rakh diya 😤😂

Aur haan... jis tarah Diya ko borla aur bangdi mili na, waise hi tum sab bhi mujhe ek chhota sa shagun de do—ek chotu sa comment aur ek pyaara sa vote. Bas itna hi dahej maangti hoon main apni Guddi readers se 😌💖

Chalo ab jaldi batao—
👉 Kisne socha tha Sarpanch ji aise niklenge?
👉 Aur kaun kaun ro pada Diya ke saath? 😭
Sach sach likhna warna tum sabki Guddi aur Gulabo card cancel ho jayegi 🤭

----Yours author anuvae💖