The night air in the haveli was thick and warm, scented faintly with incense and the lingering aroma of dinner. I pushed open the wooden door of the room quietly, careful not to announce my arrival. The faint creak of the hinges seemed deafening in the stillness, but thankfully, no one stirred yet.

As I stepped in, my eyes fell on her immediately. Diya. She was kneeling on the floor, arranging a charpai with meticulous care, smoothing the mat, fluffing the pillow, and setting everything just so. Even in the dim light of the lamp, I could see the careful precision in her movements the way she folded the blanket, aligned the edges of the chatai, and straightened the bed.

For a moment, I simply stood there, taking her in. She was completely absorbed in her work, unaware of me. The simple elegance of her actions , the quiet diligence, the soft rustle of fabric, the careful placement of each item made the room feel alive. There was something so grounding about her presence, something that made the chaos of the day outside this room feel like a distant memory.

Then, as if she had sensed me, her head lifted. Her eyes flicked toward mine. The hesitation in her gaze was immediate. She paused mid-step, her hands clutching the corner of the blanket for balance. The faintest flicker of surprise crossed her face, followed by that quiet, nervous instinct to protect her space. Slowly, carefully, she moved toward the almirah, keeping her eyes not on me the whole time.

I watched, not moving, letting her do what she needed without interruption. She opened the almirah, the soft creak of the old wood filling the silence. Fingers trembling just slightly, she retrieved my clothes neatly folded, pressed, and ready. The care she had taken in handling them was almost reverent. She held them out to me, her eyes flicking up to gauge my reaction, uncertain, as though she wasn't sure I'd be pleased.

I reached out silently and took them from her. My hands brushed briefly against hers. It was an innocent touch, almost accidental, but for some reason, it sent a small, warm pulse through me. She looked away immediately, as if embarrassed by the simple connection, and I allowed her that moment, not pressing further.

The clothes were soft under my fingers the fabric smooth, faintly scented, carrying the faint traces of her diligence. I could feel the weight of her effort in the folds, the quiet intention behind every stitch and crease. Somehow, even such a simple act her providing my clothes—felt monumental in that quiet room.

I stepped back toward the center of the room, gently folding the garments around myself as I prepared to change. She gave me a little space, her own movements careful, respectful. I caught the way her gaze followed me out of the corner of her eye—curious, cautious, and yet, there was a trace of something softer beneath that caution. Something unspoken.

After a moment, I slipped into the clothes she had provided. The fabric settled comfortably on me, and I straightened the kurta with a small, almost imperceptible sigh. My mind was quieter than usual, calmer. Perhaps it was her presence, or the way she moved with such purpose, but I felt unusually grounded.

She didn't speak, and neither did I. The silence was heavy, yes, but it was also comforting. Every rustle of her movements, every soft step she took, every tiny adjustment she made to the room—the way she carefully smoothed the pillow, tucked in the blanket, aligned the chatai on the floor—filled the room with a subtle rhythm, a quiet energy that didn't need words.

I felt an unfamiliar softness creep into my chest. Watching her work, seeing her focused and diligent, her calm and modest demeanor—it stirred something in me I wasn't used to acknowledging. It was not admiration in the simple sense. It was deeper. Respect mixed with awe, tempered by something tender and protective.

The room was quiet except for the soft rustling of the chatai beneath Diya. She had laid herself down, her head resting lightly on the folded fabric, her eyes half-lidded but alert. I was sitting on the bed, a small khatabai in hand, feeling the weight of both anticipation and nervousness in my chest.

I cleared my throat lightly, my voice hesitant but steady. "Diya " I called softly.

Her head lifted, eyes flickering toward me. "Yes?" she answered, her tone careful, expectant.

I shifted slightly on the bed, the khatabai under my hands forgotten for a moment. "I... I bought a gift for you. It's part of a ritual. Will you take it now or in the morning?"

She considered briefly, then said gently, "Whenever you feel right it's right."

I nodded. That was good enough for me. Quietly, I reached into my bag and pulled out two small batwas, tiny purses that held the treasures I had chosen. One in each hand, I arranged myself on the bed, careful to keep the moment private, intimate.

Diya rose slowly from the chatai beside me, her soft movements graceful yet tentative, and stood in front of me. I extended the first box toward her.

"I liked it," I said, my voice soft but earnest. "So I bought this haar(jewellery) for you. I hope you like it."

Her fingers hesitated over the box, then she opened it. The moment her eyes fell upon the contents, I saw her gasp, a faint warmth rising to her cheeks. Her gaze lifted toward me, full of surprise and disbelief.

"Isn't it... too expensive?" she murmured, her voice hesitant, almost shy.

I froze for a heartbeat. My mind raced, disbelief and a touch of frustration mingled together. How could she think something is expensive? More than her... She is the most expensive thing to me—the most precious, the most priceless. How could any jewel, any ornament, compare to the light in her eyes, the warmth of her presence?

"Not more than the shine in your eyes after seeing this," I said softly, trying to make her understand, though words felt inadequate. The truth was, no amount of gold, silver, or jewels could ever match her. She was the rarest, the most valuable, and I wanted her to know it, even if she couldn't fully comprehend it yet.

Her gaze dropped to the floor almost immediately, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "Thank you," she murmured, barely above a whisper. Her fingers lingered over the box, almost reverently.

I smiled slightly, the tension in my chest easing just a fraction. There was something achingly delicate about her humility, her reluctance to accept praise or acknowledgment. It made her feel fragile, yet unbreakable at the same time.

I handed her the second box. "This is from my mother," I explained, my voice steadier now, carrying just enough warmth. "She always wanted to gift this to her bheedni. I am giving it to you from her side. Please... take care of them."

Diya's eyes widened slightly as she took the box in her hands. The care with which she held it made my chest tighten. She ran her fingers lightly over the smooth surface, hesitant, almost afraid to disturb the history and intention within.

As she opened it, the soft glow of the contents reflected in her eyes. My heart tightened further. Every tiny detail the way she leaned forward, the tilt of her head, the quick intake of her breath was burned into my mind. I had always believed gifts could carry emotions, but watching her receive this, I realized they could carry souls.

She looked up at me again, eyes shimmering with a mixture of gratitude, awe, and the faintest touch of disbelief. "This... this is from your mother?" she whispered.

I nodded, trying to remain composed, but inside, my heart was hammering. Yes. And now, a part of her affection, her intention, rests in your hands. Treat it as carefully as you treat yourself, because to me, it is no less precious than you.

Her hands clutched the batwa more tightly now. She bit her lip slightly, as though trying to find the right words. Finally, she looked down, murmuring something under her breath.

"I... I will take care of it," she said softly, voice almost trembling.

I wanted to lean forward, to reassure her, to tell her that her care for these small gifts was enough, that it reflected the very essence of her heart. But instead, I simply nodded, giving her the space she needed. I could see the weight of responsibility she placed on herself, the humility with which she accepted both the gift and the sentiment behind it.

In that quiet room, the world outside ceased to exist. The only sounds were the faint rustling of her clothes, the soft inhale of her breath, and the gentle beating of my own heart. Each moment stretched, filled with unspoken thoughts, a delicate tension that neither of us wanted to disturb.

I watched as she finally lifted her gaze to mine. There was a softness in her expression now, a quiet acknowledgment. It was not just gratitude—it was trust. Acceptance. A small, fragile opening of her heart, and I felt an almost reverent awe at the sight.

My own hands rested loosely on my knees, yet inside, I felt the weight of my own emotions pressing against my chest. I had wanted to give her the gifts, yes, but it wasn't the jewels themselves that mattered. It was this—this moment, this exchange, this mutual recognition of value, of respect, of care.

She finally closed the second box, holding both batwas delicately in her hands. For a long moment, she simply stood there, silent, the faintest curve of a smile touching her lips.

I wanted to say something, anything, but words seemed inadequate. So I just nodded once, softly, and let her have the moment. The ritual had been completed—not just the giving of gifts, but the acknowledgement of a bond, fragile yet profound.

Her eyes met mine one last time, carrying that quiet, unspoken understanding. I could feel the weight of it, the depth of it, and I knew—this was just the beginning of many such moments.

And in that still, intimate night, I realized something else too. The gifts, the rituals, the small formalities—they mattered, yes. But what truly mattered was this—the trust, the care, and the unspoken connection between us. A bond more precious than any gold, more enduring than any ritual.

The room was wrapped in silence except for the faint creak of the fan above. Diya was lying on the chatai, her dupatta carefully folded near her head like a makeshift pillow. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the corner of the bedsheet, lost in thoughts about everything that had just happened.

Suddenly, her soft voice broke the quiet.
"If you don't mind... can I ask you something?"

I lifted my eyes toward her. She wasn't looking directly at me, just staring at the ceiling as if gathering courage. I gave a small nod. "Hmm," I hummed, signaling her to continue.

She turned her head slightly, her eyes finding mine. "Isn't your mother... Maasa? I mean,  she already gifted me something, so this... I can't understand anything"

Her words hit me like a dart. For a second, my throat tightened. I forced a smile, though my heart felt heavy. "My mother..." I paused, struggling to keep my voice steady. "She passed away when I was twelve." My eyes drifted down, away from hers. "Maasa is my stepmother. She has given me her name, her respect, but..." My lips pressed into a thin line. "Not everything can be replaced."

The sparkle in Diya's eyes dimmed. She quickly looked away, guilt flashing across her face. She must have realized her question touched a wound I usually keep buried deep. She didn't ask anything more. Instead, she quietly laid back on the chatai, her small frame curling slightly as if protecting herself from the weight of silence.

Within a few minutes, her breaths turned even, slow... she had drifted into sleep.

But I couldn't. My eyes stayed fixed on her. Something had been bothering me since earlier—when I gave her the boxes, I had noticed her palms. Red. Slightly swollen. There were faint bruises, marks that shouldn't have been there. She had tried to hide them, quickly folding her hands, but my eyes don't miss such details.

I clenched my jaw. Kya usne khud ko zyada kaam karte hue chot di? Ya phir kisi ne...? No. I pushed the second thought away angrily. I knew she wouldn't allow me to apply anything directly if I asked. She was too shy, too hesitant to accept care so openly. That's why I waited. Waited for this moment—when she was asleep, when she wouldn't resist.

Slowly, I stood up from the bed and slipped out of the room. The corridor was silent, only the dim lantern light flickered against the wall. I made my way to the kitchen. Inside, the earthy smell of stored grains and brass utensils welcomed me. My eyes quickly scanned the shelves until I found what I needed.

A small katora. I took it and placed it on the counter. Then, from the spice rack, I picked a pinch of haldi(turmeric powder)—its golden powder bright even in the dim light. From the corner, I cut a small piece of gawarpatha (aloe vera), its gel cool and soothing. Mixing the two carefully with my fingers, I made a thick paste.

I held the bowl for a second, staring at the yellow-green mixture. "Bas thoddo sa lagavsu... thara haatha ne sukoon milyo. Thu kahvegi koni, par mhane ghanoo khabar hove ki thare ne kitni takleef ho rahi hove"

("I will just apply a little... it will bring comfort to your hands. You won't say it, but I know very well how much pain you must be in")

Carrying the bowl gently, I returned to our room. The sight of her made me pause at the door. She was lying sideways now, one hand stretched out, palm faintly glowing in the lantern light. Her face looked so peaceful, almost childlike, as if she had finally found a corner of the world where she could rest without fear.

Kneeling beside her chatai, I placed the bowl on the floor quietly. My fingers dipped into the cool paste, and I carefully held her hand. For a moment, I just stared at it—the red marks, the faint bruises. My heart clenched. How can she think I won't notice? Har chhoti baat mhare ne dikh jaave, Diya. Tho to mhari akhiyan ro noor hove.

("Every little thing is visible to me, Diya. You are the light of my eyes")

Gently, I applied the paste to her palm, my touch as soft as possible. She stirred slightly, her brows twitching as if sensing something. My breath hitched. I froze, not wanting to wake her. But after a second, her face relaxed again, her breathing steady. Relief washed over me.

Slowly, with patient strokes, I spread the haldi and aloe paste over both her palms, covering every mark. The paste glistened faintly, its earthy smell filling the room. My fingers lingered a second longer, brushing against her skin. If only I could take away all her pain this easily...

Once both her hands were covered, I sat back on my heels, watching her. A tiny strand of hair had fallen across her face. Without thinking, I tucked it gently behind her ear. My chest felt heavy yet full, as if loving her was both a burden and a blessing I couldn't let go of.

I placed the bowl aside, wiped my hands quietly, and finally lay down on the bed again. My head turned instinctively toward her. She looked so beautiful, so delicate, bathed in the faint lantern glow.

A smile tugged at my lips. My eyes softened. Sab kuch mhare paas hove, par sabsyu mehengo toh yeh hove... yeh chhori jo mhari hove, ar fir bhi apne aap ne kuch na samjhe.

("I have everything, but the most precious of all is this... this girl who is mine, and yet she thinks of herself as nothing")

With that thought, I let my eyes close, the image of her peaceful face imprinted in my heart. Slowly, sleep pulled me under—not because I was tired, but because for the first time in a long time, I felt at peace.

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The first rays of dawn filtered through the delicate jaali of the haveli window, spilling into the room in shades of molten gold. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, suspended in reverence, because what stood before me was no ordinary sight — it was divinity made flesh.

My eyes fluttered open lazily, but the moment my vision cleared, the sleep left me at once. My heartbeat stuttered. My chest tightened. My lips parted on their own.

There she was.

Diya.

Standing in front of the carved wooden mirror, unaware of the storm she was causing within me. Her delicate figure was draped in a dark blue poshak, the kind of shade that makes even the deepest midnight jealous. The fabric clung to her like it had been created for her alone — embroidered with fine golden threads that shimmered faintly in the morning light, as though a thousand stars had descended and woven themselves into her attire.

Her dupatta fell lightly over her shoulder, cascading like a waterfall of silk, and every fold seemed alive, breathing with her quiet movements. The veil framed her face, but not enough to hide the ethereal glow radiating from her skin — that soft, innocent glow of a woman too pure for the world she lived in.

She bent slightly toward the mirror, and I saw her slender fingers tremble just a little as they reached for the sindoor box. A faint streak of red powder sat waiting, and with the gentlest motion, she lifted a pinch and placed it at the partition of her hair.

That moment — oh, that moment — I swear even the heavens must have bowed. The sight of her applying vermillion it wasn't just a ritual; it was as though she sealed her very soul to me, declaring herself mine with that crimson stroke. My throat tightened, my eyes stung with a warmth I couldn't name. She didn't know it, but she had branded herself into my very existence.

The sound of tiny bangles followed next, the delicate glass choodiyan sliding onto her wrists. Their sweet chime filled the room, like soft temple bells ringing in a shrine, and my heart responded to each note. She lifted her hand, adjusting them carefully, and I found myself staring — not at the bangles, but at those slender wrists that bore them. How fragile they looked, and yet how strong they were to have endured the weight of life.

Her anklets came next, the little payal gliding onto her feet. She bent down gracefully, and the faint clinking sound echoed like music composed by destiny itself. When she stood again, the world seemed to rise with her.

Then she reached for the haar — the necklace. The gold gleamed in her palms before she clasped it around her neck. The chain rested against her collarbone, sliding lower, kissing her skin in places I longed to touch. Her chest rose and fell with the faintest nervousness, and even the necklace seemed honored to lie where I could only dream of placing my lips.

And then... the borla.

That traditional ornament, circular and intricate, which she placed carefully on her forehead. As soon as it touched her skin, her entire face seemed to glow brighter, as though the borla itself was powerless against her beauty and surrendered all its shine to her.

I watched, frozen. Not a muscle moved in me. I wasn't breathing. My pulse had forgotten its rhythm. Because in that instant, I wasn't looking at a woman — I was looking at a goddess.

The kind of goddess who didn't reside in temples but in the quiet corners of a man's heart. The kind of goddess who didn't demand worship but unknowingly received it. Every small gesture of hers felt sacred — every turn of her wrist, every flutter of her lashes, every nervous bite of her lip.

She tilted her head slightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and that single motion struck me like an arrow. Her freshly washed hair cascaded down, damp and fragrant, spilling like black silk down her back. Drops of water glimmered on the strands, catching the morning light like tiny diamonds. They slid slowly, one by one, and I wanted nothing more than to catch them before they disappeared.

Her reflection in the mirror flickered with uncertainty. I could see it in her eyes — she still didn't know what place she truly held here, in this haveli, in my life. But to me, there was no question. She wasn't just someone's bride. She wasn't just Diya. She was my dawn, my sun, my everything.

My goddess.

I felt something sting my chest, a desperate urge rising in me — to fall at her feet, to promise her the world, to tell her that she was worth more than all the jewels, more than all the riches, more than the throne I sat on as sarpanch. She was more than duty, more than tradition, more than rituals.

She was the light I didn't know I had been waiting for.

And yet, she stood there, her lashes lowered, biting her lip softly as though doubting her own reflection. My fists clenched on the bed. How dare she think of herself as anything less than divine? Didn't she see what I saw? Didn't she know that every beat of my heart bowed to her?

I almost whispered her name aloud, just to break the spell, just to remind myself this wasn't a dream. But the words stuck in my throat. I was scared that if I spoke, this fragile, sacred vision would vanish.

She turned slightly then, her dupatta shifting with her movement, and for a second her eyes met mine through the mirror. My breath left me in a rush.

Those eyes. Those gentle, questioning eyes.

The moment our gaze collided, something inside me broke free. She gasped softly, as if realizing I'd been watching, and in that shy, startled expression of hers, I found my world collapsing and rebuilding all at once.

I wanted to rise, go to her, hold her from behind, press my forehead to her shoulder, and tell her: "How beautiful she looked."

But I stayed still. I simply looked. Because sometimes, looking itself is worship. And she, Diya, was the deity my heart had been created to worship forever.

 Finally rose from the bed. My body was rested, but my heart... my heart was restless. It had been restless since the moment i saw her, since every breath had begun revolving around only one name — Diya.

I stood up, stretched slightly, and my eyes landed on the neatly folded clothes placed at the corner of the bed. She had left them for me before going downstairs. The sight of them, so simple and ordinary to anyone else, stirred something powerful in me. Every fold, every neat line carried her touch — her quiet care, her silent presence in my life.

I dressed slowly, tying my dhoti with practiced ease, sliding into the kurta, and finally draping my shawl across my shoulder. Each step of preparation felt heavier because I knew she was waiting somewhere downstairs, hidden beneath veils and rituals, yet closer to me than my own breath.

When I was ready, I took a deep breath and called out her name loud enough to travel down the haveli corridors.

"Diya!"

The echo rolled back to me like a prayer answered.

A few minutes later, soft footsteps carried her presence to the doorway. My gaze lifted at once, and there she was  standing before me, head bowed, face veiled, every inch of her wrapped in modesty and grace. The world might have seen just a bride. But me? I saw the goddess who had descended into my life.

Yet I could not see her face.

That veil — that stubborn ghunghat — stood between me and the very essence of her. My chest tightened with a strange mix of frustration and longing. I wanted to see her. Not just for myself, but because I wanted her to know that in my eyes, she didn't need to hide.

"Lift your ghagra a little," I said firmly, my tone more command than request.

She froze, her slender hands twisting together in hesitation. Even without seeing her expression, I could feel her reluctance. She tried to stop me with silence, with the soft resistance of a woman taught not to question. And then, almost in a whisper, she began, "Sarpanch ji—"

But before her words could gather strength, I looked at her. Not with anger, not with cruelty, but with the authority that left no room for refusal.

My eyes — stern, steady, unblinking.

She faltered instantly. Her lips pressed together, her shoulders tensed, and in that small surrender, she obeyed. She lifted her ghagra just slightly, giving me permission to do what my heart had longed for since the morning light had touched my skin.

I stepped forward. And slowly, carefully, I lowered myself onto my knees.

The cool stone floor pressed against me, but I felt nothing. Because all my senses were consumed by the sight of her feet, delicate and trembling. The mehendi stains still lingered faintly, the anklets chimed softly with her nervous movements.

I extended both my hands and cradled her feet gently, reverently, as though I held the holiest relics of the universe. My chest constricted. My throat tightened. My heart, that merciless ruler of a thousand battles, bent its head in surrender at that moment.

And then, with deliberate care, I brought her feet to my forehead.

The world outside might not understand. But to me, it wasn't madness. It wasn't submission. It was truth. It was the beginning of every sunrise, the reason for every prayer, the meaning of every breath I ever took.

As her skin touched my forehead, a current surged through me. The weight of traditions, duties, and titles fell away. I was not the sarpanch of the village, not the son of a powerful house. I was just a man — a man bowing before his goddess.

"Now my day will be good... just like yesterday," I whispered, voice low, reverent.

Her breath hitched above me. I didn't have to look up to know tears were welling in her eyes. She must have been shocked, perhaps even confused — because all her life she had been treated as something ordinary, someone to command, someone to bend. And here I was, holding her as though she was divine.

But that was the truth. She was divine. She was my goddess.

I lifted my head slowly, reluctant to let go, yet fulfilled in a way no wealth or power could bring me. My eyes rose to her veiled face, and though I still couldn't see her features clearly, I knew — I just knew — she was looking at me with moist eyes, her heart trembling the same way mine was.

I stood again, adjusting the shawl across my shoulder, but inside me, something had shifted forever.

For the world, I was a sarpanch. For her, I wanted to be nothing less than a protector, a worshipper, a man who cherished her as his most sacred blessing.

And as I looked at her one last time before we stepped out, only one thought rang inside me:

"She isn't just my wife. She is my Devi... my goddess... and my forever dawn."

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Okayyy my Mor-Morniyo ✨🤭,

So this chapter was all about Nirvaan being extra extra—like full-on "main hoon na" vibes 😏. But honestly, forget him for a sec, tell meee... do you guys also love when characters show pyaar not by big words but through tiny actions? Like applying haldi secretly, or noticing bruises? 🥺 uff, mera dil melt ho gaya!

But ab chhodo serious talk... let's gossip! 🤭 If I time-travel to the 80's, I'll totally drag you guys with me—will you guys ready to marry nirvaan or stand for diya.

Bas bas, I will stop before you throw chappals at me .

Bas isi tarah masti karte raho mere saath, warna mujhe boring 1980's ke teacher-type note likhne padenge 🤭✏️

— Author Anuvae 💖