I nodded silently and followed her through the house and out into the garden, where the makeshift altar had been beautifully arranged beneath the shade of a large peepal tree. The soft rustle of leaves accompanied the fragrance of sandalwood and incense. Rows of chairs faced the adorned idols of the gods, and we took our seats right at the front, side by side.
The priest, noticing our arrival, barely acknowledged us with a nod before diving into his chants, the sound of his voice rising and falling in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
An hour passed.
And all I had done was sit still, resisting the overwhelming urge to yawn. This was mind-numbingly dull. My eyes fluttered shut every few seconds, and I blinked rapidly, trying to stay awake. I looked around — blurry-eyed and disinterested — hoping for something remotely entertaining to distract me from this sluggish ceremony.
Finding nothing, I finally slipped a hand into my pocket, planning to check the results of my little experiment from the previous night.
Just as I was about to pull the phone out, a hand gently clasped mine.
Startled, I looked down. Her fingers curled around mine firmly, stopping me in my tracks. I turned to the side to find Arundhati looking at me — her eyes sparkling and her lips curved into a soft, angelic smile.
I smirked, amused by the contradiction.
She might have looked serene, but I knew her well. That smile was a mask. Underneath, she was probably disgusted by even the idea of touching me. And right now, she must've been struggling to keep that polite expression intact.
Wanting to push her buttons further, I laced my fingers tightly with hers, giving her hand a deliberate squeeze.
Her lips twitched — an involuntary reaction. It was barely visible, but to me, it was gold. I leaned back slightly, basking in the silent war unfolding between us. She shot me a side glance, her irritation barely concealed, but I pretended not to notice and turned my attention back to the priest.
Now this… this was entertaining.
I didn't understand why, but her reactions gave me a strange sense of satisfaction — like I was in control of something, even if it was just her twitching mouth.
But something felt off. Why wasn't this body rejecting her touch? Why didn't I flinch or feel disgusted like I was supposed to? Aarav hated Arundhati… or so the novel claimed. Yet here I was, enjoying her warmth, holding her hand like it belonged there.
That realization struck me harder than I cared to admit.
I turned to look at her, the smirk vanishing from my face.
She noticed the shift immediately and turned to meet my gaze. Our eyes locked. Hers were questioning, gentle, uncertain. I didn't need a mirror to know what she saw in mine — a sudden hollowness, the kind of void that made a person look almost dead inside. A sharp contrast from my earlier playful self.
Her expression changed.
Had I scared her?
Maybe, just maybe, in that moment, I looked like the man who had abandoned her on their wedding night — cold, distant, unreachable. But then again, she didn't let go of my hand. She didn't pull away.
That simple truth made something inside me soften.
A small smile crept onto my face, uninvited.
Don't go there, I told myself, shoving the thoughts away and turning my attention back to the priest.
Of course, he chose that moment to ruin everything.
"From ancient times," he began solemnly, "a woman, upon marriage, relinquishes her father's surname and takes her husband's name. As part of the ritual, Aarav, you must now write Arundhati's new name along with yours on these rice granules. With this, the ceremony will conclude."
I stared at him, momentarily blank.
The words themselves didn't matter. What did was what they implied — what came after. Writing her name next to mine would mean accepting her into my life. Publicly. It would be a declaration. A claim. One Aarav — the real Aarav would never have done without a dramatic outburst.
If I followed through too easily, people might start to question me — suspect something. But if I refused, I'd definitely provoke Arundhati and her ever-watchful parents.
I glanced at her.
She was already frowning. I could almost hear the arguments brewing in her mind. Knowing her, she was ready to protest the entire idea of changing her name. Arundhati was fiercely independent and never afraid to challenge the regressive traditions she despised.
Expected… and honestly, admirable.
If I can't call you mine… then I'll become yours instead, I thought. And let the world deal with it.
Without another word, I leaned forward, took the rice granules and began writing with an exaggerated nonchalance.
He peered down and read aloud, "Arundhati Aarav Bharadwaj and Aarav Arundhati Bharadwaj."
A hush fell over the gathering.
All eyes turned to me, their stares heavy with surprise — maybe even judgment — but I didn't look at any of them. I kept my gaze locked on the priest and raised an eyebrow, silently urging him to get on with it.
He caught the cue and cleared his throat. "The prayer is now complete."
The moment his words faded, I leaned sideways toward Arundhati and whispered with a smirk, "Arundhati, I'm really sleepy. Since the rituals are done, I'm heading back to our room. You handle your parents, alright? And just so we're clear — if you think you can wake me up tonight because you couldn't resist my handsomeness… don't. I'm too tired to be flattered."
Her expression darkened immediately, and I could see her lips part, ready to fire back some sharp retort.
But I didn't give her the chance.
With a quick smile, I turned and walked away, leaving her behind — fuming, probably — but speechless nonetheless.