The train to Shamli, Simran's ancestral village in Uttar Pradesh, rumbled through dusty landscapes, wheat fields, and sleepy towns like it was carrying more than just passengers — it carried stories waiting to unfold.
Ruhi sat near the window, head resting on her palm, watching the scenery change. The soft hum of the train, the occasional whistle, and the gentle sway made her feel like she was leaving one world and stepping into another.
Across from her sat Simran, dressed in a simple yellow kurta, excitement bubbling in her eyes. Aarav, as usual, had one earphone in and was pretending not to notice how often Simran kept stealing glances at him.
Rudra sat beside Ruhi, quiet. But his presence was comforting — like the steady rhythm of the train itself.
He looked over suddenly. "You okay?"
She nodded. "Just... soaking it all in. I've never been to a village wedding before."
"You'll love it," Simran chimed in. "My bhaiya's wedding is going to be full-on desi. Dhol, haldi, mehendi, baraat... the whole Bollywood package."
Aarav smirked. "As long as there's food, I'm in."
Simran rolled her eyes, "Food? That's your takeaway from this?"
"Food, and... maybe a dance with you," he added, almost casually.
She blinked. "I'll think about it."
By late afternoon, they arrived at the small village station. The air smelled of earth and mango blossoms. A bullock cart and a jeep were waiting outside, decorated with marigold garlands.
Simran's uncle greeted them with open arms, "Aao, aao! You're finally here! Simran beta, your room is ready. And your friends will stay just across in the courtyard guesthouse."
The house was traditional — mud walls, wide verandas, a tulsi plant in the center, and the constant chime of temple bells in the distance. It felt like time had slowed down here.
As night fell, the house came alive with colors and noise. Strings of fairy lights were hung across trees, the courtyard filled with relatives laughing, kids running around, and aunties setting up mehendi cones and haldi thalis.
Ruhi stood near a rangoli Simran had half-finished, watching it glow under the light.
Rudra came over, hands in his kurta pockets, and said, "You're staring like you've never seen lights before."
"I haven't seen this kind," she whispered. "It's not just decoration. It's... warmth."
He nodded, then added softly, "So are you."
Ruhi turned to him, eyes wide.
But before she could respond, Simran's mom called, "Ruhi beta, come, get your mehendi done!"
Two hours later, Ruhi sat in the courtyard, hands extended, dark green mehendi drying on her palms. The design was delicate — paisleys, lotuses, and — hidden in the center — the letter "R."
Simran leaned over and whispered, "You didn't...?"
"I didn't ask for it," Ruhi murmured. "The artist just smiled and said it 'felt right.'"
Simran grinned. "Even the mehendi lady ships you two."
Across the yard, Rudra was laughing at a joke Aarav had cracked. He glanced at Ruhi — and then did a double take when he noticed the "R" in her mehendi.
Their eyes locked.
Something passed between them — unspoken, but undeniable.
That night, after dinner, Simran dragged everyone to the terrace to watch the lanterns being released from the neighboring village. Dozens of glowing orange orbs rose into the sky, flickering like flying stars.
Ruhi stood by the edge, hands now dry, watching in awe.
Rudra came and stood beside her, just close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"Make a wish," he said.
She smiled, "That's silly."
"Maybe. But do it anyway."
She closed her eyes.
He asked, "What did you wish for?"
She looked at him. "Something I can't say out loud yet."
He didn't press.
Instead, he offered her a small lantern — one of their own.
"Let's let it go together?"
She nodded.
They lit it carefully, watched it swell with warmth, and then released it into the dark sky.
As it floated upward, Ruhi whispered, "Rudra?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for writing that letter."
He turned toward her, eyes soft.
"And thank you," he replied, "for replying to it."
They stood quietly, watching the lantern drift until it disappeared among stars.
The next morning brought the haldi ceremony — loud, messy, and chaotic in the best way.
Ruhi wore a simple white suit with a yellow dupatta, her cheeks glowing from laughter and sunlight.
Rudra had yellow stains on his kurta from being dragged into the ceremony by Simran's cousins. He didn't care. He was too busy sneaking glances at Ruhi, who was surrounded by a group of aunties fussing over her hair.
Aarav and Simran shared more than just glances now. They moved together — carrying plates, helping guests, sharing private jokes.
In the evening, while everyone was napping after lunch, Ruhi found Rudra sitting alone near the backyard well, sketching something in a notebook.
"You draw?" she asked.
He closed the sketchpad quickly. "Only when no one's watching."
"Can I see?"
He hesitated, then handed it to her.
Inside was a rough charcoal sketch — a girl sitting under a tree, hair flying, eyes closed, face peaceful.
"It's beautiful," Ruhi said, running her fingers gently over the page.
"It's you," he said simply.
She looked at him, heart thudding.
He added, "That was the day you read your poem in class. You looked... like you belonged in your own world."
She smiled.
He looked away. "I wanted to tell you that day. But I didn't know how."
"You just did," she whispered.
Their hands brushed on the page.
That night was the sangeet — music, dancing, color, joy.
Ruhi danced with Simran under string lights. Rudra joined the crowd reluctantly, until Aarav pulled him in.
At one point, Simran grabbed Aarav's hand and spun him into a duet.
He stumbled.
She laughed.
And then they danced — not perfectly, but perfectly together.
Ruhi stood by the music speaker, watching them, her heart full.
Rudra came up beside her, sweaty, laughing, and breathless.
"Dance with me?" he asked, holding out his hand.
"I don't know how."
"Good. Then we'll mess it up together."
She took his hand.
And in that moment — laughter, dhol, stars above, mehendi on her hands, his sketch in her mind — Ruhi realized something.
She wasn't just falling anymore.
She had already fallen.
To be continued...