Author's POV
The day began with a soft, anticipatory tremor that vibrated through the hotel. The Mishras, Esha's family, arrived in the morning, their laughter echoing in the marble-floored lobby as they settled into their designated rooms. An hour later, the arrival of Aakash and his family, the Raichands, sent a low, electric hum through Esha's suite on the second floor.
Esha felt the knowledge of his proximity like a magnetic pull. Her heart was a frantic, trapped bird against her ribs. She was fully dressed in comfortable hotel clothes, her mind already consumed with the single thought of seeing him, of stealing a moment of quiet connection before the official chaos began. But her cousins and siblings, gleeful gatekeepers of tradition, formed an impenetrable barrier around her door.
They stopped her inside the room and teased her relentlessly; their playful barbs aimed at her visible impatience. Esha nodded and laughed on cue, but her attention was fractured. Her heart and mind were entirely devoted to discovering ways to get out of this room and into the presence of her Aksh. The hotel corridor, a few feet beyond the door, felt like the border of a forbidden kingdom.
After what felt like an eternity of theatrical begging, her siblings finally relented, giving her a small window of freedom. She walked swiftly to the ground floor. Her pace was quick, driven by an urgent need, but she didn't allow her stride to betray her. If anyone saw her, she needed them to think she was merely going for a walk, not sprinting toward the man who held her entire future. She reached the ground floor, breathless and expectant, only to find the lobby deserted. They had already departed to their respective rooms, settling in for their own day of preparation. The disappointment was sharp, a sudden plunge from elation to emptiness.
"Koi bohot utavala ho raha hain ki se milne," she heard Abhi's voice, her brother, laced with humor, from behind her.
(Someone is being very impatient to meet someone.")
"Mein utavali nahi ho rahi hu. Mein toh bas unhe welcome karne aayi hu," she quickly covered up her eagerness, the lie tasting thin and metallic on her tongue.
(I am not being impatient. I only came to welcome them.)
She ran straight back to her room; the planned moment of shared quality time dissolved. She took a few hours of rest, forcing her body to relax, knowing the hours ahead would demand every ounce of her energy and focus.
The afternoon arrived, ushering in the formal preparations for the Mehendi. The girls helped Esha get dressed, their excitement infectious. They were a flurry of silk and laughter, helping her navigate the complexity of the ceremonial attire. Soon, the professional make-up artists were called in. They worked with meticulous precision, enhancing her natural beauty. It took about half an hour to complete her make-up—a look designed to be vibrant yet enduring. Next came the jewellery, the weight of the traditional pieces—the intricate maang tikka, the heavy earrings, the delicate nose ring—symbolizing the richness of her new role. She was now fully ready, a picture of bridal splendor, and was taken downstairs to the gathering.
Her dress was a beautiful, dark green lehenga, covered in pink and green floral embroidery, which added both elegance and charm. The deep, earthy colour was a nod to the natural, ancient quality of the Mehendi tradition. Her blouse matched perfectly and had a neat, traditional cut, while a light dupatta fell gently over her shoulder. The whole outfit was graceful yet simple, giving her a fresh, natural look that perfectly balanced the extravagance of the occasion.
The air in the ballroom was now heavy with the sweet, resinous, almost earthy scent of fresh henna—a fragrance that felt instantly ancient and deeply bridal. Lights strung across the stage threw a warm, amber glow over the sitting area, where dozens of women, their hands already dusted with the deep green paste, laughed and gossiped, their voices a melodic hum.
Esha's eyes, however, were glued to Aakash. He was across the room, already dressed, waiting for her. The deep, earthy olive-green he wore was the perfect complementary colour for a celebration rooted in tradition, yet it felt so modern, so sophisticated on him. His presence was a grounding force in the swirling room.
She sat near the centre of the gathering, feeling the strange dichotomy of being a revered monarch and a vulnerable prisoner, her hands and forearms extended rigidly, waiting for the artist to begin her work. Aakash, who was looking at her with awestruck eyes, his expression a mixture of profound admiration and protective concern, fussed over the pillows behind her, ensuring her comfort for the long, motionless hours ahead. His gesture, simple and immediate, was the reassurance she needed. People started singing and dancing to some of their traditional songs for Mehendi, filling the atmosphere with joyous sound.
Esha's Mehendi artist, a young woman named Simran, looked at her and smiled, sensing the nervous energy. She held Esha's hand gently, her touch professional and precise. The first cool swirl of the henna cone on Esha's palm sent a shiver of commitment through her. Esha looked across at Aakash, feeling the intense connection in his gaze, and then back down at her Mehendi. This was the mark of commitment, a temporary stain that symbolized the depth and longevity of her love for her Aakash. It was a promise written not in ink, but in the lifeblood of a plant.
As Simran began drawing the first complex floral vines, Esha's mind immediately seized upon the tradition: the darker the color of the mehendi, the deeper the love between the couple, and the kinder the mother-in-law. She felt a fierce, silent prayer rising in her chest for the stain to turn nearly black—a desire that was less about folklore and more about the desperate longing for her life with Aakash to be as rich and indelible as the dye itself.
"Didi," Simran murmured, her eyes fixed on the intricate lattice she was creating near Esha's wrist, the line of the paste perfectly controlled. "Dulhe ka naam batayiye."
(Didi, tell me the groom's name)
Esha whispered, "Aksh," and a wave of giggles rippled through the circle of her cousins. She quickly came out of the trance and corrected herself, "It's Aakash." But before Esha could elaborate, Simran had already meticulously written Aksh, and a small, delicate heart was drawn just below the name.
"Mein ne simple hi likha hain kyuki Bhaiya ko mushkil na ho jaye naam dhundhne mein," the artist whispered conspiratorially.
(I have written it simply so that Brother doesn't have too much trouble finding the name)
Esha blushed, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks, the warmth spreading despite the cooling paste. This small, secret space, the letters known only to him and her, represented the most intimate secret of the night.
Soon, her hands were done, covered in the rich, fragrant paste. Now, Simran began to apply Mehendi on her legs. Everyone had now departed to have lunch, leaving a quiet lull in the celebrations. Mumma and her Bhabhis (sisters-in-law) remained near her, their presence a calm comfort.
They suddenly heard Aakash's voice. "Aap log lunch ke liye jaiye, mein Esha ke saath rukh jata hu," he said, while holding a plate full of food in his hands.
(You all go for lunch; I will stay with Esha).
After many loving debates and teasing glances, the female relatives finally went, leaving Aakash and Esha in their own bubble of serenity. Aakash sat near Esha. For a few minutes, he just kept admiring her. The soft, luminous glow on her face—the wedding glow—was unmistakable, and the beautiful Mehendi with his name, visible even in the dim light, made his eyes warm with affection. He didn't just see a beautiful bride; he saw his future embodied in the intricate patterns.
Esha's gaze fell on him. "Aise kya dekh rahe hain?" she asked softly.
(What are you looking at like that?)
"Apni hone wali biwi ko," he responded, making sure his voice was low, a private rumble audible only to her and the artists.
(My soon-to-be wife.)
Her cheeks turned a deep crimson. She was utterly unable to form words or meet his gaze, feeling the vulnerability of his pure adoration. As she looked down, he took a spoonful of rice and placed it in front of her lips. She smiled, feeling cherished, and ate it.
"Aapne khaya?" she asked. He gave a fake, quick nod.
(Have you eaten)
"Aksh, nahi khaya aapne jhuth mat boliye," she said in a slow, knowing voice. "Ab aapko mere saath khana hoga warna mein khud bhi nahi khaungi."
(Aksh, you haven't eaten, don't lie)
(Now you will have to eat with me, otherwise I won't eat myself)
He smiled, defeated but happy, and gave her a genuine nod. They enjoyed their intimate time together, him feeding her small, careful bites, the simple act heavy with meaning. Soon, everyone arrived back, and sadly, Aakash had to go away from her. They noticed his wistful expression when they arrived and teased him a little for his inability to leave her side.
It was evening, and her Mehendi was finally complete. Simran had applied the crucial mixture of water and sugar a few minutes before, ensuring a deep, rich stain. Esha was genuinely enjoying the day and the beauty of her Mehendi. They took her to her room and asked her to rest. The Mehendi concluded at night after the other guests had their turns.
It was the next morning. Esha's sleep was disturbed by the bright sunlight streaming through the window. She opened her eyes groggily and rubbed them gently. She sat up on her bed, her gaze immediately settling on her hands.
The Mehendi had dried and shed its flaking top layer, revealing a brighter shade of rich, deep brown—a promising crimson seal. She blushed seeing her hands, now intricately patterned and beautifully coloured.
It wasn't just the Mehendi stain. It was the colour of love, of commitment, which now filled her hands. It represented his love and connection to her. Looking at the mehendi now, she realized the intricate patterns were not restricting her; they were an acknowledgment of the beautiful complexity of the life they were building—complex, yes, but anchored by an unbreakable pattern of trust and mutual respect, much like the henna itself.
Yesterday, the pain of the long sitting, the stiffness in her fingers—it was all worth it. The mark was made. She was marked for her Aakash. She was now a silent, shimmering bride-to-be, waiting only for the wedding music to begin.
She got out of bed and completed her morning routine. She watched the garden from her balcony. Everyone was busy with the final preparations for the Sangeet party. The entire day went by in a blur of anticipation. The couple had been strictly confined to their rooms, heightening the tension and desire to see each other.
It was nighttime - the perfect hour for the Sangeet. The air was electric, thick with the sound and colour of celebration.
The Sangeet was pure, unadulterated, glorious release. It was the night the families officially stopped worrying about logistics and started celebrating the inevitable. Aakash stood near the balcony of the venue, waiting. Everyone had planned for him, and Esha would make a grand entrance together. The air was a vibrant, overwhelming cascade of loud Bollywood music, flashing spotlights, and the continuous clinking of glasses. Everyone, usually reserved in formal settings, had transformed into a troupe of enthusiastic, slightly uncoordinated, but entirely joyful dancers. But all the noise, all the celebration, was just background music to the low, insistent drumming of anticipation inside him. He was eagerly waiting for her to step into the light.
Diya yanked his sleeve, breaking his reverie. Her eyes were bright with excitement. "Bhaiya! Aa jayegi Bhabhi, hame bhi dekh liya kijiye tab se wahi dekh rahe hain. Kahi Bhabhi ko aapki nazar hi na lag jaye." She giggled.
(Bhaiya! Bhabhi will arrive soon. Look at us, too; you've been staring there the whole time. You might put the evil eye on Bhabhi.)
He didn't rebuke her; he couldn't. His gaze was fixed, his entire being tuned to the door.
A few minutes later, the main hall doors clicked open. Esha finally arrived, accompanied by her mother. He was at peace now after seeing her, a profound sense of calm washing over him, replacing the anxious anticipation. She looked breathtaking. By spearing a glance at him, anyone would say that his eyes were wholly admiring her, drinking in every detail. She wore a shade of soft, blush pink, like the first bloom of dawn—and it made her glow against the darker backdrop. The lehenga itself was an absolute dream, featuring delicate and rich fabrics, with sweeping floral patterns in pastel shades and a touch of rose-gold shimmer.
She was not different either. As she approached, she observed him, trying to fit his small details into her brain. The blush, pale gold, or champagne colour he wore was sophisticated and complemented his complexion perfectly. The entire ensemble was a testament to grandeur, but the sherwani was pure magic. It was completely covered in dazzling mirrorwork and delicate embroidery. Every tiny mirror caught the light, creating a shimmering, almost celestial effect. It looked heavy, but the way he carried it made him look effortlessly dashing, like royalty.
They met at the bottom of the steps. He offered his hand. They both walked down, hand in hand, and sat on the sofa in the front row. Everyone was clapping and hooting at their arrival, but their focus was entirely on each other, the noise fading to a distant buzz.
The bride's team took the stage. Their routine was sharp, professional, and entirely dedicated to teasing Aksh, as they performed an elaborate skit mocking his reserved nature, contrasted with Esha's fiery spirit. Next, the groom's team fired up the stage and gave a tough competition to the bride's team.
After a long series of exhilarating performances, the couple was called to the stage for their dance. For the next few minutes, as they took centre stage, it felt like the entire world—the music, the lights, the crowds—faded away. The song chosen was clearly theirs, a melody linked to a cherished memory, and every move was filled with deep tenderness. The performance was beautifully choreographed, with slow, meaningful turns and lifts, but the real magic was in their eyes. They barely broke their gaze, communicating a future's worth of promises in silence. The groom held her close, his face filled with pure adoration, and the bride melted into his arms, radiating a clearly palpable happiness. It was a sincere, soulful, and tear-jerking moment—a beautiful affirmation of their love story, a public dance of a private commitment.
The truth was, they weren't just excited about the wedding; they craved the quiet of their life together, the intimacy of knowing each other's every thought. They imagined their first morning as husband and wife, peeling off the dry henna paste, to reveal the dark, permanent stain—the visual proof of their unbreakable commitment.
The mehendi on Esha's hands was the silent, beautiful promise, and the music in this hall was the loud, proud declaration. The rhythm of the Sangeet was the rhythm of their destiny, and they couldn't wait to dance to it forever. They knew, with a certainty that calmed every anxiety, that the darkness of the stain on her hands was merely a reflection of the deep, indelible love already stamped on their souls.
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Hey Folks!!
I was left blushing while writing this chapter. What do you think about it? Are you excited about their marriage? For that, stay tuned!!
Hope you like this chapter. If yes, please like the chapter and comment on your favourite part.
Thanks for reading ❤️...