The rituals began in both homes, and though they were tied to the same wedding yet they unfolded in two very different worlds.

At Jagir’s house, the morning started with the smell of fresh haldi and warm milk.

Baljit had been awake since before sunrise, her dupatta pinned neatly over her head as she moved around the small kitchen, stirring a bowl of turmeric paste with slow, careful hands. The yellow glowed like sunshine in the steel bowl.

“Seerat, don’t touch it yet,” she warned gently as Seerat forwarded her hand towards it. “If you get haldi on your dress, you’ll look like a little mango for the rest of the day.”

Seerat immediately tucked her hands behind her back and giggled. “But Mumma, I want to be yellow like didi.”

Meher walked in, her hair tied in a loose braid, wearing an old suit that she had chosen on purpose. “Today I am not a bride,” she announced dramatically. “Today I am just going to be a victim.”

Fateh snorted. “A very dramatic one.”

“Shut up, you Pissu (little pest,)” Meher said, smacking Fateh lightly on the head. “As if I’m not already stressed enough. My best friend won’t even be able to attend my own wedding functions because now she’s my sister-in-law. There’s already so much sorrow in my life, don’t give me any more stress.”

She announced it dramatically, and just then the sound of the dhol came from outside.

“Nani is here!” Seerat exclaimed and ran toward the door, as the maternal relatives arrived with the dhol.

Baljit welcomed them according to the custom, performing the nanka mail. And as soon as Nani stepped inside, Meher ran into her arms, “Nani!”

“Oh, my little doll is going to become a bride!” her grandmother said, pulling her into a loving hug and kissing her forehead. One by one, all the aunts, uncles, and cousins began to come in.

Then the neighbors began to arrive one by one. Aunties with warm smiles, steel plates in their hands, and voices that filled the courtyard with chatter and blessings.

“Look at our Meher,” one of them said fondly. “Just yesterday she was running around with scraped knees, and now she is getting married.”

Meher groaned softly. “Please don’t expose my childhood stories today. I am trying to look dignified.”

Jagir stood near the gate, greeting everyone with folded hands, his face carrying both pride and something softer that he did not quite know how to name.

Baljit sat Meher down on the Peedha ( a low, often square stool or seat) in the middle of the courtyard.

“Alright,” one of her Mammi (maternal Aunt) said, clapping her hands once. “Let’s begin before this bride runs away.”

“I am not running away,” Meher protested. “I already tried. It didn’t work.”

That made everyone laugh.

Baljit dipped her fingers into the haldi and gently touched Meher’s cheeks. “May your life always glow like this,” she whispered.

Seerat was next. She smeared haldi on Meher’s arm, a little too enthusiastically, and Meher gasped. “Are you painting a wall or blessing your sister?”

Fateh followed, more careful, and then one by one, the neighbors and relatives came forward.

Between every blessing, there was laughter.

“Don’t cry now,” Nani teased Meher. “Save your tears for bidaai.”

Meher pouted. “I cry on schedule only. Today is not on the list.”

Jagir watched from a distance, hands clasped behind his back. Every time someone touched Meher’s face with haldi, his chest felt tighter, like a thread pulling slowly.

Baljit noticed and walked over to him. “Why are you standing so far away?” she asked softly. “Go. It’s your turn too.”

Jagir hesitated. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Baljit insisted. “She is your daughter before she is anyone’s bride.”

“But….”

“Please. Come.”

He walked forward slowly, his steps heavier than usual.

Meher looked up at him, her face already yellow, eyes shining. “Papa, don’t make me cry. My face is already a mess.”

Jagir smiled, a little shaky. He dipped his fingers into the haldi and gently touched her forehead. “May you always stay this happy, beta,” he said quietly. “And wherever you go, may you always feel my hand on your head like this.”

Meher swallowed hard and nodded.

On the other hand, at the Gill haveli, the same morning carried a very different kind of energy.

Music echoed through the large halls. The sound of dhol mixed with laughter and excited voices.

Mehek burst into Kabir’s room without knocking. “Get up! Today you are officially becoming a groom.”

Kabir groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. “I was officially becoming a groom yesterday too. Let me sleep.”

Balraj snatched the pillow away. “No sleeping. Come on. Dadi is waiting.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Both.” Both husband and wife said together making him groan even louder.

Kabir was dragged into the courtyard where a decorated chair waited for him.

Amrita stood with a bowl of haldi, her eyes shining with pride. “Sit,” she said firmly, in that motherly tone that did not invite arguments.

Kabir sat, resigned.

Mehek immediately rolled up his sleeves. “I am going to make you the brightest groom in the history of this family.”

“So let’s marinate him together.” Balraj grinned.

Everyone laughed.

Amrita applied haldi to Kabir’s face gently. “May your home always be filled with warmth,” she said softly. “May you always protect the happiness that walks into your life.”

Kabir looked down for a moment, the words settling somewhere deeper than he expected.

Then Mehek attacked him with haldi, smearing it across his arm and cheek.

“Oi!” Kabir protested. “Are you blessing me or taking revenge?”

“Both,” Mehek replied sweetly. “For all the times I stole your chocolates?”

Balraj took some haldi and dabbed it on Kabir’s forehead. “From best friend to brother-in-law,” he said. “You’re stuck with me for life now.”

Kabir snorted. “That is the real punishment.”

Kaushalya watched it all from her chair, her eyes soft, a small smile on her lips.

When everyone was done, she stood up and walked toward Kabir. He straightened without realizing it. She touched his cheek, still stained yellow.

“Today you are not just my grandson,” she said quietly. “Today you are becoming someone’s world. Remember that.”

Kabir nodded, his throat suddenly tight.

In two different courtyards, under two very different skies, the same ritual unfolded.

At one place, a father pressed his blessing onto his daughter’s forehead, trying to memorize the feel of her standing in his home.

At another, a grandmother reminded her grandson that he was about to become a home for someone else.

By afternoon, Meher sat in her room, her skin still smelling faintly of turmeric, Seerat curled up beside her, playing with the edge of her dupatta.

“Didi,” Seerat asked softly, “will you forget us when you go far away?”

Meher pulled her into a hug. “Never. I will just love you from a longer distance.”

Across the city, Kabir stood on the balcony of the haveli, phone in his hand, staring at the sky.

Balraj joined him, nudging his shoulder. “Somewhere, your bride is probably covered in haldi and scolding her siblings.”

Kabir huffed. “She definitely is.”

“And very soon, that scolding will be limited to just you,” Balraj said, tugging at Kabir’s yellow-stained cheeks that still bore the mark of turmeric, while Kabir shot him a deadly glare.

“If my crazy sister hadn’t made you her husband, I would’ve beaten you to death with my own hands,” Kabir threatened.

Balraj, as always, put on an exaggerated expression and gasped. “Is this how you talk to the son-in-law of the house? I’ll sit down right now and sulk like a typical jamai, and then you’ll have to run around trying to make me happy,” he said playfully, smacking Kabir’s cheek before walking off, muttering to himself.

The mehndi and sangeet night arrived wrapped in fairy lights, soft laughter, and the kind of anticipation that makes even the air feel warmer.

The lawn was lit up with warm golden lights. A small stage had been set up with cushions and bolsters, and a dhol player stood ready near the entrance.

Kaushalya sat in her chair beside Balraj's grandmother aka her best friend, watching everything with calm satisfaction.

Kabir stood off to one side, arms crossed, looking like a man who had accidentally walked into a festival meant for someone else.

Balraj nudged him. “Smile, your bride is probably getting your name hidden in her mehndi.”

Kabir scoffed. “I don’t believe in that nonsense.”

Mehek’s voice came from behind them. “Oh, she absolutely will…”

“And then she will make you search for it like a fool.” Balraj completed. “Speaking from experience.”

Kabir shot him a look. “You are enjoying this too much.”

“You have no idea.” Balraj gave his famous grin.

Amrita walked up to Kabir and adjusted the collar of his kurta. “Go sit,” she said softly. “Let the women apply a little mehndi on you too. It’s shagun.”

Kabir hesitated. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Amrita smiled. “You are getting married, not going to war.”

Reluctantly, Kabir sat down on the edge of the stage.

Mehek immediately grabbed a cone and crouched in front of him. “Hold still.”

“I don’t trust you,” Kabir muttered.

“As if you have another option.” She said, “Now hurry up, don’t move. I have to go to my friend’s house. Because of you, I already missed her haldi, and now I won’t miss her mehndi too.”

She drew a tiny, crooked heart on his hand and wrote an M inside it.

Balraj leaned in. “Wow. Picasso would be proud.”

Kabir stared at his hand. “That looks like a potato.”

“It’s abstract art,” Mehek shot back. “What would an ungrateful person like you even know?”

Meanwhile at Jagir’s house, the small courtyard was transformed into something out of a dream. Strings of yellow and green lights were tied along the boundary wall. Marigold garlands hung from the gate, and a simple white sheet had been spread on the floor with colorful cushions placed around it.

Baljit stood in the middle of it all, giving instructions like a proud event manager.

“Seerat, don’t sit on the cushions with dusty feet.”

“Fateh, go and check where the mehndi lady has gone. Why hasn’t she arrived yet?”

“And Meher, you sit properly. Today your hands are not yours anymore.”

Meher, already seated on a low stool in the center, groaned dramatically. “I have been turned into a statue. If anyone needs a chair, just sit on me.”

The women around her laughed and Nani smacked her cheek lovingly. “Now start talking a little less, or your groom will complain to us,” Nani said teasingly. “I’ve heard he’s a very calm man.”

“Then Nani, it’s not like there’s a tax on talking. He can learn to speak too.” Meher replied.

The mehndi artist arrived with her cones and bowls, setting everything down carefully. The smell of fresh henna filled the air, earthy and sweet.

Meher held out her hands, palms up, eyes shining with excitement.

“Make it very dark,” she instructed seriously. “I want to scare my future husband.”

One of the aunties teased, “Arre, darker mehndi means more love from the groom.”

Meher rolled her eyes. “Then make it pitch black. He needs to love me a lot.”

Just then, Mehek walked in, already clapping to the beat of a soft song playing from someone’s phone. “Did I hear something about my brother being scared?” she asked loudly.

Meher’s face lit up. “You are late. I was about to start without you.”

Mehek rushed over and dropped down beside her. “No way. I have to witness this historic moment. My best friend becoming my bhabhi.”

The mehndi artist began drawing delicate patterns on Meher’s palm. Swirls, flowers, little paisleys forming a story across her skin.

Baljit sat nearby, watching with a soft smile, her hands folded in her lap. “Careful,” she said gently to the artist. “Her hands are very sensitive.”

Meher laughed. “Mumma, she is not operating on me. She is just drawing.”

Jagir stood a little away, near the gate, greeting neighbors as they arrived. Every time he glanced toward Meher, a strange mix of pride and ache settled in his chest.

One of the aunties started a soft wedding song, and soon others joined in, clapping along.

Mehek leaned close to Meher and whispered, “So tell me, are you nervous?”

Meher pretended to think. “Only about one thing.”

“What?”

“If your brother snores, I am sending him back to you.”

“Good luck with that. Dadi will send him back to you with a lecture.” Mehek burst out laughing.

The mehndi on her hands had climbed up to her wrists. Her fingers were spread wide, her shoulders stiff. “Someone feed me something,” she pleaded. “I am going to starve at my own wedding.”

Seerat immediately popped a piece of sweet into her mouth. “Open.”

Meher obeyed and chewed happily. “Best sister in the world.”

Jagir watched from the side, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

Baljit walked over to him quietly. “You haven’t sat once,” she whispered. “Go. Sit near her.”

Jagir shook his head. “I will sit after she does.”

Baljit smiled sadly, knowing what he meant.

Meher glanced up and caught her father watching her. “Papa, why are you standing like a guard?”

Jagir cleared his throat. “Someone has to make sure no one steals you before the wedding.”

Meher laughed, then her eyes softened. “I am not going anywhere yet.”

He nodded, but they both knew that wasn’t entirely true.

The mehndi artist finally finished and held up Meher’s hands. The designs were intricate and beautiful, covering her palms and winding up her arms like a story written in henna.

Meher stared at her hands, eyes wide. “I look like a walking art gallery.”

“Boring nurse behavior.” Seerat commented.

Mehek leaned in to look. “Where did you hide my brother’s name?”

Meher smirked. “That’s a secret. He has to earn it.”

The night deepened. Songs grew louder. Laughter echoed and both best friends danced to their heart's content.

At the Gill haveli, Kabir stood near the lights, staring at the small, messy heart on his hand. The M inside it had already started to darken.

Balraj noticed and grinned. “You keep looking at that like it’s a contract.”

Kabir shrugged. “Just wondering how a single letter ended up changing my life.”

Balraj clapped him on the back. “Get used to it my boy. That letter is about to run your life.”

Back at Jagir’s house, Meher sat with her hands carefully placed on a cushion, waiting for the mehndi to dry. Baljit draped a light shawl around her shoulders while the mehndi artist worked on her feet.

Jagir brought a glass of water and held it to her lips. “Drink slowly.”

“Thank you, Papa.” Meher took a sip and smiled at him. “You’re the only one who truly cares about me.”

He watched her, his eyes full of things he did not know how to say.

Later, when the guests had thinned and the songs had softened, Meher sat quietly for a moment, looking at her darkening mehndi.

Mehek came and sat beside her, resting her head on Meher’s shoulder.

“Tomorrow,” Mehek said softly, “everything will start changing.”

Meher nodded. “I know.”

“Are you scared now?”

Meher thought for a second, then shook her head. “Not scared. Just… full.”

“Full of what?”

“Of this,” Meher said, gesturing around. “Of you. Of my family. Of this moment. I want to carry it with me.”

Mehek squeezed her hand gently. “You will. And if you forget, I’ll remind you every day.”

Meher laughed softly.

Under two different skies, with two very different courtyards glowing in soft light, the same henna dried on two different hands.

On one, it carried a girl’s laughter, her family’s warmth, and a father’s quiet tears.

On the other, it carried a crooked heart, a single letter, and a man slowly realizing that his life was no longer just his own.

Between those two hands, a bond was forming, not with grand promises or dramatic words, but with small, simple moments that were already beginning to feel like home.

The morning of the wedding arrived wrapped in a quiet kind of magic.

At Jagir’s house, the courtyard looked like it had woken up before the sun. The floor had been washed and sprinkled with water so it smelled fresh and cool under bare feet. Marigold petals were scattered along the doorway. The small mandir glowed with a diya that Baljit had lit before anyone else stirred.

Inside the house, the air felt different. Heavier. Softer. Like the house itself knew that something precious was about to leave it.

Baljit’s elder brother aka Meher's mamma sat on the floor in front of Meher who was dressed in the simple suit her mother had stitched with her own hands. The fabric was soft against her skin, the kind of softness that only comes from clothes washed and folded with love.

“Meher, bring your hand forward.” Nani said gently and Meher held out her hands.

Her mamma picked up the red chooda that was lying in front of them dipped in milk, his fingers trembling slightly as he slid the bangles over Meher’s wrists. The bangle clinked softly, a sound that felt louder than it should have.

“There,” Baljit whispered, adjusting them carefully. “My daughter’s hands look like a bride’s hands now.”

Meher swallowed, trying very hard to hold back her tears.

Then her mamma lifted the kalire next and tied them slowly, knot by knot, as if he was tying pieces of his heart along with them.

“When these jingle,” Nani said softly, “remember this house. Remember how loud you used to laugh here.”

Meher nodded, her lips pressed together. Just then, Jagir appeared at the door. He stopped when he saw her.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. The little doll he had once lifted into his arms, whom he had watched grow up in his own hands, was now sitting there, ready to become someone else’s bride.

Meher looked up at him, her eyes shining. “Papa,” she said quietly, “the phulkari. You brought it for me. You should put it on me.”

Jagir hesitated. “Me?”

“Yes,” Meher said, stepping closer. “You chose it. So you should be the one to drape it on me.”

His hands shook as he picked up the phulkari. The fabric was light, but it felt heavier than anything he had ever held.

He stood behind her and slowly placed it over her head and shoulders, adjusting it the way he used to adjust her school bag when she was little. “There,” he murmured. “My Meher.”

Baljit turned away, wiping her eyes.

Meher reached back and held her father’s hand. “I am ready,” she said, though her voice wavered.

Jagir shook his head softly. “No,” he whispered. “I am not.” and wrapped her in his arms.

Across the city, the Gill haveli was alive with drums, laughter, and the smell of cologne and sweets.

Balraj adjusted Kabir’s turban while Mehek circled around him like a critical general. “Stand straight,” she ordered. “You are a groom, not a bored office employee.”

“Go find your husband and eat his brain instead.” Kabir smacked his sister.

Just then, Amrita fixed her collar and said, “Alright, that’s enough. Be quiet now and stop fighting like a child. Today you are someone’s dream.”

Harjit clapped Kabir on the shoulder. “Come, son. The baraat is ready.”

The dhol beat picked up, loud and joyful. Relatives danced. Flowers were tossed in the air but only a few members from the groom's side moved forward in celebration, laughter echoing down the road.

At the Gurudwara, calm waited.

The soft hum of shabads floated through the air, wrapping around the marble walls like a gentle embrace. The floor was cool beneath bare feet. The scent of incense and fresh flowers mixed with something deeper, calmer, almost like peace itself.

Kabir sat on the white sheet near the Guru Granth Sahib Ji, his back straight, his hands joined.

The noise of the baraat outside had faded into a distant memory. Here, everything felt slower. Quieter. Real.

Then Jagir walked in and Meher walked beside him.

Her kalire and payal chimed softly with every step, a sound that felt too loud in the sacred stillness. Her phulkari framed her face, simple, warm, glowing. No heavy jewelry. No grand veil. Just her, wrapped in the love of the house she had grown up in.

Meher bowed her head and touched her forehead to the floor in front of Guru Granth Sahib Ji.

And then Kabir turned. Just for a second and he forgot how to look away.

She sat down beside him, her eyes lowered, her hands joined. Her lashes cast a soft shadow on her cheeks. Her shoulders rose and fell slowly as she tried to calm her racing heart.

Kabir’s chest tightened.

This was his bride.

Not in silk tents or chandeliers. Not in designer clothes or glittering lights.

In this quiet, in this simplicity, in this moment that felt bigger than everything else in the world.

It was just her. In her simplicity, and she looked more beautiful than anything he had ever seen.

Kabir’s breath caught.

Balraj nudged him gently. “Close your mouth,” he whispered. “You look like you just saw a miracle.”

Kabir did not respond.

Jagir stepped forward. His hands trembled as he took Meher’s right hand. He placed it gently into Kabir’s. For a moment, he did not let go.

He looked at Kabir, his voice low, steady, and full of everything he could not say in one lifetime. “I am giving you my daughter,” Jagir said softly. “She is not just my child. She is my home. Take care of her the way I did. Better than I did.”

Kabir nodded slightly, his voice firm, sincere. “I promise you. I will.”

Jagir nodded once, slowly, and let go of Meher’s hand.

The Granthi began the prayers.

Jagir placed the end of Kabir’s shawl into Meher’s hand, and Meher held it tightly in her fist.

They stood and the first laavaan began.

They walked around Guru Granth Sahib Ji, step by step, side by side. Meher’s kalire brushed against Kabir’s kurta. Her dupatta fluttered lightly with every turn.

Kabir was suddenly aware of everything. The rhythm of her steps. The soft sound of her breath. The way her fingers curled slightly at her side, nervous, unsure.

Now that feeling was becoming real, that someone was truly entering his life.

The second laavaan.

Meher’s heart thudded in her chest. She kept her eyes lowered, afraid that if she looked up, she might cry. Her whole life felt like it was walking in a circle around this moment.

The third laavaan.

Kabir glanced at her again.

She was glowing.

Not from makeup as she didn't have any just the basics or not even from the jewelry.

From the quiet courage it took to leave everything she knew and step into something unknown.

The fourth laavaan was done and they bowed their heads together.

Husband and wife.

For a moment, the world outside did not exist.

Only them.

Only this.

When they sat back down, Meher finally dared to lift her eyes.

Their gazes met. Just for a heartbeat and both of their hearts fluttered.

Kabir looked away first and she also lowered her eyes instantly.

Everyone reached Jagir’s house from the Gurdwara, and he warmly welcomed the groom’s family.

The bidaai came like a storm that everyone knew was coming but no one was ready for.

Baljit held Meher so tightly it felt like she was trying to stitch her back into her own arms.

“In your new home too, take care of everyone, my child. Respect your elders and love the younger ones. Never forget the values your mother and father have given you.” she whispered into her hair.

Meher nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Fateh stood stiffly beside them, his jaw clenched. “Don’t forget us,” he muttered.

Meher cupped his face. “Never. You are coming with me.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “Here.”

Seerat clung to her, sobbing. “Take me with you. I don’t like this wedding.”

“Then after I leave, who will take care of Mumma and Papa?” Meher hugged her tightly. “And don’t forget to pull Fateh’s ears.”

That earned a small, shaky laugh from Seerat.

Jagir stood a few steps away. Watching, waiting and Meher walked to him last.

He opened his arms and she fell into them, the way she had when she was small and scared of thunder, of darkness, of the world. “Papa,” she whispered, breaking completely.

“Remember what your mother told you, my child. But never forget this: your father is always right here. You may be leaving this house, not our lives. If you ever need anything, come to your father without hesitation.” He kissed her forehead and she nodded meekly against his chest.

“Go,” he said softly. “My house will be empty. But my heart will be full.”

She pulled away slowly. Step by step.

Until the space between them felt like the longest road in the world.

Jagir placed Meher’s hand into Kabir’s and, folding his hands, said to Kaushalya and Harjit, “If I have made any mistake, or if there has been any shortcoming in my hospitality, please forgive me.”

“Oh no, no, Jagir, don’t say that. Don’t embarrass us,” Harjit said, holding his hands.

“And you have given us your most precious gem. Now we are the ones who are in your debt,” Kaushalya said.

They all got into the car, but even as they drove away, Meher kept looking back at her family until they disappeared from her sight.

As they reached the Gill haveli, the gates were thrown open. Music rose. Flowers rained down. Relatives clapped and cheered.

Meher stepped inside, her hand in Kabir’s.

Kaushlya stood at the entrance with a thali in her hands. She circled it around Meher’s face, her eyes shining with pride. “Welcome home, beta,” she said warmly.

Meher’s throat tightened.

Kabir felt her fingers tighten around his for just a second. He did not let go.

Then Amrita stepped forward with a small brass pot of water, the gentle shine of it catching the lights of the haveli.

She moved it slowly in a circle over Kabir and Meher’s heads, her lips whispering a soft prayer.

It's a tradition in Punjab that groom's mother rotate it to ward off evil eyes and all the burdens from their head and take them on herself by drinking that water.

“This is to send every bad shadow away from you both,” she said.

Then, as tradition demanded, she lifted the pot toward her mouth.

Kabir reacted instantly. He leaned in and covered the rim with his hand. “Maa, absolutely not.”

Amrita pretended to dodge him, angling the pot to the other side. “Just one sip.”

Kabir blocked her again, laughing now but Amrita smartly sneaked a little sip and everyone started cheering around them while Meher kept her eyes lowered shyly.

Then they brought Meher inside, and she gently tipped over the pot filled with rice, stepping into her new home and her new life.

She had come to this house countless times before, but she had never imagined that one day she would return as its daughter-in-law.

Her eyes wandered curiously over the house, which had been decorated just for her today, while Kabir’s eyes never left her.

“Alright, now let’s do everyone’s favorite ritual,” Kaushalya said.

Meher blurted out happily, “The ring-finding one, Dadi?”

Everyone fell silent for a moment and looked at her. When Meher realized what she had just said, she bit her tongue and lowered her gaze shyly. Everyone burst into laughter looking at her cute express, and even Kabir could not hide his smile.

“Yes, dear, that one,” Amrita said, laughing. “And whoever wins will rule this marriage.”

They seated the two of them in the hall, where a large silver biwl filled with milk was placed. Mehek dropped the ring into it and said teasingly, “Meher, you have to win.”

“Yes, let her win,” Balraj added. “A happy marriage is the one where the wife rules. Speaking from experience.”

The game began. Both of them started searching for the ring. The first time, Meher found it, and everyone cheered for her. But in the next round, Kabir won showing the ring proudly.

“Now whoever finds it this time is the winner,” Meher said as she dropped the ring in for the last round.

Third round.

They both searched desperately, splashing milk everywhere. Meher bit her lip in concentration. Kabir leaned so close their shoulders touched.

Meher’s fingers closed around something.

Kabir’s fingers closed around the same thing.

They both froze and slowly, they lifted their hands together.

For a second, the room was silent. Then Mehek burst out laughing. “It is a draw.”

Balraj started clapping. “Perfect match.”

Kaushalya shook her head, laughing warmly. “Wow. My two children will give each other tough competition. No one will bend for the other.” She looked at them both, her voice softening. “Maybe that is a good thing. Two strong people. Walking side by side.”

Meher looked at Kabir and Kabir looked back.

This time, neither of them looked away.

The haveli filled with laughter again, but somewhere beneath the jokes and teasing, something settled quietly between them.

Not victory, not defeat. Just balance.

After the last ritual ended and the laughter slowly settled into tired smiles, Mehek took Meher by the hand and practically dragged her toward Kabir’s room.

“Come on, Mrs Gill,” she said dramatically. “Your official entry into my brother’s territory.”

Meher nearly tripped. “Stop pulling me like a sack of rice. I can walk on my own.” her cheeks flushed, but she let herself be dragged along.

Mehek pushed her gently inside the room and made her sit on the edge of the bed. The room was softly lit, warm, unfamiliar, and suddenly very real.

Mehek wiggled her eyebrows. “So. Big night. Feeling any first night jitters? Nervous? Excited? Planning to hide under the blanket and pretend you're asleep?”

Meher groaned. “If you say one more word, I will throw my kalire at you.”

Mehek laughed and leaned closer. “Relax. I’m just here to mentally prepare you. You know, candlelight, soft music, deep eye contact…”

“Out,” Meher said, pointing at the door.

"Oh come on," Mehek teased, nudging her shoulder. "This is suhagrat. You have to at least make him sweat a little. Wear something pretty, bat your eyelashes, make him chase his own heartbeat.”

 “Before I use this pillow as a weapon. Out!”

“Fine, fine. I’ll leave you to my boring, serious, zero-romance brother.” Mehek backed away, hands up. “But at least let me give you one piece of advice: don't let him win every argument. Keep him on his toes.”

“Noted.” Meher said, smiling softly. "Now go torture your brother before he runs away.”

Mehek jumped up, kissed Meher's cheek, and dashed out shutting the door behind her while giggling.

The moment she was out, her expression changed. She turned and faced Kabir, who was standing nearby, trying to look calm and failing badly.

“Shagun,” she announced brightly, holding out her hand. “For sending your bride safely to your room.”

“What?” Kabir blinked. 

“Money,” Mehek clarified. “Cash. Blessings. Anything that looks expensive.”

Kabir crossed his arms. “No.”

Mehek gasped. “Wow. So stingy! First day of marriage and you’re already disappointing the bride’s best friend.”

“I am not giving you anything.”

But before Kabir could react, Balraj swooped in from behind, grabbed Kabir’s wallet from his back pocket, and handed it to Mehek like a prize. “There you go, my love,” he said proudly. “Enjoy. Live your best life.”

Kabir spun around. “Hey! That was my wallet.”

Mehek opened it and peeked inside. “Hmm. Not bad.”

Kabir pointed at both of them. “You two are like starving vultures. Don’t you feed your wife, Balraj? Is that why you both attack my wallet like this?”

Balraj shrugged innocently. "What can I do? My wife is expensive, and you're rich. Simple math.”

“Thank you, bhaiya! I'll buy myself something pretty tomorrow.” Mehek laughed, stuffed the wallet back into Kabir’s hand after taking all the money it in, and pushed him toward the door. “Now, go. Your bride is waiting.”

 “Off you go, Romeo.” Balraj joined in, giving Kabir a shove. "Don't keep her waiting. She's probably already planning how to torture you.”

Kabir stumbled forward. “Traitors. Both of you.” and they shut the door behind him with a thud.

Kabir stood inside his room, staring at the closed door for a second, then turned slowly.

Meher was sitting on the bed, watching him. He didn’t move. Seconds passed.

Meher tilted her head. “What are you doing?”

Kabir cleared his throat. “Standing.”

“I can see that.”

Another second of silence.

Finally Meher said, “Are you planning to guard the door all night like a doorman?”

Kabir frowned. “I was just… thinking.”

Meher crossed her arms. “Let me guess. You're expecting some romantic serial scene where I dramatically offer to sleep on the couch because we need time to understand each other, forget it. I'm not playing the saint. We already agreed: no instant affection, no pressure, just time. But I'm also not sleeping on the floor or the sofa."

Kabir opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then blinked. "I wasn't going to ask you to sleep on the couch."

"Good," she said firmly. "Because I wouldn't. This was your room, yes, but from tonight it's ours. We're mature enough to share a bed, keep a respectful distance, and sleep like civilized roommates. Right?"

Kabir nodded slowly. "Right.”

Meher nodded seriously. “Very good. We maintain a healthy distance. We respect boundaries. We sleep.”

Kabir stared at her. “You make it sound like a hostel arrangement.”

Meher smiled. “Exactly. Except with better food and fewer rules.”

She patted the bed. “Come on. Sit. This wedding has exhausted me. If we had a big fancy one, I would probably be dead by now.”

And then she stood up, started removing her jewelry, placing it carefully on the side table. Then she let her hair down, shook it loose, and picked clothes from her bag.

Kabir just stood there, watching her, completely stunned. “This,” he muttered to himself, “is my life now.”

“Are you going to keep staring or do you need a formal invitation to use your own bathroom?” Meher glanced at him. “Please, go and change so I can change here comfortably.”

Kabir blinked, snapped out of it, and walked quickly into the bathroom.

When he came back, Meher was already lying on one side of the bed, wrapped in the blanket, facing away from him, changed into a simple cotton kurti and salwar.

He lay down on the other side, leaving a very respectable distance between them and the room went quiet.

“Good night new husband.” She mumbled closing her eyes.

“Good night.” He mumbled , staring up at the ceiling and finally closed his eyes.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, he felt something soft brushed across Kabir's face.

He stirred, half-asleep, thinking it was a dream.

Then it happened again. Warm. Steady. Arms wrapping around him.

His eyes flew open.

Meher had shifted in her sleep, one arm thrown across his chest, her face tucked against his shoulder, legs tangled with his. She was holding him tightly, like he was the only safe thing in the world.

Kabir froze.

He tried to gently lift her arm but only to make her tightened her grip, mumbling something incoherent, and burrowed closer.

He tried again, more carefully.

She sighed in her sleep and snuggled even tighter.

Kabir let out a long, defeated breath and stared at the ceiling again.

“So this is how it’s going to be,” he whispered to the darkness, "Dadi, where have you trapped me? A few hours ago I had control over my own life. Now I can't even move without permission."

And he didn't push her away again.