NO-ONE'S POV:

The Mehra house was never calm.

It was a living, breathing organism of chaos-a symphony of mismatched slippers, forgotten grocery lists, and Rushika's eternal sigh echoing through every corridor. The walls had absorbed years of laughter, arguments, the smell of burning rotis, and the constant, comforting noise of a home that was alive. The house had seen weddings and funerals, births and deaths, and somehow, through it all, it had learned to breathe with its inhabitants, to sigh when they sighed, to laugh when they laughed.

But today?

Today was something else entirely.

From Aarohi's room, the music was loud enough to shake the windows.

"Girl, you're my chammak challo...

Where you go, girl, I am gonna follow..."

The bass thumped through the walls, rattling the frames of Rushika's (mom) wedding photos, sending a gentle tremor through the chai cups in the kitchen. The neighbour's dog, which had been sleeping peacefully on the veranda, lifted its head, ears pricked, and then-deciding this was above his pay grade-lowered it again. The ceiling fan in the living room hummed in protest. The pots in the kitchen, freshly washed, clinked against each other in rhythm.

Rushika stood at the bottom of the staircase, one hand on her hip, the other holding a cup of chai that had long gone cold. Her grey hair was escaping from its bun-it had been a day. It was barely noon, and it had already been a day.

She listened to the music, the lyrics filtering through the chaos:

"What you want, girl, just let me know...

You can be my chammak challo..."

And then-her daughter's voice, singing along with the absolute confidence of someone who believed she was the main character in a music video. Which, Rushika suspected, Aarohi genuinely believed. She had always been like that, even as a child-singing at the top of her lungs in the shower, dancing in the rain, narrating her life like it was a film. It was exhausting. It was also, Rushika had to admit, one of the things she loved most about her.

She sighed. A long, practiced sigh. The kind that came from twenty-one years of managing one particular disaster of a daughter.

"Shawty I'm gonna getcha...

You know I'm gonna getcha..."

The floorboards above her head creaked in time with the beat. Something-probably a shoe-hit the wall. Another thing-definitely a book-hit the floor.

Rushika took a sip of cold chai. Grimaced. Put the cup down.

"Aarohi!" she called, her voice carrying up the stairs with the force of years of practice.

No response. The music continued, louder now:

"Kaisa sharmana, aaja nachke dikha de..."

"AAROHI!"

Still nothing. Rushika could picture her daughter perfectly-headphones probably discarded somewhere, hair flying, mouth wide open, lost in her own world. The way she had always been. The way Rushika had always let her be.

She began climbing the stairs, muttering under her breath, "Bhagwan... bas ghar jalne se bacha lo. Main itni umar mein beghar nahi hona chahti."

The stairs creaked under her weight. They had creaked for thirty years. They would creak for thirty more. She touched the wall as she climbed, feeling the familiar texture of the old paint, the slight give where the plaster had aged. This house. This girl. This life.

---

Inside Aarohi's room, it looked like a tornado had fallen deeply, passionately in love with destruction and decided to settle there permanently, maybe even raise a family.

Clothes were everywhere. Not neatly folded, not even crumpled-just everywhere. Kurtis hung off the ceiling fan, their sleeves reaching down like they were trying to escape. A dupatta was wrapped around the lamp, giving the room a soft, orange glow that was almost romantic if you ignored the chaos. Three sarees lay rejected on the floor in various states of defeat, their colors bright-a deep blue, a vibrant green, a soft pink-but their spirits crushed by the sheer volume of competition.

The bed had long since surrendered to the chaos. It wasn't visible anymore. Somewhere beneath the mountain of fabric, there might have been pillows, maybe even Aarohi's phone, possibly a sandwich from three days ago. No one would ever know. The investigation would be too dangerous.

The floor was questionable terrain. Navigating it required the skills of a bomb disposal expert. A single misstep and you'd be buried in silk, emerging hours later smelling of sandalwood and regret. A pair of chappals had been lost somewhere near the cupboard, their mate possibly in another dimension.

And in the very center of this beautiful, terrifying disaster-was Aarohi Mehra.

She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that belonged to her brother and pyjamas that had started white years ago but were now mostly a soft, faded pink from countless washes. Her hair was loose, flying around her as she spun, her arms outstretched, her eyes closed, her whole body moving to the beat. She was not a trained dancer. She was something better: someone who danced like no one was watching, like the music was the only thing that mattered, like the whole world could end and she would still be here, spinning.

"Tu meri chammak challo...

teri picture ka main hero..."

She sang along, loud and off-key and utterly unbothered. Her voice cracked on the high notes. She didn't care. She grabbed a dupatta from the pile on her bed-a bright orange one with gold thread, the one her mother had given her last Diwali-and twirled it above her head like a flag of surrender to joy.

"Give it to me, girl, mujhe de do ho ho..."

She threw the dupatta in the air. It caught on the ceiling fan, which was still rotating slowly, and began a lazy, graceful flight around the room. She watched it for a moment, mesmerized, then shrugged and grabbed another one-a soft green this time, the one she had worn to her cousin's wedding.

"Shawty, I'm gonna getcha... You know I'm gonna getcha..."

---

Kabir's room was at the end of the hall, the door always slightly ajar, the light always on before anyone else woke up.

He was already dressed—his police uniform crisp, his boots polished, his badge pinned to his chest. He stood in front of the small mirror in his room, adjusting his collar, his face expressionless, his mind already at work. There was a case waiting for him. There was always a case. The city didn't sleep, and neither did he.

From down the hall, the music started.

“Girl, you're my chammak challo…

Where you go, girl, I am gonna follow…”

Kabir's jaw tightened. Then relaxed. He shook his head.

He picked up his phone, checked the time. He had fifteen minutes before he needed to leave. He walked toward Aarohi's room.

---

The door was open. He stood in the doorway, watching the chaos unfold.

His sister was in the middle of the room, her hair flying, her arms waving, her voice competing with the music. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that had once been his, he noticed, before she had claimed it as her own years ago. She was singing at the top of her lungs, her face tilted toward the ceiling, her whole body moving.

“Shawty I'm gonna getcha… You know I'm gonna getcha…”

Kabir leaned against the doorframe. Crossed his arms. Watched.

She spun, almost fell over a pile of clothes, caught herself on the bed, kept dancing.

He let out a slow breath. “Chutki.”

She didn't hear him.

“CHUTKI.”

She froze. Mid-spin. Her arms still raised, her hair a disaster, her face flushed. She turned slowly, her eyes finding him in the doorway.

Her face broke into a grin. “BHAI!”

She launched herself at him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her weight nearly knocking him off balance. He caught her, steady, immovable.

“Tu abhi bhi taiyaar nahi hui?” he asked, his voice flat.

“Hone wali hoon!”

“Kapde dekhe maine. Tera room dekha. Tera suitcase dekha. Kuch nahi hua hai.”

Aarohi pulled back, her hands on his shoulders, her face the picture of innocence. “Planning chal rahi hai. Strategy bana rahi hoon.”

“Packing ke liye strategy?”

“Bohot complex hai. Aap budhe nahi samjhenge.”

Kabir's mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile—he didn't smile easily—but it was close. “Mujhe samjhao.”

“Nahi, aap ko office jaana hai. Main aap ka time waste nahi karungi.”

“Pehle kar chuki.”

She laughed, bright and loud, and for a moment, the hard lines of his face softened.

He reached out, flicked her forehead. “Chutki.”

“OYE!”

“Jaldi kar. Nahi toh shaadi ke baad pahunchogi.”

“Main time pe pahunchungi! Main responsible hoon!”

He looked at the room. At the clothes everywhere. At the empty suitcase. At the dupatta on the lamp.

“Responsible?”

“Bohot.”

“Yeh responsible lag raha hai?”

“Creative responsible. Bohot advanced hai.”

He shook his head. There was something in his eyes, though—something that wasn't quite amusement, wasn't quite concern. Something heavier.

“Chutki.”

“Hmm?” She was already turning back to her packing, grabbing a handful of bangles, trying to decide which ones to take.

“Wahan sambhal ke rehna.”

She turned back, frowning. “Kyun?”

“Bas.”

“Main bacchi nahi hoon.”

“Pata hai.” He stepped closer, adjusted her collar—the one she had stolen from him, the one that was too big for her, the one she had worn for years. “Phir bhi bol raha hoon.”

She looked at him. There was something in his face that she didn't understand. Something that looked almost like worry.

“Bhai, sab theek hai?”

He blinked. The mask slid back into place. “Perfect.”

“Tu bohot bolta nahi, par jab bolta hai, tension wali baat bolta hai.”

“Tension nahi hai.”

“Jhoot.”

“Chutki.”

“BHAI.”

He flicked her forehead again. She slapped his hand away. He caught her wrist, held it for a moment, then let go.

“Jaldi kar. Driver waiting hai.”

“Tu aa raha hai ya nahi?”

“Office.”

“Hawww… itni bhi kya duty? Thoda enjoy kar life. Thoda has liya kar. Smile muscles bhi weak ho jaate hain.”

His expression didn't change. “Sabko nahi milti luxury.”

There was something in his tone. Cold. Heavy. A door closing on something he didn't want her to see.

Aarohi noticed. She always noticed. But she didn't push. She never pushed.

“Thik hai, Inspector sahab. Duty pe focus karo. Main shaadi mein mazaa karungi.”

He stepped back. Picked up his phone, his wallet, his keys. He was ready to leave. He always was.

At the door, he paused.

“Chutki.”

“Hmm?”

He didn't turn around. “Apna khayal rakhna.”

Something in his voice made her chest tight. She didn't know why.

“Aap bhi.”

Then he was gone. She heard his footsteps on the stairs, the front door opening and closing, the car starting.

She stood in the middle of her room, surrounded by chaos, her heart beating a little faster than it should.

She shook her head. Picked up her phone. The music started again.

“Wanna be my chammak challo…”

She danced. She packed. She forgot.

---

Kabir went down stairs, goodbye his mother (Ruchika) and for office.

---

She was in the middle of a dramatic move-one hand on her hip, the other pointing to the imaginary camera, her hair whipping around her face like she was in a music video-when the door swung open.

Rushika stood in the doorway.

Aarohi froze. Her hand was still raised. Her mouth was still open. Her hair was still wild, a few strands sticking to her forehead. The green dupatta was mid-flight, caught in the breeze from the fan.

The music continued, oblivious:

"Kaisa sharmana, aaja nachke dikha de..."

They stared at each other.

For a long moment, neither moved. Rushika's expression was unreadable-caught somewhere between exasperation and something that looked suspiciously like suppressed laughter. Aarohi's face was frozen in a rictus of guilt that was so exaggerated it looped back around to comedy.

Then Aarohi, without missing a beat, without a shred of shame, grabbed her mother's hands and pulled her into the room.

"MAA! COME ON!"

Rushika yelped. "Aarohi-main-chai-gir raha hai-"

But Aarohi had already taken the chai cup from her hands-carefully, with the reverence of a priest handling sacred offerings-and placed it on the one clear corner of the dresser. Then she grabbed her mother's hands again, lacing their fingers together like they were about to waltz.

"Dance with me!"

"Beta, main-mere umar mein-yeh kya-tum pagal ho gayi ho-"

But Aarohi was already singing, pointing at her mother, her eyes bright, her grin infectious, her voice rising with the music:

"Kaisa sharmana... aaja nachke dikha de..."

Rushika tried to pull away. She really did. Her back was stiff from years of sitting at the sewing machine. Her knees creaked when she stood too long. Her hair was coming out of its bun. She was not, she told herself firmly, the kind of woman who danced.

But the music was loud, and her daughter was ridiculous, and somewhere deep inside her, the woman who had once danced at her own wedding with the same reckless joy-the woman who had spun in her father's arms at her cousin's wedding, who had laughed until she cried at her friend's sangeet, who had taught Aarohi her first dance steps-was waking up.

She laughed. "Main nahi jaanti yeh gana-"

"Apun sikha dega!" Aarohi declared, spinning her mother in a clumsy circle.

Rushika stumbled, her slippers sliding on the pile of clothes beneath her feet. She caught herself on Aarohi's shoulder, and then-she was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. She let her daughter pull her around the room, stepping over sarees, dodging the lamp that was now wearing her dupatta, her hair finally escaping its bun entirely.

"Aa meri hole... aaja parda gira de..."

Aarohi pointed at her mother, her voice rising, her whole face alight: "Aa meri aankhiyon se ankhiya mila le..."

Rushika, breathless, catching her breath, sang back, her voice thin but true, surprising herself: "Aa tu na nakhre dikha..."

Aarohi gasped. "MAA! YOU KNOW THE SONG!"

"Bahut suna hai tune! Subah se loop pe chal raha hai!"

"SO WHY WERE YOU PRETENDING?!"

"Tumhare saath dance karne se pehle main sochti hoon, kya main mentally prepared hoon! Iske liye preparation chahiye!"

Aarohi laughed. The sound filled the room, bounced off the walls, made the dupatta on the fan sway. She grabbed her mother's waist-her mother who was still laughing, who was now singing along under her breath-and spun her in a move that was definitely not choreographed and definitely dangerous.

"Kannil kannai pottu vittaal sirikka matta... Ennila unnai suttu vittaal ottikka matta..."

The Tamil verse came on, the words foreign but the rhythm familiar. Aarohi sang it with absolutely zero understanding of the meaning but with full confidence, her voice soaring, her arms wide. Rushika didn't know the words at all, so she hummed loudly, her voice drowning in laughter, her hands clutching her daughter's shoulders for balance.

They spun, they stumbled, they nearly knocked over the pile of rejected sarees. Aarohi grabbed her mother's dupatta-the one she was wearing, a simple cotton one with a small border of gold-and waved it like a victory flag.

"Wanna be my chammak challo...

Wanna be my chammak challo..."

Rushika, breathless, laughing, threw her hands up. "MAIN HOON! MAIN HOON! BAS CHHODO!"

Aarohi screamed with joy-a sound that was pure, unadulterated happiness-pulled her mother into a final spin, and they collapsed together on the pile of clothes that had once been a bed.

The song faded. The room was quiet for a moment, except for their breathing, harsh and fast, and the distant sounds of the city outside.

Then Rushika looked at the ceiling. At the dupatta still hanging from the lamp, now swinging gently like a pendulum. At the clothes everywhere, the chaos, the beautiful disaster that was her daughter's life. At the open, empty suitcase sitting in the corner, its mouth gaping.

She took a deep breath. "Aarohi."

"Hmm?" Her daughter's voice was muffled, her face pressed into a pile of kurtas.

"Tum packing kar rahi thi ya music video shoot?"

"Dono." Aarohi's voice was smug. "Multitasking."

"Aur suitcase?"

Aarohi lifted her head. She looked at the empty suitcase. She looked at her mother. She looked at the clothes everywhere. Her expression went through several stages: confusion, realization, horror, and then-complete, absolute innocence.

"Detail mein mat jao na."

Rushika closed her eyes. Slowly. Deliberately. The way she had been closing her eyes for twenty-one years.

"Bhagwan... meri pariksha mat lo. Main itni umar mein pariksha dene ke liye ready nahi hoon."

She sat up, pulling Aarohi with her. Her daughter's face was flushed, her hair a disaster-half of it had escaped whatever hairstyle she had attempted, and the rest was now decorated with a stray strand of thread from the orange dupatta. Her smile was still bright, still unrepentant, still exactly the same as it had been when she was six years old and had painted the dog orange.

Rushika tucked a strand of hair behind Aarohi's ear. "Chal," she said, her voice softer now. "Ab packing karte hain. Seedha. Proper. Without dancing."

Aarohi saluted dramatically, nearly hitting the lamp. "Yes, maa! Apne haath jodti hoon. Aap bas batao kya karna hai. Main agyakari hoon mate. Bohot agyakari."

Rushika raised an eyebrow.

"Aaj se."

"Tum aaj se agyakari ho?"

"Aaj se hi toh zaroorat hai na? Kal se phir se nahi rahungi."

Rushika shook her head, but she was smiling. She picked up a kurta from the floor-a soft blue one with simple embroidery, the one she had bought for Aarohi last month-and folded it with the neat precision of years of practice. Corners aligned. Sleeves tucked. Fabric smoothed. She placed it in the suitcase.

"Tumhare kapde. Proper packing. Dekh rahi ho?"

Aarohi watched, her chin in her hands, her elbows on her knees. "Bohot professional lag raha hai."

"Experience hai."

"Kitne saal ki?"

"Tumhari umar ki."

Aarohi grinned. She picked up a dupatta-the green one-folded it once, twice, threw it in the suitcase. "Done."

Rushika took it out. "Yeh kya folding hai?"

"Modern folding. Bohot trendy hai. Fashion blogs mein dekha."

"Trendy nahi, ulta hai."

"Mujhe ulta pasand hai."

"Ulta pasand hai toh ghar mein ulta rakho. Suitcase mein seedha rakhna padta hai."

Rushika folded the dupatta again-properly, neatly, corners aligned-and placed it beside the kurta. Aarohi leaned her chin on her mother's shoulder, her weight familiar, her warmth familiar.

"Aap na ho toh main barbaad ho jaaun," she said quietly.

Rushika's hands paused. Just for a second. Her fingers hovered over the next kurta. Then she continued folding.

"Tum already ho."

"RUDE."

They worked together, Rushika folding, Aarohi mostly handing her things and occasionally trying to sneak something in that made no sense. A book of poetry. A pair of yellow chappals. A framed photo of them from three years ago, when Aarohi had just finished school and Rushika had looked younger, less grey, and they had both been so happy they thought it would last forever.

"Yeh kya hai?" Rushika held up the photo.

"Yaadgaar."

"Shaadi mein le jaana hai?"

"Haan. Dikhaungi sabko. Meri maa kitni pretty hai."

Rushika looked at the photo. At herself, laughing, her hair still dark, her eyes still bright. At Aarohi, seventeen, already wild, already too much for the world to handle. At the two of them, arms around each other, standing in front of this very house, the same house that had held them for so long.

She smiled softly. She put the photo in the suitcase.

"Theek hai. Ek cheez tumhari marzi."

Aarohi's grin softened. "Thank you, maa."

---

The packing continued, slower now, more peaceful. The afternoon light had shifted, moving across the room in golden bars, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air. The chaos was still there, but somehow, with Rushika there, it felt less like destruction and more like life.

Rushika told her about the wedding. About Meera's family, about who would be there, about which aunties to smile at and which to avoid. She talked about the food-the paneer was supposed to be legendary-and the decorations, and the band that had been hired from Delhi.

Bua ji aa rahi hain?" Aarohi asked, her voice innocent.

"Haan."

"Woh wali jo last time..."

"Haan. Woh wali."

"Unka nada chura ke kahan chhupau is baar?"

"AAROHI."

"Main mazaak kar rahi hoon!"

"Tumhari mazaak ki koi guarantee nahi hai. Tum kuch bhi kar sakti ho. Main kuch bhi expect kar sakti hoon."

Aarohi laughed, and Rushika laughed with her, and for a moment, the weight that had been sitting on Rushika's shoulders for so long seemed to lift.

The suitcase was almost full now. The room was still a disaster, but somehow, with Rushika there, it felt less like chaos and more like home.

Finally, the last item was packed. Rushika zipped the suitcase, sat on it to close it properly.

"Ho gaya."

Aarohi looked at the packed suitcase, then at her mother. Her expression shifted, just slightly. The lightness faded, replaced by something quieter, something that had been there all along but hidden.

"Aap aa rahi ho na?"

Rushika's expression flickered. For a moment, something crossed her face-something that looked like worry, like weight, like a secret she had been carrying for too long.

"Main... thoda baad aaungi. Kuch kaam hai."

"Shaadi mein kaam?" Aarohi's voice was light, but her eyes were sharp.

"Haan. Zaroori kaam."

"Kab aaogi?"

Rushika smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Jaldi. Bohot jaldi."

Aarohi opened her mouth to ask more, but her phone buzzed. A message. The driver was waiting.

She looked at her mother. There was something in Rushika's face that she didn't understand, something that made her chest tight.

"Main chalti hoon?"

Rushika nodded. She stood, pulling Aarohi up with her. She cupped her daughter's face in her hands-the same face she had held when Aarohi was a child, when she was sick, when she was sad, when she was too happy to contain herself.

"Vijayi bhawah putri" she said.

Aarohi leaned into her mother's hands. "Drama queen mat bano. Main shaadi attend karne ja rahi hoon, jung pe nahi."

Rushika smiled faintly. "Tum ho na... toh dono same hi lagta hai."

They both laughed. Light. Normal. Like nothing was wrong.

Aarohi picked up her suitcase, her bag, her phone. She was ready. She was glowing.

"Chalti hoon maa."

"Jaao."

"Miss karogi mujhe?"

"Bohot."

Aarohi's grin softened. She leaned in, pressed a kiss to Rushika's cheek.

"I love you, maa."

Rushika closed her eyes. The words were old, familiar, worn smooth by years of use. But today, they felt heavier. Today, they felt like goodbye.

"Main bhi, beti."

Then Aarohi was out the door, her laughter echoing down the stairs, her voice already shouting goodbye to the neighbours, her presence already fading.

Rushika stood at the window and watched her go.

★ Aarohi outfit ★★

---

The car pulled away. Aarohi waved until she was out of sight, her hand a small motion against the window, her face a blur of colour and light.

And then Rushika was alone in the quiet house.

She stood there for a long time, watching the empty street. The afternoon sun was fading now, the shadows growing long. The house was settling around her, the familiar creaks and groans of its old bones. Somewhere, a bird was singing.

She thought about the photo in Aarohi's suitcase. The one where they were both laughing, both happy, both sure that the future would be kind.

She thought about the secret she had been carrying for six years. The truth she had buried so deep she had almost convinced herself it didn't exist.

She thought about her daughter, driving away, unaware.

Then she picked up her phone. She scrolled to a number she had never called. She stared at it for a long time, her thumb hovering over the screen.

The house was silent. The bird had stopped singing. The shadows had swallowed the garden.

And then-

She pressed dial.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end was smooth. Professional. Waiting.

"Main..." Rushika's voice was steady. "Main aapse milna chahti hoon. Aaj. Jaaldi."

There was a pause.

"Woh baat? Jo maine sochi thi?"

Rushika looked out the window one more time. The car was gone. The street was empty. Her daughter was somewhere out there, driving toward a wedding, toward a future she didn't know was waiting.

"Haan," she said. "Wohi baat."

---

The car was moving, the city passing by in a blur of colour and noise. The highway stretched ahead, endless and golden in the afternoon light. Aarohi was in the back seat, her suitcase in the trunk, her bag on her lap, her phone in her hand. She was scrolling through photos-her and Meera from college, from holidays, from the day they had decided they would always be friends, no matter what.

She smiled. She was going to a wedding. She was going to dance. She was going to eat too much. She was going to make her friends laugh.

She was going to be happy.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. "Madam, kuch chahiye? Pani? Chai?"

"Chai? Highway pe chai milti hai?"

"Hotel hai thoda aage. Acchi chai milti hai."

Aarohi considered. "Chai ke saath kuch meetha bhi?"

"Jalebi."

“Ruko. Jalebi ke liye ruko. Main chahti hoon meri shaadi wali entry sweet ho.”

The driver laughed. Aarohi laughed.

They stopped. She bought jalebis, hot and crisp, dripping with syrup. She ate one, the sweetness bursting on her tongue, and she thought—this is what life should be. Sweet. Warm. Simple.

---

The car pulled up to the wedding venue as the afternoon light was softening into gold.

The haveli was enormous—a palace of white marble and red sandstone, its towers reaching toward the sky, its gates thrown open to welcome the guests. Fairy lights were already being strung along the arches, their soft glow just beginning to compete with the setting sun. Marigold garlands hung from every pillar, their orange petals catching the light, turning it into something almost holy. The air smelled of roses and cardamom, of anticipation and joy.

Aarohi stepped out of the car, her suitcase in hand, her jalebis finished, her heart light. She looked up at the haveli. At the lights, the flowers, the people already gathering. At the life and noise and colour of it all.

She took a deep breath.

And then—

She walked in.

---

The wedding didn't start with rituals.

It started with noise.

And gossip. Lots of gossip.

The courtyard of the grand haveli had been transformed overnight into a sea of marigold and fairy lights. Red and gold drapes hung from every archway. The stage was set, the mandap ready, the caterers rushing with trays of steaming food. But none of that mattered until the aunties arrived.

They came in waves-first the local ones, then the ones from Delhi, then the distant relatives who hadn't seen each other in years and had decades of catching up to do. They settled into their chairs like generals surveying a battlefield, their eyes sharp, their voices low, their judgement absolute.

"Arey sunaa kya? Ladke waale Delhi ke hain..." announced Aunty Sharma, settling into her cane chair with the practiced grace of a woman who had been to forty-three weddings and remembered every single one.

Aunty Gupta, her neighbor and lifelong rival in all things saree-related, leaned in immediately. "Delhi ke? Tabhi attitude dekh rahi thi main. Jaise kisi ke baap se pooch kar aaye hain."

"Ladki bechari seedhi lagti hai..."

"Seedhi? Aaj kal koi seedha hota hai kya?"

"Hum hote the."

"Hum log the, ab yeh nayi generation..."

Aunty Kapoor joined them, fanning herself with a dupatta despite the pleasant evening breeze. "Arre woh ladki ka lehenga dekha? Bhai ka paisa hai ya sasural ka?"

"Ladki ki maa ne khud chuna hai. Bohot simple hai."

"Simple? Uske blouse ka design dekh liya? Simple nahi, strategy hai."

Aunty Sharma nodded sagely. "Shaadi ke pehle sab simple lagte hain. Shaadi ke baad original picture aati hai."

"Aap toh expert lagti hain."

"Teen betiyan byah ke aayi hoon. Main toh PhD kar li is sab mein."

They laughed, the kind of laugh that comes from decades of shared experience, of weddings attended and survived, of daughters married and sons brought home. Aunty Kapoor adjusted her saree and added, "Aur yeh ladka waale Delhi se hain toh ek baat aur confirm hai-khana achha hoga. Delhi waale khane mein compromise nahi karte."

"Woh toh hai. Par ladki waale ne catering kaunsi company rakhi?"

"Sharma Caterers."

"Accha? Unka paneer tikka legendary hai."

"Woh toh hai, par unki dal makhani average hai."

"Average? Tumhe kya chahiye? Michelin star?"

"Shaadi hai, Michelin nahi."

They were still debating the dal makhani when the entrance carpet rippled with a commotion. Heads turned. Conversations paused. The aunties leaned forward like meerkats spotting movement.

And then-

Aarohi Mehra entered.

Not like a heroine. Not slow motion. Not dramatic.

She literally tripped on the entrance carpet.

"OH TERI-"

Her arms windmilled. Her dupatta flew upward in a graceful arc, catching the fairy lights like a banner. One chappal went sailing somewhere toward the dessert table, landing with a soft thud in a bowl of raita. She grabbed the nearest pillar-which happened to be holding up the entrance arch-steadied herself, and stood there for a moment, breathing hard.

The entire wedding party stared.

She paused. Looked around at the fifty-plus people now watching her. Coughed once into her fist. Then walked in like nothing had happened, chin high, steps measured, as if she had planned the whole thing as an avant-garde performance piece.

"Graceful entry thi..." she announced to no one in particular, flipping her hair back. "Bas tum log samajh nahi paaye."

From the aunty section, someone choked on their chai. Aunty Sharma pressed her napkin to her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Aunty Gupta grabbed Aunty Kapoor's arm. Aunty Kapoor whispered, "Yeh ladki kahan se aa gayi?"

And Aunty Sharma, who had seen everything in her forty-three weddings, whispered back, "Pata nahi, par bohot maza aayega aaj."

---

Aarohi's eyes scanned the courtyard like a heat-seeking missile. She spotted the bride almost immediately-sitting on the stage, surrounded by women applying mehendi, looking like a golden statue trying very hard to look calm.

She ran.

Not walked. Ran. Straight. Through clusters of relatives. Dodging trays of samosas. Leaping over a child who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at her with the same awe usually reserved for superheroes.

"Side de naaa!"

She reached the stage. Ignored the mehendi artist's shriek. Ignored the bride's mother's gasp. Ignored everything.

Grabbed the bride.

"HUG ATTACK!"

Meera, who had been sitting in perfect poise for three hours, let out a strangled yelp as she was pulled into a crushing embrace.

"AAROHI!!"

"TU SHAADI KAR RAHI HAI?? WITHOUT TELLING ME?!"

"Invite bheja tha pagli!" Meera wheezed, trying to free herself. "Tu aayi kyun nahi kal?"

"Emotionally nahi bataya! Invite se kya hota hai? Emotionally bola hona chahiye tha! 'Aarohi, main shaadi kar rahi hoon, please aa jaa, teri best friend ki shaadi hai, teri zaroorat hai, mere saath khada reh, warna main nahi karungi.' Aisa bolna chahiye tha!"

Meera stared at her. "Main itna kaise bolti?"

"Tu bolti nahi, ro deti. Main samajh jaati."

They pulled back. Looked at each other. Meera's eyes were suspiciously bright. Aarohi's were already wet.

Then-

Both screamed.

Together.

Like idiots.

The entire wedding paused to stare at them again. Aunty Sharma, from her prime viewing position, leaned over to Aunty Gupta. "Yeh dono kya kar rahi hain?"

"Emotional moment hai," Aunty Gupta said wisely. "Best friends ki shaamiyana."

"Yeh emotional moment lag raha hai ya apne hi ghar mein riot macha rahi hain?"

"Dono."

Aarohi grabbed Meera's face in her hands, tilting it left, then right, like she was examining something precious.

"Tu ro rahi thi kya?"

"Nahi toh..."

"Sach bol."

"Thoda..."

Aarohi softened. Her hands gentled on Meera's cheeks. "Dar lag raha hai?"

Meera nodded. Just slightly. Her lower lip trembled.

Aarohi leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow still carried to the first three rows of guests. "Dar lagna chahiye."

Meera blinked. "KYA?"

"Shaadi hai, Meera. Picnic nahi." Aarohi's face was dead serious. "Life commitment. Forever. Ek insaan ke saath. Saansein. Kapde. Khana. Subah uthna. Raat sona. Uske saath breakfast. Uske saath arguments. Uske saath chai. Uske saath zindagi. Bohot bada deal hai. Tujhe pata hai main kitni badi baat kar rahi hoon? Main toh chai bhi kisi ke saath share nahi karti."

Meera stared at her.

Then-

They both burst out laughing. The kind of laugh that bends you double, that makes your stomach hurt, that comes from years of friendship and knowing each other's souls.

"You're the worst," Meera said, wiping her eyes.

"Tu toh meri best friend hai. Mera duty hai tujhe reality check dena."

"Shaadi se pehle?"

"Shaadi se pehle hi dena chahiye. Shaadi ke baad toh tu already commit ho chuki hogi. Phir main kuch nahi kar sakti."

Meera laughed again, and for a moment, the tension in her shoulders eased. Aarohi saw it. She didn't mention it. She just held her friend's hand and squeezed.

From the aunty section, Aunty Kapoor nudged Aunty Sharma. "Dekho. Sach mein pyaar hai in dono mein."

Aunty Sharma nodded slowly. "Woh toh hai. Par yeh ladki-" she gestured toward Aarohi, who was now arranging Meera's dupatta with the concentration of a brain surgeon, "-yeh apni best friend ki shaadi mein khud hero ban ke aayi hai."

"Hero nahi, heroine."

"Heroine nahi, full-on entertainment package."

---

Aarohi had been at the wedding for exactly twelve minutes, and the aunties had already formed a committee.

"Yeh kaun hai?" Aunty Kapoor asked, her voice low.

"Kis ki beti hai?"

"Bohot bolti hai..."

"Par pyaari hai..."

"Thodi zyada hi pyaari hai... suspicious hai."

Aunty Sharma, who had been watching Aarohi navigate through the crowd with the ease of someone who had been doing this her whole life, said slowly, "Dekhte hain. Pehla impression toh acha hai. Par shaadi mein pehla impression ka koi value nahi hota. Real test hai-baki logon ke saath kaise interact karti hai."

Aarohi, having released Meera to the mercy of the mehendi artist, was now walking toward the aunties. Directly. With purpose.

The committee straightened. Adjusted their sarees. Prepared their best evaluation mode faces.

Aarohi stopped in front of them. Folded her hands. Her smile was sweet, her eyes bright, her posture respectful.

"Namaste aunty ji." She went down the line. "Namaste bua ji. Namaste chachi ji. Kaise ho aap? Aapki tabiyat theek hai? Aapne khana khaya? Garma garam pakode aa rahe hain wahan pe, maine dekha. Aap logo ke liye special order diya hai. Unka chutney bhi special hai. Maine taste kiya. Mera recommendation hai, definitely try karna."

Aunty Sharma, who had been prepared to be stern, found herself smiling. "Tum kiske saath aayi ho, beta?"

Aarohi pointed behind her. "Main apne saath aayi hoon. Full package. Self-contained. Baaratiyon ki zaroorat nahi."

The aunties laughed. They weren't supposed to laugh at such a line. But they did.

"Bohot bolti hai," Aunty Kapoor said, but she was smiling as she said it.

Aarohi tilted her head. "Bohot kuch bolna padta hai, aunty ji. Duniya bohot bolti hai. Main bas balance maintain kar rahi hoon."

Aunty Gupta leaned forward. "Shaadi kab kar rahi ho, beta?"

Aarohi didn't blink. She didn't giggle. She didn't look away and pretend to be shy. She met Aunty Gupta's eyes squarely and said, with perfect seriousness:

"Jab ladka zinda bach gaya mere standards se."

Dead silence.

The aunties stared.

And then-laughter. Real laughter. The kind that makes you clutch your stomach and lean on each other.

"Isko toh koi special Banda hi control karega..." Aunty Kapoor gasped.

"Ya yeh usko or baki sabko control karegi," Aunty Sharma countered.

"Kyun control karna?" Aarohi asked, her voice light. "Shaadi hai, jail nahi. Agar control karna hai toh main apne aap ko control kar lungi. Ladke ko kyun control karna?"

Aunty Gupta had no answer for that. She just laughed harder.

---

THE MEHENDI

The mehendi station was a riot of color and chatter. Women sat in clusters, their hands extended, their laughter rising above the soft music. The air was thick with the scent of henna and rosewater, of cardamom chai and fresh samosas.

---

★★ Aarohi's outfit ★★

★★ Meera's outfit ★★
---

Aarohi had been claimed by a group of young cousins who insisted she sit with them. She had been claimed, too, by the mehendi artist-a woman in her forties named Rumpi who had been decorating brides for twenty years and had developed the patience of a saint specifically for girls like Aarohi.

"Madam, haath seedha rakho."

"Seedha hai."

"Aap hil rahe ho."

"Creative energy, didi. Can't control it. It's a gift. Also a curse. Mostly gift."

Rumpi looked at the ceiling. "Is there someone I can call? A doctor? A priest? An exorcist?"

"My mother tried all three. None worked."

The women around them laughed. They had been watching this exchange for the last ten minutes, and it was better than any TV serial.

Aarohi's hands were already covered in intricate patterns-vines and flowers and delicate swirls that crawled up her wrists, her forearms, reaching toward her elbows. Her feet were next, the design spreading up her ankles, her calves, toward her knees.

"Why so much mehendi?" one of the cousins asked.

Aarohi shrugged, careful not to move her hands. "Full package, yaar. Head to toe. Basic."

"Nahi, actual mein kyun?"

Aarohi leaned forward conspiratorially. "Secret."

"Kya secret?"

"Bataya toh secret nahi rahega."

The cousins groaned. Aarohi grinned.

Rumpi worked quietly, her hands steady, her eyes focused. She liked this girl. Annoying, yes. Exhausting, absolutely. But real. Not pretending. Not performing. Just... herself.

One of the aunties-Aunty Meera's mother's cousin, a round woman with sharp eyes and a louder laugh-called out from her cushion, "Beta, shaadi mein mehendi ka matlab kya hota hai, pata hai?"

Aarohi thought for a moment. "Sundar dikhna."

"Nahi. Agar Mehandi ka gadha rang hoga, toh pati bohot pyaar karta hai."

Aarohi looked at her hands. "Toh agar rang gadha nahi hua toh?"

Aunty smiled mysteriously. "Toh pati ko pyaar karna seekhna padta hai."

Aarohi considered this. "Fair deal."

The aunty laughed. The cousins laughed. Rumpi shook her head but she was smiling.

---

The afternoon had softened into evening. The mehendi was almost done. A group of aunties had gathered around Aarohi, their curiosity piqued, their affection already invested.

Aunty Sharma, who had moved her chair closer under the pretense of better lighting, suddenly asked, "Arey wo gana kaunsa hai... Rana ji wala..."

Aarohi, who had been trying to flex her fingers without smudging, looked up. "Rana ji wala?"

"Haan haan! 'Mujhko Rana ji maaf karna...' wala."

Aarohi's face lit up. "Arey! Gup Chup! Haan haan, wohi!"

"Rana ji mujhe maaf karna, galti mhaare se ho gayi," Aunty Sharma sang in a high, teasing voice.

Aarohi nodded enthusiastically. "Bilkul wohi! Ladies Sangeet mein gaana hai?"

Aunty Sharma's eyes sparkled. "Tum gaayegi?"

"Main?" Aarohi blinked. "Main toh bas-"

"Tum gaayegi!" Aunty Sharma declared, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Bohot suna hai tumhe. Classical singer ho. Talent hai. Dikhana chahiye."

Aarohi's cheeks warmed slightly. "Aunty ji, main abhi mehendi laga rahi hoon-"

"Mehendi ka kya hai, raat ko Sangeet hai. Time hai. Tum gaayegi. Pakka."

The other aunties chimed in, their voices rising with excitement.

"Haan haan, Aarohi gaayegi!"

"Gup Chup wala gana!"

"Acting bhi karegi!"

"Bilkul! Jaisa gana mein hota hai!"

Aarohi opened her mouth to protest. Then closed it. Then looked at their faces-bright, expectant, genuinely excited. These were women who had been to a hundred weddings, who had seen a thousand performances, and they were asking her.

"Thik hai," she said softly. "Main gaaoongi or full drama bhi hoga."

The aunties cheered.

Rimpi, the mehendi artist's assistant, who had been listening from the side, leaned in. "Didi, uss gaane mein jo ladki bhanjoi ke saath galti se bistar par so jaati hai... woh dulhan ki behen hoti hai, na?"

Aarohi nodded. "Haan, woh wali."

Rimpi's eyes sparkled. "Toh matlab... aap uss gaane mein... dulhan ki behen hongi?"

Aarohi grinned. "Obviously. Main hi hero hoon."

Rimpi smirked, leaning closer. "Toh aapka pati... Rana ji hoga?"

Aarohi blinked.

The aunties went silent. Waiting.

And then-Aarohi blushed. Just slightly. A warm pink that crept up her cheeks. She ducked her head, pretending to examine her mehendi.

"Arey hatt na..."

The aunties erupted.

"OHHHHHHH!"

"Rana ji locked!"

"Confirmed!"

Aarohi laughed, waving her hands. "Arey nahi! Gana hai! Drama hai! Actual mein kuch nahi hai!"

"Phir blush kyun aaya?" Aunty Kapoor demanded.

"Agar aap log mere face pe itna focus karoge toh blush aayega hi! Basic biology!"

"Basic biology mein Rana ji ka naam nahi hota!"

Aarohi threw a cushion at her. The aunties laughed harder.

And in that moment, Rimpi moved. Quick. Deliberate. Her hand added something to the design on Aarohi's right palm. A letter. Hidden in the vines.

R.

Aarohi didn't notice. She was too busy arguing with the aunties about the biological impossibility of blushing at a fictional character.

Rimpi added another. Deeper. Hidden within the swirls.

RANA JI.

She sat back. Smiled. Said nothing.

---

"Ho gaya," Rimpi announced, sitting back with a satisfied sigh.

Aarohi looked at her hands. Her arms. Her feet. The designs were exquisite-delicate vines, tiny flowers, intricate patterns that seemed to move in the light.

"It's beautiful," she breathed.

"It is."

"I look like a princess."

"You look like you."

Aarohi's grin softened. "That's better."

But then she tried to stand. And realized-she couldn't. Not really. Her hands were stretched out, her feet still wet, her body a hostage to drying henna.

"Koi mujhe khana khila do," she announced loudly to the courtyard. "Main disabled hoon abhi."

Her cousin Rohan, who had been eyeing the samosas, volunteered. He came over with a plate, fed her a piece of paneer with exaggerated care. Aarohi smiled sweetly, chewed, swallowed.

Then she grabbed a handful of mirchi chutney from the bowl beside her and shoved it in his mouth.

"BALANCE."

He spluttered. She ran.

"PAKDO ISKO!"

He chased. She dodged. Her hands were still stretched out like a T-rex, her feet still bare, her laugh filling the courtyard.

"Arey meri saree!" Aunty Gupta shrieked as Aarohi ducked behind her.

"Sorry aunty ji!" Aarohi called, spinning away.

"Side please bua ji!"

"Love you chachi!"

She ran between cushions, leaped over a tray of sweets, slid under a table that someone had left in the middle of the courtyard for reasons no one questioned. Her mehendi was still wet, leaving faint orange prints on whoever got too close. She didn't care. She was alive. She was free.

And then-something unexpected happened.

The aunties joined in.

Aunty Sharma stood up, her saree hitched, her eyes bright. "Pakdo isko! Main help kar rahi hoon!"

Aunty Kapoor grabbed a cushion. "Main left se!"

Aunty Gupta positioned herself near the dessert table. "Main right se!"

Aunty Meera's mother's cousin-the one who had given the mehendi lecture-took charge. "Circle banao! Circle!"

The aunties formed a human chain. They moved slowly, deliberately, their sarees fluttering, their laughter echoing. The cousins joined. The younger girls joined. Even some of the older uncles, watching from the men's section, started taking bets.

Aarohi was cornered near the dessert table. She looked left. Aunty Kapoor with a cushion. She looked right. Aunty Gupta with a determined expression. She looked forward. Aunty Sharma, arms wide, grinning.

"Surrender," Aunty Sharma said.

Aarohi considered her options. She could run through the gap near the stage. She could try to climb over the dessert table. She could-

She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and said with all the dignity she could muster:

"I surrender."

The aunties cheered. They surrounded her, pulled her back to her seat, fussed over her hands, fixed her hair. They fed her gulab jamuns and told her stories about their own weddings, their own mehendi disasters, their own chases.

"You remind me of myself," Aunty Sharma said softly.

Aarohi looked at her. "Really?"

"No, I was saner. But I like you anyway."

Aarohi laughed. She leaned into them, let them hold her hands, let them pretend they weren't already planning her own wedding.

---

THE HALDI

The morning of the haldi ceremony dawned bright and golden.

---
★★ Aarohi's outfit ★★

★★ Meera's outfit ★★

---

The courtyard had been transformed overnight-marigold petals scattered across the floor, a small stage set up near the center, bowls of turmeric paste arranged like offerings at an altar. The women had gathered in their best yellow sarees, their faces hopeful, their spirits high.

Peaceful. Serene. Beautiful.

Aarohi entered.

She saw the bowl. She looked at Meera, who was sitting on the stage, already laughing with her cousins. She looked at the haldi.

And then-

The devil smiled.

"START."

She took a handful. Approached Meera with the grace of a predator. Applied it gently to her friend's cheeks. Her nose. Her forehead.

"Beautiful bride," she murmured.

Meera smiled. Relaxed.

Then-

SMACK. Full face. Haldi everywhere.

"AAAROHI!!!"

War.

Haldi flew. Faces turned yellow. Clothes were ruined. Dignity was abandoned. Aunties screamed. Uncles pretended they weren't watching. Children ran wild, their hands full of paste, their laughter manic.

Someone slipped on the marble floor. Someone screamed. Someone-no one knew who-threw a handful that landed squarely on the groom's mother's face.

The courtyard went silent.

The groom's mother stood there, yellow dripping down her nose, her expression unreadable.

Aarohi stepped forward. Folded her hands. Head bowed. Her voice was small, sincere, perfect.

"Mujhe maaf kar dijiye, aunty ji. Mera haath fisal gaya. Galti ho gayi. Bohot badi galti. Life ki sabse badi galti."

The groom's mother stared at her.

And then-she laughed. Loud.

Full. Delight. Everyone laugh too.

-------
To be continued...