The night of the LADIES' SANGEET had arrived.

The grand hall of the haveli had been transformed into something out of a dream. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their light scattering like diamonds across the marble floors. Fairy lights wrapped around every pillar, every arch, every window. The air smelled of jasmine and rosewater, of cardamom chai and sweet kesar kheer.

But the most important part of the hall-the very center of it-was empty.

A large circle had been formed in the middle of the room. Cushions were arranged in a perfect ring, each one a different shade of red and gold. In the center, a single cushion sat alone, waiting.

Fifteen aunties had already taken their places around the circle. More were arriving, settling onto cushions, adjusting their sarees, exchanging the kind of looks that promised entertainment of the highest order.

Aunty Sharma was there, of course. She had positioned herself at the prime spot-directly facing the center, where she could see everything and be seen by everyone. Her gold and red Banarasi saree was, she would tell anyone who asked, "bas kuch purani cheez." No one believed her.

Beside her sat Aunty Gupta, her lifelong rival in all things culinary, fashionable, and competitive. She was wearing a deep maroon saree that complemented her silver hair, and she was pretending not to notice that Aunty Sharma's saree had a heavier border.

Aunty Kapoor had claimed the cushion next to them, her green and gold silk rustling as she settled in. She was the youngest of the group, the one who still remembered what it was like to be a bride, and she had been looking forward to this night for weeks.

Aunty Meera's mother was there, her eyes already red from crying, her smile already fixed. She had been told there would be no crying tonight. She had promised. She was lying.

Aunty Meera's father's sister-known to everyone simply as Delhi Aunty-had arrived just that morning, and she had already declared the local food "acceptable" and the local decorations "charming" in a tone that suggested she meant neither. She was sitting slightly apart, her nose in the air, waiting to be impressed.

Aunty from Lucknow, who had come all the way for the wedding, sat beside her, smiling quietly. She knew something. She always knew something.

The other aunties filled in the circle-Aunty Sharma's younger sister, who was famous for her kheer; Aunty Gupta's cousin, who had once danced so hard at a wedding that her chappal flew into the priest's thali; the bride's mother's childhood friend, who had known her since they were five and had never missed a single family function; and more. Fifteen in total. Maybe sixteen. The count kept changing as more aunties arrived.

The younger women-cousins, nieces, friends-gathered outside the circle, their phones ready, their eyes bright. They had been waiting for this moment all week.

And in the center of it all, the single cushion waited.

"Aarohi kahaan hai?" Aunty Sharma demanded, looking around. "Bulao isko! Time ho raha hai!"

Aunty Gupta leaned forward. "Chai le rahi thi. Caterer ki taraf dekh rahi thi. Pata nahi kya soch rahi hai."

"Jab tak sochegi tab tak, shaadi khatam ho jayegi," Aunty Kapoor muttered.

The aunties laughed. And then-

The crowd parted.

Aarohi walked into the circle.

She was wearing a simple pastel lehenga-nothing too heavy, nothing too grand. Her hair was loose, her mehendi dark on her hands, her feet bare. She was holding a cup of chai in one hand and a samosa in the other.

She looked at the aunties. The aunties looked at her.

She took a bite of the samosa. Chewed. Swallowed.

"Ready ho?" she asked.

The aunties stared.

Aunty Sharma recovered first. "Bait! Pehle!"

Aarohi grinned. She handed her chai to a waiting cousin, placed the samosa carefully on a side table, and walked to the center cushion. She sat down cross-legged, her hands in her lap, her eyes bright.

"Shuru karein?" she asked.

The aunties leaned forward.

---

SONG : "GUPCHUP"

- WHERE FIFTEEN AUNTIES BECOME A CHORUS

The musician pressed play.

The opening notes of "Gup Chup" filled the hall-the familiar dhol beat, the teasing melody, the rhythm that made everyone's feet tap before they knew what was happening.

Aarohi closed her eyes for just a moment. When she opened them, she was someone else. She was the girl in the song. The innocent one. The one who had made a mistake. The one who needed to be forgiven.

She placed her hand on her chest, her face the picture of wounded innocence, and began to sing.

"Gupchup gupchup gupchup..."

The aunties swayed. Aunty Sharma, who had been waiting for this moment all week, raised her hand, pointing at Aarohi like a teacher about to deliver a verdict. Her voice was high, teasing, demanding:

"Lam-ba lam-ba ghoonghat kahe ko daala?"

Aarohi's eyes went wide. She looked down at her hands, then back at Aunty Sharma, her expression saying who, me? She spread her hands, miming confusion...

"Kya kaheen kar aayi tu muh kaala re..."

The aunties laughed. Aunty Gupta, not to be outdone, leaned forward, her voice joining Aunty Sharma's, the two of them harmonizing like they had been doing this for decades (which, in fact, they had):

"Gupchup gupchup gupchup...

Kaanon mein batiyaan karti hain sakhiyaan...

Raat kiya re tune kaisa ghotaala..."

Aarohi clutched her hands together, her face the picture of regret. She looked at each aunty in turn, her eyes pleading, her voice sweet:

"Chhat pe soya tha behnoi..."

She pointed toward the ceiling, toward an imaginary roof, toward the scene of the crime. Then she pointed at herself, her other hand on her chest, her face full of innocent confusion:

"Main tanne samajh kar so gayi..."

Aunty Kapoor gasped dramatically. The younger women outside the circle covered their mouths, already laughing. Aunty Sharma clasped her hands, her voice rising with the chorus, her whole body leaning into the song:

"Mujhko Rana ji maaf karna... galti mhaare se ho gayi..."

Aarohi repeated it, her hands folded, her face full of exaggerated apology:

"Mujhko Rana ji maaf karna... galti mhaare se ho gayi..."

The aunties joined in, their voices rising together, filling the hall:

"MUJHKO RANA JI MAAF KARNA... GALTI MHAARE SE HO GAYI!"

The younger women clapped. Aunty Sharma's younger sister, who had been recording on her phone, let out a whoop. Aunty Gupta's cousin started humming along.

The song continued, the circle alive with energy.

Aunty Sharma, not ready to relinquish her role, sang the next verse, her voice strong:

"Gupchup gupchup gupchup...

Chhat pe soya tha behnoi...

Chhat pe soya tha behnoi..."

Aarohi responded, her voice sweet, her hands gesturing toward herself:

"Main tanne samajh kar so gayi..."

Aunty Gupta took over, her voice teasing:

"Mujhko Rana ji maaf karna... galti mhaare se ho gayi..."

Aarohi repeated it, her hands folded, her eyes wide:

"Mujhko Rana ji maaf karna... galti mhaare se ho gayi..."

Aunty Kapoor leaned forward, her voice conspiratorial, her eyes sparkling:

"Woh behnoi tha behnoi thahara... kyun na pehchaana tuune... piya ji ka chehra..."

Aarohi shrugged, miming confusion, pointing to her eyes, shaking her head, her voice rising in protest:

"Gupchup gupchup gupchup..."

Delhi Aunty, who had been watching with her arms crossed, suddenly leaned forward...

"Behnoi ne odh rakhi thi chaadar..."

Aarohi's eyes went wide. She mimed pulling a sheet over herself, then looked around in pretend to be innocent, her voice protesting:

"Rakhi thi chaadar rakhi thi chaadar..."

Aunty from Lucknow, smiling quietly, sang the next line, her voice soft, knowing:

"Main samjhi piya ka hai bistar..."

"Piya ka hai bistar piya ka hai bistar..."

The aunties were in hysterics now. Some were bent over, holding their stomachs. Aunty Gupta had tears streaming down her face. Aunty Sharma was laughing so hard she had to hold onto Aunty Kapoor's arm.

The song built to its climax, the voices rising together, the circle moving like one living thing:

"Aadhe bistar pe woh soya tha... aadhe pe main so gayi..."

Aarohi acted it out-lying on one side of the imaginary bed, then the other, her body telling the story better than words ever could.

"Mujhko Rana ji maaf karna... galti mhaare se ho gayi..."

The aunties sang with her, their voices loud, joyful, free:

"MUJHKO RANA JI MAAF KARNA... GALTI MHAARE SE HO GAYI!"

Aarohi and Meera spun in the center of the circle, her dupatta flying, her laugh bright, her eyes meeting each aunty's in turn.

"Gupchup gupchup gupchup..."

Aunty Sharma, catching her breath, sang the next verse, her voice softer now, the teasing giving way to story:

"Deepak atari pe jalata toh hoga..."

Aarohi responded, her voice matching Aunty Sharma's softness:

"Gupchup gupchup gupchup..."

Aunty Gupta joined, her voice gentle:

"Chitki toh hogi chhat pe chaandni..."

Aarohi nodded, her hands moving like moonlight scattering across a rooftop:

"Apne paraye nazar na aaya... bhool kaise ho gayi tujhse dularia..."

The aunties sighed, caught in the story. Aunty Kapoor leaned forward, her voice warm:

"Bhool hui mujhse toh kaisa achambha..."

Aarohi responded, her voice soft, understanding:

"Toh kaisa achambha toh kaisa achambha..."

Aunty Sharma, smiling now:

"Behnoi tha piya jitna lamba..."

Aarohi looked at her hands, her face full of wonder:

"Piya jitna lamba piya jitna lamba..."

Aunty Gupta, her voice warm with affection:

"Choor thi main din bhar ki thakaan se..."

Aarohi yawned, miming exhaustion, stumbling slightly, her voice drowsy:

"Padte hi bistar pe so gayi..."

The circle breathed together, the song reaching its final verse. Aunty Kapoor sang the last lines, her voice strong, her eyes on Aarohi:

"Mujhko Rana ji maaf karna... galti mhaare se ho gayi..."

Aarohi sang the last line alone, her voice clear, her eyes closed, her hands folded, her whole body still:

"Mujhko Rana ji maaf karna... galti mhaare se ho gayi..."

Silence. Then laughing.....

Then the aunties erupted. They stood, clapping, calling her name, pulling her into their circle. Aunty Sharma grabbed her hands. Aunty Gupta kissed her forehead. Aunty Kapoor fixed her dupatta.

"Yeh ladki!" Aunty Sharma said, her voice thick with emotion. "Yeh ladki kisi se kam nahi!"

"Pagal hai," Aunty Gupta added, laughing. "Par pyaari hai!"

"Thodi zyada hi pyaari hai," Aunty Kapoor agreed. "Suspicious hai."

They all laughed. They pulled her into the center of the circle, fed her sweets, fixed her hair, told her she was trouble, she was chaos, she was theirs.

Aunty from Lucknow, who had been quiet throughout, leaned over to Delhi Aunty. "Isme woh baat hai."

Delhi Aunty, who had been watching with something that might have been admiration, nodded slowly. "Haan. Woh baat hai."

"What baat?" Aunty Meera's mother asked, wiping her eyes.

"Woh baat jo kisi ko nahi sikhani padti," Aunty from Lucknow said. "Ya toh hoti hai, ya nahi."

"Isme hai," Delhi Aunty confirmed.

The aunties looked at Aarohi, who was now arguing with Aunty Sharma about the proper way to wear a dupatta, her hands waving, her laugh bright, her face open.

"Bohot hai," Aunty Meera's mother said softly.

"Bohot zyada hai," Aunty Sharma agreed. "Par achha hai."

"Bohot achha."

---

THE BREAK - WHERE CHAI BECOMES CONSPIRACY

The musicians took a break. The aunties fanned themselves, reached for their chai, exchanged looks that promised hours of discussion later. The younger women rushed to show their videos, to share their photos, to whisper about what they had just witnessed.

Aarohi sat in the center of the circle, drinking water, her face flushed, her smile still there.

Aunty Sharma handed her a cup of chai. "Beta, teri awaaz..."

Aarohi looked up. "Hmm?"

"Bohot achhi hai. Classical sikhna chahiye."

Aarohi smiled. "Sikha hai. Badi umar se."

Aunty Sharma's eyebrows rose. "Toh gaa kyun nahi rahi? Gup Chup gaa rahi hai, classical kyun nahi?"

"Woh alag hai."

"Kya alag?"

Aarohi shrugged. "Gup Chup mein sab milke gaate hain. Classical mein main akeli hoti hoon."

The aunties exchanged looks.

"Gaaogi?" Aunty Kapoor asked.

Aarohi blinked. "Abhi?"

"Abhi. Yahan. Isi circle mein."

Aarohi looked at them. At their faces, bright with expectation. At their hands, already ready to clap. At their hearts, already ready to love her more.

She took a breath.

"Thoda classic?"

"Jo bhi."

"Phir..."

---

SONG TWO: JHALLA WALLAH - WHERE HER VOICE BECOMES POWER

S

he stood up. Walked to the center of the circle. Sat down on the cushion. Closed her eyes.

The musician, who had been watching from the side, started the track. The opening notes of "Jhalla Wallah" filled the hall.

But when Aarohi opened her mouth, the song transformed.

Her voice was not the voice of the girl who had tripped on the carpet, who had chased cousins with chutney, who had acted out songs with aunties. This voice was different. Deep. Controlled. Ancient.

She began softly, her voice a whisper that somehow filled the hall:

"Aa aa aa aaye..."

The aunties stilled.

"Jiska na jigar pe lagaye chot... jiske jaane se boom phatay atom bomb... ho jaaye bisphot..."

Her voice rose, the words taking shape, taking flight.

"Aashikon ki hai... shamat ya aafat hai... chaand baby hai aayi qayamat hai haye..."

She opened her eyes. She was not performing. She was being.

"Aashikon mein jiska title Titanic... aashikon mein jiska title Titanic... muah kinaara dikha... kar ke dooba de gaya..."

Her hands moved, telling the story, her fingers tracing the shape of loss, of longing, of love gone wrong.

She reached the chorus, and her voice exploded:

"JHALLA MERA AASHIQ JHALLA WALLAH... MERA BALMA JHALLA WALLAH... MERA JHALLA WALLAH WALLAH AA AA..."

The aunties were not dancing. They were watching. Silent. Still. Their faces were soft, their eyes bright.

Aunty Sharma leaned toward Aunty Gupta. "Isme sanskaar bhi hai..."

"Humne samjha tha golden jubilee jise... oh samjha humne tha golden jubilee jise... oh woh tu matinee dekha... kar ke chuma le gaya..."

Aunty Gupta nodded slowly. "Talent bhi..."

"Mahafil sajjano ki... gentlemano ki hai... mahafil sajjano ki... gentlemano ki hai..."

Aunty Kapoor smiled. "Shararat bhi..."

"Bevda koi ho jaaye tu aaye maza..."

Aunty Meera's mother, who had been quiet all evening, added softly, "Aur kya chahiye? Teen cheezein ek saath."

"Nazaron se peene mein kya gunah hai..."

Delhi Aunty, who had been watching with her arms crossed, slowly uncrossed them.

"Bakhuda kaise peete ho rooh afshah..."

She leaned forward.

"Jis lover ki khabar paparoon hai... dil ki breaking news... usko sunaye koi... kaise nazar se kamar ka ratta lage... isko meri geometry bhi dikhaye koi..."

Aarohi's voice soared, the notes rising, filling the hall, touching the chandeliers, reaching the stars that weren't there but felt like they should be.

"Kya batayein jisko sanam... maan kar shab bhar mere... hai jisko sanam maan kar shab bhar mere... woh kameena subah hote hi furrr ho gaya..."

Her hands moved, telling the story of the lover who left, the one who promised everything and gave nothing.

"Jisko mohabbat ka teacher kahte rahe... woh fatichar ek lesson mein fail ho gaya..."

The aunties laughed, but it was a soft laugh, a knowing laugh, a laugh that came from years of watching girls fall in love with boys who didn't know how to stay.

"Kaske jean pant gentleman jo bane... raat bhar pajaame se ladta raha..."

Aarohi's voice gentled, the story shifting, the humor giving way to something deeper:

"Hum jaagte rahe... dil jalate rahe... woh jamaai rajaai mein lagata raha..."

She closed her eyes. Her voice was a whisper now, a prayer, a confession:

"JHALLA MERA AASHIQ JHALLA WALLAH... MERA BALMA JHALLA WALLAH... MERA JHALLA WALLAH WALLAH AA AA..."

The final notes faded, like smoke, like mist, like something that had always been there and would always remain.

Silence.

Then-clapping. Loud. Real. Not polite wedding clapping. The kind of clapping that comes from deep in the chest, from genuine emotion, from being moved.

Aarohi opened her eyes. She was breathing hard. Her hands were shaking. She had forgotten she was at a wedding, forgotten the aunties, forgotten everything.

She looked at them-at their faces, their smiles, their tears-and smiled back. Small. Real.

Aunty Sharma stood up. She walked to the center of the circle. She took Aarohi's face in her hands.

"Beta," she said, her voice thick, "tu bohot kuch hai."

Aarohi blinked. "Aunty ji-"

"Chup. Main bol rahi hoon." Aunty Sharma's hands were warm. "Tu bohot kuch hai. Teri awaaz bohot kuch hai. Tera dimaag bohot kuch hai. Teri shararat bohot kuch hai." She paused. "Jo bhi hoga, yaad rakhna-tu akeli nahi hai."

Aarohi's eyes filled. She didn't know why. She didn't know what Aunty Sharma meant.

But something in her chest recognized something in the words.

"Thank you, aunty ji," she whispered.

Aunty Sharma kissed her forehead. "Ab ro mat. Makeup kharab ho jayega."

The aunties laughed. The moment passed. The music started again. People returned to dancing, to chai, to gossip.

But the circle remembered.

---

The Sangeet continued. The younger crowd took over the dance floor, their energy high, their moves sharp. The aunties retreated to the edges, fanning themselves, drinking chai, watching the next generation with a mixture of nostalgia and relief.

Aarohi sat with them, her hand in Aunty Sharma's, her eyes on the dancers, her mind somewhere else.

She was thinking about the groom's side. About how quiet they had been. About how still. About how the groom's father had watched the entire Sangeet without smiling once.

She was thinking about Meera's face. About the fear she had seen there. About the something that was wrong, something that no one was talking about.

"Aarohi."

She looked up. Aunty Sharma was watching her.

"Hmm?"

"Kya soch rahi hai?"

Aarohi shook her head. "Kuch nahi."

Aunty Sharma's eyes were sharp. "Jhoot."

Aarohi smiled weakly. "Bas... chinta."

"Kis ki?"

"Sab ki."

Aunty Sharma was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Kal sab theek hoga."

Aarohi looked at her. "Aapko kaise pata?"

Aunty Sharma smiled. "Pata hai."

She didn't explain. She didn't need to. Some things, she knew, were better left unsaid.

---

The music played on. The dancers danced. The aunties gossiped. The night deepened.

And in the center of the hall, the circle that had held so much laughter, so much music, so much life-sat empty.

Waiting.

Tomorrow, the bond made with Holy fire would come.

But tonight-tonight was theirs.

THE MORNING OF THE WEDDING

The sun rose over the haveli like a blessing poured from a golden pitcher.

The first rays caught the dome of the main building, setting it ablaze with light. They spilled across the courtyard, touching the marigold garlands that hung from every arch, every pillar, every tree. They warmed the red and gold drapes that billowed softly in the morning breeze, making them dance like flames without fire.

The air smelled of roses and cardamom, of sweet kesar kheer being prepared in the kitchen, of anticipation so thick you could taste it.

Aarohi woke before anyone else.

She lay in her room for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the household coming to life. Someone was shouting in the kitchen-probably about the paneer, which had arrived late. Someone else was arguing about the flower arrangements-the red ones were supposed to be on the left, not the right. Somewhere, a child was crying because they couldn't find their special shoes, the ones with the bells that jingled when they walked.

She smiled. Normal sounds. Wedding sounds.

She lifted her hands above her face, examining them in the pale morning light. The mehendi had darkened overnight to a deep, rich red-the color of good luck, of love that would last, of stories that would be told for generations. The patterns on her palms, her wrists, her arms were now fully visible:

vines and flowers and delicate swirls that seemed to move when she tilted her hands, like they were alive.

She looked at her right palm. At the letter hidden there.

R.

She ran her thumb over it. The henna was dry now. The letter would stay for weeks, fading slowly, like a secret that didn't want to be forgotten.

She didn't know why she kept looking at it. She didn't know why it made her chest feel tight.

She turned her hand, looked at the other patterns. There were no other letters. Just vines, just flowers, just the things that Rumpi had always drawn.

But there, hidden in the swirls near her wrist, she saw something else. A shape. A curve. A line that could have been anything.

She traced it with her finger.

RANA JI.

She pulled her hand away quickly, like she had been burned.

"Aarohi! Uth jaao! Dulhan ko ready karna hai!"

Aunty Sharma's voice cut through the morning like a gong. Aarohi sat up, her heart pounding, her hand pressed against her chest.

She looked at her palm again. The words were still there, hidden in the henna, waiting.

She shook her head. She was imagining things. The mehendi was beautiful, intricate, full of patterns that her eyes were playing tricks on. That was all.

She swung her legs off the bed, grabbed her dupatta, and ran.

---

THE BRIDE'S ROOM

Meera's room was chaos in the best possible way.

Her mother was crying-not the quiet, dignified tears she had been practicing for weeks, but the full, messy, uncontrollable sobbing of a woman who was about to give away her daughter. Her grandmother was crying too, but she was also directing the flower arrangements, the jewelry selection, and the placement of the auspicious coconut, all while crying. Her aunts were crying while applying makeup, fixing hair, and arguing about the correct way to tie a dupatta. Her cousins were pretending not to cry while taking photos, their faces bright, their eyes suspiciously shiny.

The makeup artist, a young woman named Priya who had done twenty weddings this season and thought she had seen everything, was trying to work around the tears. The hairstylist was trying to pin flowers into hair that kept moving because Meera couldn't stop shaking.

Aarohi entered like a storm wrapped in silk.

"OUT!"

Everyone turned.

"OUT!" she repeated, waving her hands like she was shooing chickens. "Bride ko ready hone do! Tum log ro ro ke uska makeup kharab kar doge! Dus minute! Give us space!"

The aunties protested. Meera's mother cried harder. The grandmother clutched her chest like she was having a heart attack.

Aarohi softened. She walked to Meera's mother, took her hands. "Aunty ji, main hoon na. Main sambhal loongi. Aap jao, fresh ho jao, phir aana. Dulhan ko aankhen laal karke nahi bhejna hai."

The mother looked at her for a long moment. Then nodded. She kissed Meera's forehead, whispered something Aarohi couldn't hear, and left. The others followed, still protesting, still crying, but moving.

The room was quiet now. Just Meera and Aarohi and the makeup artist, who was wisely pretending to be invisible, rearranging her brushes with the focus of a scientist.

Aarohi sat beside her best friend. Took her hand.

"Dar lag raha hai?"

Meera nodded. Her hands were cold.

"Dar lagna chahiye."

Meera laughed weakly. "Tu fir se wahi-"

"Shaadi hai, Meera. Picnic nahi." Aarohi's voice was soft. "Par tu akeli nahi hai. Main hoon. Tu bhaagna chahe toh main saath bhaagoon. Tu rehna chahe toh main saath khadhoon. Tera decision. Tera day. Tera life."

Meera's eyes filled with tears. "Tu bohot bolti hai."

"Pata hai."

"Par aaj... aaj teri baat sunke... achha lag raha hai."

Aarohi squeezed her hand. "Ab ro mat. Makeup kharab ho jayega. Phir makeup wali mujhe maaregi."

Priya, who had been pretending to clean her brushes, snorted. "Bilkul maaroongi. Full refund dena padega."

Meera laughed. Real this time. "Tu pagal hai."

"Certified," Aarohi said, grinning.

She pulled Meera into a hug, careful not to smudge the makeup that wasn't there yet. "Ab ready ho ja. Teri shaadi hai. Teri life. Tera din. Tu queen hai. Sab log dekh rahe hain. Sab log wait kar rahe hain. Aur tu queen ki tarah dikhegi."

Meera nodded, wiping her eyes. "Pakka?"

"Pakka."

---

By the time Aarohi emerged from the bride's room, the haveli was in full wedding mode.

The courtyard had been transformed into something out of a dream. The mandap stood at the center, its four pillars wrapped in marigold garlands so thick they looked like columns of pure gold. The canopy above shimmered with red silk, embroidered with patterns that caught the sun and scattered it like jewels. The fire pit was ready, the kindling arranged in a perfect square, the priest already chanting under his breath.

The musicians had arrived-dhol players with arms like tree trunks, their instruments slung over their shoulders, their smiles wide. The caterers were running between tables, adjusting plates, refilling chai, making sure everything was perfect. The flower girls were practicing their walk, their baskets filled with petals that they threw with more enthusiasm than accuracy.

And the aunties were everywhere.

Aarohi had barely taken two steps when Aunty Sharma grabbed her arm. Her grip was firm, her eyes sharp, her saree-a deep maroon Banarasi that she had been saving for this day for months-perfectly draped.

"Beta! Dulhan taiyaar hai?"

"Almost, aunty ji. Makeup wali final touches kar rahi hai."

"Almost? Almost nahi chalta! Time dekh!" She pointed toward the entrance, where the first guests were already arriving. "Log aa rahe hain!"

"Time hai abhi, aunty ji. Relax."

"Relax? Shaadi mein relax? Tumhe kisi ne nahi sikhaya?"

Aarohi grinned. "Aap sikha do."

Aunty Sharma stared at her. Then laughed. "Yeh ladki! Chal, idhar aa. Tera dupatta theek karti hoon."

She pulled Aarohi into the circle of aunties that had formed near the stage. Aunty Gupta was there, her green and gold saree catching the light, her eyes already scanning for anything that needed fixing. Aunty Kapoor was beside her, adjusting her own dupatta while directing a cousin to bring more chairs. Aunty Meera's mother's cousin-the round woman with the loud laugh-was organizing the flower girls, who were now throwing petals at each other instead of practicing.

They descended on Aarohi like a swarm of colorful butterflies. Hands reached for her, adjusting her hair, smoothing her lehenga, checking her jewelry.

"Thoda aur sindoor laga do."

"Nahi, utna kaafi hai. Natural dekho."

"Jewelry match karti hai?"

"Bilkul. Meri aankh hai."

"Teri aankh ka kya bharosa?"

"AREY!"

Aarohi stood in the middle of them, laughing, letting them fuss. She didn't pretend to be shy. She didn't pretend she didn't like it. She just let them love her.

Aunty Kapoor, adjusting her dupatta for the third time, said softly, "Beta, teri shaadi hogi na... main bhi aise hi karungi."

Aarohi's smile softened. "Pakka?"

"Pakka."

"Phir main bhi aap logo ko tang karungi."

"Toh kya hua? Tang hona bhi maza aata hai tere saath."

The aunties laughed. They pulled her closer, fixed her hair one more time, and let her go.

---

The sun climbed higher. The courtyard filled with guests. The musicians warmed up, their dhols beating a rhythm that made everyone's feet tap. Children ran between the tables, their laughter bright, their clothes already stained with the sweets they had sneaked from the kitchen.

The groom's side had arrived earlier, settling into their section with the quiet confidence of people who knew they were the guests of honor. They were dressed in their finest-sherwanis in deep blues and golds, sarees in rich silks, jewelry that caught the light and held it.

Aarohi stood near the stage, watching.

She had been watching all morning.

The groom's father was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with a face that didn't smile easily. He stood at the edge of his section, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the mandap. He wasn't laughing like the others. He wasn't celebrating. He was... watching.

The groom himself was younger, his face open, his smile easy. He laughed with his friends, accepted congratulations from relatives, adjusted his sherwani with the nervous energy of a man about to be married.

But his eyes kept drifting to his father. And every time they did, his smile flickered.

Aarohi frowned.

"What's wrong, beta?" Aunty Sharma appeared beside her, a cup of chai in each hand. She offered one to Aarohi.

Aarohi took it, grateful for the warmth. "Kuch nahi, aunty ji. Bas..."

"Bas?"

"Ladke waale bohot serious lag rahe hain."

Aunty Sharma followed her gaze. She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Delhi waale hain. Serious rahte hain."

Aarohi nodded, but her frown didn't ease.

She looked for Meera. Her friend was in the bridal room now, her makeup almost done, her hair arranged, her jewelry glowing. Priya had sent a photo to Aarohi's phone, and she had shown it to everyone who would look.

She was beautiful. She was glowing. She was... scared.

Aarohi's stomach tightened.

She looked back at the groom's side. At the men standing behind the groom's father. They weren't dancing like the others. They stood together, quiet, still, their eyes scanning the crowd.

Aarohi's hands went cold.

"Beta?" Aunty Sharma was watching her.

Aarohi shook her head. "Kuch nahi, aunty ji. Bas... tension ho rahi hai."

"Shaadi ki tension?"

"Haan."

Aunty Sharma patted her hand. "Normal hai, beta. Sabko hoti hai. Par sab theek hoga."

Aarohi nodded. She smiled. She drank her chai.

But she kept watching.

---

The sound of the dhol reached them before the baraat did.

It started as a distant beat, a pulse in the air that made everyone's heart sync to its rhythm. Then it grew, closer, louder, until the whole haveli was vibrating with it. The ground seemed to shake. The flowers on the mandap trembled. The chai in the cups rippled.

"AA GAYE! AA GAYE!"

The shout went up from the entrance, and the courtyard exploded into motion. Guests rushed to get a better view. Children climbed on chairs. The musicians who had been waiting for this moment started playing with renewed energy, their dhols beating in counterpoint to the approaching rhythm.

Aarohi found herself at the edge of the courtyard, pressed between Aunty Sharma and Aunty Gupta, watching the entrance.

The baraat came in like a wave.

Men in bright sherwanis danced at the front, their movements joyful, their voices raised in song. They threw flower petals into the air, showering the crowd with pink and orange. Behind them came the dhol players, their arms moving so fast they were almost a blur, their faces slick with sweat, their smiles wide.

And behind them-the groom.

He was on a white horse, garlanded with marigolds, his sherwani a deep gold that caught the sun and turned it into fire. He was trying to look composed, trying to look regal, trying to look like a man who was about to marry the woman he loved.

He was failing.

His smile was too wide. His hands were shaking. His friends kept pulling him off the horse, lifting him onto their shoulders, and he kept laughing, kept waving, kept pretending everything was fine.

But his eyes-his eyes kept finding his father.

Aarohi saw it. She was the only one watching.

"Wah wah! Dekho dekho! Ladka kitna kush lag raha hai!" Aunty Gupta shouted, clapping.

"Shaadi hai, pagli, kush hi hoga!" Aunty Kapoor shouted back.

"Nahi, mujhe lagta hai dar bhi lag raha hai."

"Dar kyun lagega?"

"Kyunki usne dekha hoga aunty logon ka crowd."

The aunties laughed. Aarohi laughed with them.

But her eyes didn't leave the groom's father.

He was standing at the edge of his section, his hands still clasped behind his back, his face still expressionless. He was watching his son. He was watching the crowd. He was watching something Aarohi couldn't see.

The baraat reached the entrance of the mandap. The groom dismounted, his friends lifting him onto their shoulders, the crowd surging forward. The dhol players were sweating, their hands moving faster, the beat rising. Someone threw more flower petals into the air. Someone else burst into a celebratory shout.

"BANDE BAJA! BANDE BAJA!"

The groom's family approached the stage from one side. The bride's family approached from the other. The rituals began.

---

The priest stepped forward, his voice rising over the noise, calling for silence. The crowd settled. The musicians stopped. The children were shushed.

The milk ceremony was first-a tradition where the bride's sisters offer milk to the groom, and he pretends to be shy, and everyone laughs, and it's supposed to be light, funny, joyful.

Aarohi watched as Meera's cousins approached the groom, their cups of milk held high, their faces arranged into expressions of exaggerated suspicion. They circled him, demanding bribes, demanding promises, demanding that he prove himself worthy of their sister.

The groom played along. He laughed, he pleaded, he offered sweets and promises and the kind of words that weddings are made of.

But his smile didn't reach his eyes.

Aarohi saw it. She was the only one watching.

The jaimala was next. The bride was brought to the stage, her face hidden behind her dupatta, her hands trembling. The groom waited, his garland held ready, his smile fixed.

Aarohi stepped forward, just slightly. Just enough to see Meera's face.

Her friend was pale. Her lips were pressed together. Her eyes were fixed on the groom, but there was no love in them.

Fear. Real fear.

Aarohi's hands clenched.

The priest began his chant. The fire was lit. The groom and bride faced each other, garlands raised.

And then-

The groom's father moved.

It was a small movement, barely visible from where Aarohi stood. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He looked at the men behind him. He nodded.

Aarohi's blood ran cold.

"Meera-" she started.

And then-

BOOM!!!

The gunshot tore through the music, through the laughter, through the fairy lights and the marigolds and the gold.

---

To be continued...