Episode 3

The wedding day dawned, a vibrant canvas of marigold and rose, gold and crimson, echoing the grandeur of a bygone era. The Malhotra residence, already magnificent, was transformed into a veritable palace, draped in silks, adorned with fresh flowers, and illuminated by thousands of twinkling fairy lights. The air thrummed with the joyous cacophony of dhol beats, shehnai melodies, and the excited chatter of hundreds of guests. It was a spectacle, a testament to the Malhotra family’s stature and their commitment to tradition.

Isha, in a private suite at a luxurious hotel, felt a whirlwind of emotions. Her bridal lehenga, a masterpiece of deep crimson silk embroidered with intricate gold zardozi work, lay spread out like a royal robe. It was heavier than anything she had ever worn, its weight a physical manifestation of the immense change sweeping over her life. Her mother, Savitri, along with her aunts and cousins, bustled around her, their faces alight with happiness. The scent of sandalwood and rosewater filled the room as they meticulously braided her long, dark hair, adorned it with fresh jasmine gajras, and applied the delicate artistry of bridal makeup.

“You look like a queen, beta,” Savitri whispered, her eyes welling up with tears of pride and a touch of sadness. “My beautiful daughter.”

Isha offered a watery smile, her reflection staring back at her – a stranger adorned in finery, her eyes wide with a mixture of apprehension and a fragile hope. She was beautiful, she knew, but the beauty felt like a costume, a disguise for the uncertainty gnawing at her heart. She thought of Aarav, of his unreadable eyes, his impenetrable silence. Would he see her? Would he truly see her, beyond the bridal finery and the arranged match?

The ceremonies began, a blur of ancient rituals and joyous celebrations. The baraat, Aarav’s wedding procession, arrived with thunderous music and exuberant dancing. Isha, peeking from a veiled window, saw him atop a white horse, looking regal and distant, a king arriving at his dominion. His face, even from afar, held that familiar stoicism, a calm amidst the storm of celebration.

Hours later, she was led to the mandap, a beautifully decorated canopy under which the sacred fire burned. The scent of ghee and incense filled the air, mingling with the fragrance of flowers. As she walked, her head bowed, she could feel the countless eyes on her, the hushed whispers of admiration. Then, she was seated beside him.

Aarav.

He was even more striking up close, dressed in a cream-colored sherwani with gold embroidery. His profile was sharp, almost sculpted. He acknowledged her presence with a brief, polite nod, his eyes meeting hers for a fleeting second before returning to the priest and the sacred fire. There was no warmth, no shared glance of anticipation, just a quiet, almost detached presence beside her.

The rituals unfolded. The Kanyadaan, where her father formally gave her hand to Aarav, was a moment of profound emotion for Isha. Tears streamed down her face as her father’s voice cracked while reciting the vows. She felt Aarav’s hand briefly touch hers as they performed the hastamelap, the joining of hands. His touch was firm, cool, and impersonal. She longed for a squeeze, a gentle reassurance, anything to signify a connection, but there was nothing.

During the pheras, the seven circumambulations around the sacred fire, they walked together, their garments tied in a symbolic knot. With each step, the priest chanted vows of dharma, artha, kama, and moksha – duty, prosperity, desire, and liberation. Isha silently repeated the vows in her heart, pouring all her hopes and dreams into them. She glanced at Aarav, hoping to catch his eye, to share a moment of understanding, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, his expression unyielding. He walked with a steady, measured pace, a silent, dutiful participant.

Later, during the exchange of garlands, the jaimala, there was a playful jostling from both sides of the family, a lighthearted tradition meant to ease the tension. Isha, with a shy smile, managed to place her garland around Aarav’s neck. He, in turn, placed his around hers, his movements precise and unhurried. Their hands brushed, and again, that fleeting, impersonal contact.

The reception followed, a grand affair in the Malhotra’s sprawling banquet hall. Guests flowed in, offering congratulations, blessings, and endless photo opportunities. Isha, seated beside Aarav on a velvet settee, smiled until her cheeks ached. She greeted everyone with grace, her voice soft but clear, her eyes sparkling with a practiced cheerfulness.

Aarav sat beside her, a silent sentinel. He nodded, offered brief smiles when necessary, and occasionally clasped a hand in greeting. But he rarely spoke, leaving Isha to carry the bulk of the conversation. She felt like a solo performer on a grand stage, while her co-star remained in the shadows, present but unengaged.

At one point, Devansh, Aarav’s younger brother, approached them, a wide grin on his face. “Bhabhi, you look stunning! Bhai, you’re a lucky man.” He winked at Aarav, who merely offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. Devansh then leaned closer to Isha. “Don’t worry, Bhabhi. He’s always like this. A man of few words, but a good heart.” He squeezed her arm gently, a gesture of genuine warmth that brought a small measure of comfort to Isha. It was a fleeting moment of connection in a sea of polite formality.

Later, during the dinner, a lavish spread of Indian and international cuisine, Aarav ensured her plate was full, gesturing to the servers to bring her favorite dishes. He did it without a word, a silent act of consideration that touched her. It was these small, non-verbal gestures that kept the fragile flame of hope alive in Isha’s heart. He wasn't completely indifferent, she reasoned. He just expressed it differently. But the longing for spoken words, for a shared glance, remained.

As the night wore on, the exhaustion began to set in. The heavy lehenga, the constant smiling, the emotional drain of the day – it all weighed on her. She felt a profound sense of isolation, even amidst the joyous celebrations. She was married. She was a bride. But she felt more alone than ever.

Finally, the time for the vidaai arrived. The farewell ceremony, traditionally the most emotional part of an Indian wedding, was a tearful affair. Isha clung to her parents, her heart aching with the bittersweet pain of leaving her childhood home. Her mother wept openly, clutching her daughter tightly. Her father, his eyes red-rimmed, blessed her with a trembling hand.

“Be happy, beta,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Always be happy.”

Aarav stood a few feet away, observing the scene with that same unreadable expression. He didn’t approach, didn’t offer a comforting hand, didn’t say a word. Isha wished, desperately, that he would. She wanted him to bridge the gap, to offer a silent promise of comfort in her new life. But he remained still, a silent, stoic figure in the background.

As she was gently guided towards the car that would take her to her new home, the Malhotra mansion, she looked back one last time at her parents, her beloved family, standing under the shimmering lights, waving goodbye. The dhol beats faded into the distance, replaced by the quiet hum of the car engine.

She was now Mrs. Aarav Malhotra. She was a bride, but she felt like a silent passenger on a journey into the unknown, with a silent bridegroom by her side. The grandeur of the wedding, the joy of the families – it all felt like a beautiful, elaborate veil over the profound silence that separated her from her husband.

She glanced at Aarav, who sat beside her, staring straight ahead, his profile illuminated by the passing streetlights. He was a mystery, a closed book she was now bound to. A tear traced a path down her cheek, unnoticed in the dim light. She wiped it away quickly. The wedding was over. A new chapter, filled with uncertainty and unsaid words, had just begun.

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