Seven Years Ago - Delhi

The afternoon sun blazed down mercilessly, casting sharp shadows over the congested roads of Delhi. The traffic was as relentless as the heat, a sea of honking cars, restless drivers, and impatient pedestrians.

Inside a rickshaw, Saanjh sat with her leg bouncing in frustration, her floral handkerchief pressed against her damp forehead. The sweat trickled down her temple as she checked her wristwatch-12:30 PM. Too late. Too late for comfort.

She leaned forward, exasperation seeping into her tone.

"Chachu, rickshaw aage lo. Woh apne aap rasta de denge." (Uncle, move the rickshaw forward. They'll make way on their own.)

The driver, an old man with a sunburnt face and a tired patience, glanced at her through the mirror and chuckled.

"Kya beti, dekh rahi ho na kitna jam hai?" (Child, can't you see the traffic?There's so much jam.)

Saanjh scoffed, arms folding across her chest. "Haan toh bread doon aapko? Kitna jam hai!" (Oh, should I hand you some bread then? Since there's so much jam!)

The driver let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head.

"Professor sahab gussa nahi honge. Chinta mat karo." (Your professor father won't be angry. Don't worry.)

Saanjh rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, "Wo aapke professor sahab sirf bahar se hi mithey hain, andar se kadwa karela." (Your dear professor is only sweet on the outside; inside, he's a bitter gourd.)

Before the driver could reply, the traffic miraculously loosened, and the rickshaw jolted forward.

---

College Campus

As soon as the rickshaw pulled up at the college entrance, Saanjh hopped out, adjusting the loose sleeves of her yellow salwar suit-one she had borrowed from her mother. She handed the fare to the driver before stepping onto the campus grounds.

The moment she entered, she could feel their eyes on her. Dozens of boys and girls, dressed in sleek modern outfits, turned to stare as if she were a foreign entity. A walking antique in a world of contemporary fashion.

She clenched her jaw, her fingers itching to grab a handful of red chili powder and blind these judgmental idiots.

But she had bigger battles to fight.

Ignoring them, she made her way towards the staffroom, where she knew her father would be. As she walked past a group of faculty members, her gaze landed on one familiar face.

"Good afternoon, Bharucha Sir," she greeted, her voice polite yet hurried.

The professor, a kind-eyed man in his fifties, smiled. "Good afternoon, Saanjh. Your father is in a meeting. You'll have to wait outside."

She exhaled sharply, nodding before plopping down onto a worn-out wooden chair outside the staffroom. She tapped her fingers against her knee, gaze flickering around aimlessly-until a hesitant voice broke through her thoughts.

"Excuse me, Didi."

Saanjh's head snapped up.

A nervous-looking boy stood in front of her, his fingers fidgeting. He looked no older than twenty. A cute face, but had he just called her 'Didi'?!

Her nostrils flared. "Di-tsk! Thaare ko main didi lagti hoon?" (Do I look like your elder sister?) she scoffed in her Marwari dialect, arms crossing defiantly.

The boy hesitated. "Haan-matlab... aap bataengi staffroom ke bahar kya kar rahi hain?" (Uh, I mean... can you tell me why you're waiting outside the staffroom?)

Saanjh gave him a deadpan stare. "Satsang kar rahi hoon. Dikhayi nahi de raha?" (Oh, I'm here for a spiritual sermon. Can't you see?)

Before the boy could stutter another word, the staffroom door creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped out.

Her father.

Saanjh immediately straightened, her irritation melting into a sweet smile.

"Pa- I mean, Sir. Ye raha aapka lunch box," she said, quickly handing him the container.

Her father glanced at her from head to toe before nodding in approval. Without a word, he reached into his pocket and handed her double the usual pocket money.

Her eyes sparkled. Score.

"You can go home now."

She nodded eagerly and turned to leave-but not before casting a sharp glare at the boy and flipping him off by showing her middle finger to him behind her father's back.

The boy gulped.

"Nikhil, tumhe koi kaam tha?" (Nikhil, did you need anything?) her father's voice rang out.

Nikhil stiffened. "N-No sir. I was just... wandering around."

And just like that, he bolted.

As he rushed back to his group, his friends bombarded him with questions.

"Kaun thi woh salwar aunty?" (Who was that salwar-clad aunty?) one of them snickered.

Nikhil groaned. "Aunty nahi hai woh! Didi bulaya toh gussa ho gayi. Lagta hai Pandey Sir ke ghar se hai." (She's not an aunty! She got mad when I called her 'Didi.' But I think she's from Pandey Sir's family.)

Another boy clicked his tongue. "Uske style se hi pata chalta hai." (Her dressing style says it all.)

Nikhil smacked his friend's arm. "Chup be." (Shut up.)

---

At Home

Saanjh stormed into the living room, her rage still simmering.

"Uski himmat dekho! Usne mujhe 'Didi' bola! Main kahaan, ek fresh 18-year-old high school pass-out chhori, aur kahaan woh golden retriever ka dadaji!" (The audacity! He called me 'Didi'! Me, a fresh 18-year-old high school graduate, and that grandpa golden retriever -he called me his sister!)

She ranted at full speed, pacing aggressively in front of her mother and younger sister, who watched her with a shared look of exhaustion.

Her sister hesitated. "Didi-"

Saanjh's glare was instant.

Her sister swallowed. "I mean... Saanjh...?"

"Didi mat bula, prachinata ke aulad!" (Don't call me Didi, you relic of ancient times!)

The younger girl winced. "Oh. So I'm your actual sister, but I can't call you that?"

Saanjh ignored her, grabbing the hem of her salwar suit to change into something else-when a soft ripping sound echoed through the room.

Her breath hitched.

She looked down. A large tear. Right at the seam. Again.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze towards her mother.

The woman had her arms crossed, glowering.

Saanjh gulped.

"Saanjh, tune phir se meri salwar faad di?" (Saanjh, you ripped my salwar again?)

"Sorry, Mummy! Main darji ko de dungi haan?" (Sorry, Mom! I'll give it to the tailor, okay?)

And before her mother could say another word, Saanjh sprinted into her room and slammed the door shut.

---

Seven Years Later (present)

"30 minutes mein uthegi aur taiyar hogi. Ladke waale dekhne aa rahe hain... SAANJH!" (You'll wake up and get ready in 30 minutes. The groom's family is coming... SAANJH!)

The sharp voice echoed through the walls, piercing through the morning silence. A groggy figure lay sprawled on the bed, tangled in the sheets like a prisoner of slumber.

"Arre yaar, mummy. Sone do." (Oh come on, Mom. Let me sleep.)

A muffled groan followed as she yanked the blanket over her head, burying herself deeper into the mattress.

Her mother, however, was not one to be ignored. The door swung open with a force that sent a gust of wind into the room. She stormed in, her saree pleats fluttering with every furious step. In one swift motion, she grabbed a folded silk saree, blouse, and petticoat from her arms and hurled them onto the motionless figure on the bed.

"UTH JA, KUMBHKARAN KE AULAD! AAJ LADKE WALE DEKHNE AA RAHE HAIN AUR LADKI ABHI BHI SO RAHI HAI GHODEY BECH KAR!" (Get up, you descendant of Kumbhkaran! The groom's family is coming, and here you are, sleeping like you've sold off all your worries!)

The weight of the silk landed on her with a soft thud. Saanjh let out a dramatic sigh before tossing the covers aside. Her lips curled into a smirk as she sat up, stretching lazily.

Her eyes gleamed with mischief as she ran a hand through her tousled hair. She grabbed the saree her mother had thrown at her and examined it as if it were an alien artifact. Then, chuckling under her breath, she tossed it aside carelessly.

"Dete hain aaj... sanskaari sushila, to-be-bahu, Mrignayani Pandey ka darshan." (Let's give them a grand view of the 'cultured and ideal daughter-in-law'-Mrignayani Pandey.)

With a wink at her reflection in the mirror, she sauntered into the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click.

---

In the Living Room

The house was buzzing with hushed conversations and the occasional clinking of cups as the guests settled in. The living room, adorned with floral garlands and rich upholstery, radiated an air of old-money elegance. The scent of freshly brewed chai mixed with the faint fragrance of marigold.

"Aaiye, Chaturvedi ji! Andar aaiye." (Come in, Mr. Chaturvedi! Please, have a seat.)

The Pandeys welcomed their guests warmly, gesturing toward the plush seating. Anupama Pandey straightened her pallu, her eyes darting toward the hallway as she sent silent prayers that her daughter would behave.

The elder gentleman, Mr. Chaturvedi, adjusted his shawl before settling onto the sofa. His gaze was sharp, observant.

"Ye mera bada beta, Vidyut. Lawyer hai yeh. Aaj hum iska hi rishta tair karne aaye hain." (This is my elder son, Vidyut. He's a lawyer. We've come to finalize his marriage proposal today.)

Vidyut sat upright, his posture formal, exuding the aura of a man who took life very seriously. His neatly pressed kurta and groomed hair screamed discipline.

Then, Mr. Chaturvedi gestured to the young man sitting beside him, who, in contrast, had a more relaxed demeanor. His shirt sleeves were casually rolled up, his wrist adorned with a sleek watch. His eyes held a quiet amusement as he observed the household dynamics.

"Pandey ji, aap to isse jaante hi honge. Mera chhota beta, Nikhil. Architect hai. Aapne hi to guide kiya tha isse." (You must already know him, Mr. Pandey. My younger son, Nikhil. He's an architect. You were the one who guided him.)

Mr. Haricharan Pandey's face softened with recognition. He patted Nikhil's back with fatherly approval.

"Sabbas, Nikhil." (Well done, Nikhil.)

"Thank you, sir," Nikhil replied, nodding politely.

Just then, the youngest Pandey daughter, Sulochana, entered with practiced grace. Balancing a silver tray, she placed it gently on the coffee table. The clink of porcelain against glass filled the brief silence.

Nikhil's gaze followed her movements. She carried herself with a quiet elegance, her long braid swaying slightly with each step. The deep maroon saree wrapped around her frame in a way that mirrored tradition and discipline. His eyes flickered to her face, immediately noting the sindoor nestled in her parted hair and the mangalsutra resting against her collarbone.

'Oh, she's already married. Not the girl supposed to be my brother's wife.'

Anupama Pandey cleared her throat. "Sulochana, jaa kar didi ko bula laao. Usse kaho ke hum sab uske intezaar kar rahe hain." (Sulochana, go call your sister. Tell her we're all waiting for her.)

Sulochana adjusted her pallu and was about to head inside when-

"Koi zaroorat nahi, Mom. Here I am." (No need, Mom. I'm here.)

The atmosphere shifted.

All heads turned.

And then, the collective intake of breath.

Standing at the threshold was Saanjh.

Not in a saree.

Not in anything remotely traditional.

She stood confidently in a pair of denim shorts and a snug crop top, her highlighted brown hair cascading over her shoulders. The definition of rebellious elegance. Her sharp kohl-rimmed eyes scanned the room lazily before a lopsided smirk curved her lips.

Her parents visibly cringed.

"Namastey, Sasur ji. Main Mrignayani Pandey. You can call me Saanjh. My bad you had to wait for me. So... who is the joker I am going to marry in these two?" (Greetings, father-in-law. I'm Mrignayani Pandey. You can call me Saanjh. My bad for making you wait. So... which of these two jokers am I supposed to marry?)

A stunned silence.

Then, a stifled chuckle.

Nikhil's lips twitched, but he quickly straightened when his father shot him a warning glare.

Saanjh tilted her head, analyzing them. "He seems fun. Hey." She perched herself on the armrest of her father's chair. "You're the groom?"

"I am," Vidyut replied, his tone clipped.

"You are?" she asked, raising an unimpressed brow.

"I am Vidyut Chaturvedi. I am a lawyer. 30 years old. I like black tea and black coffee-"

"Sorry. I don't hire law people for packaging the parcels."

"Excuse me?"

She turned to his father, completely ignoring Vidyut. "Sasur ji, I don't like your old hunk baby boy. At all." (Father-in-law, I don't like your elder son. Not one bit.)

Anupama's face turned red. "Saanjh, stop it!"

"Pata hai, Sasur ji! Meri mummy ne mujhe sab kuch sikhaya hai-kaise doodh mein nimbu daal kar paneer nikalte hain, usse pel kar paneer tikka aur butter paneer banate hain. Kabhi aaiyega, banaake khilayenge. Kya hai ki aaj thoda mood off hai. Bye, haan?" (You know, father-in-law! My mom taught me everything-from curdling milk to making paneer tikka and butter paneer. Come over sometime, I'll make it for you. But today? I'm not in the mood. Bye!)

She turned on her heels-

"Bhaiya ko chhodiye, Papa. Main karunga inse shaadi. Mujhe ladki pasand hai." (Forget Bhaiya, Papa. I'll marry her. I like this girl.)

She turned, meeting Nikhil's unwavering gaze.

"I love Paneer Tikka, aur Butter Paneer too." (I love paneer tikka, and butter paneer too.)

A slow smirk played on his lips.

And in that moment-

Saanjh was cooked.