One Week Later

Saanjh opened her mother’s closet early in the morning. Toothbrush still stuck in her mouth, foam threatening to drip, she just stood there — unmoving — staring at rows of sarees, dupattas, and old salwar suits.

She squinted at a beige kurta. Then frowned. Tilted her head at a green saree. Groaned.

Her brain? Fully numb.

Just then, her mother walked in, holding a bright mustard silk saree. Without a word, she tossed it right onto Saanjh’s head.

"Yeh pehen." (Wear this.)

Saanjh took the saree off her face, her toothbrush now in hand, and looked at her mother like she'd committed some emotional crime.

"Kya majboori hai, mummy?" she whined, voice muffled through toothpaste.

(What’s the compulsion, mom?)

Her mom placed both hands on her hips and rolled her eyes.

"Ghar mein pooja rakhi jaati hai tab bacche casuals pehen ke nahi jaate."

(When there's a pooja at someone’s house, kids don’t go in casual wear.)

Saanjh dramatically tossed her head back, bursting into an exaggerated Bollywood-style song:

"Par main toh jaaungi… dil kisika toote chahe koi mujhse ruthe, main toh khelungi!"

(But I will go… even if someone gets hurt or angry with me, I will still play!)

She placed the saree on the bed and walked off toward the bathroom.

"Aur waise bhi, woh mera abhi sasural thodi hai! Unko bura lage ya achha. So chill."

(And anyway, that’s not even my in-laws’ house yet! Whether they like it or not — chill.)

Just as she shut the bathroom door, her mom shouted after her:

"Jeans ke upar hi pehen lena phir!"

(Then just wear it over your jeans!)

A muffled shout came back from inside, full of both sarcasm and accidental inspiration:

"Mummy yaar! Main kuch bhi pehen loon, moti gaai hi lagungi… par idea bura nahi hai!"

(Mom, seriously! No matter what I wear, I’ll still look like a fat cow… but hey, not a bad idea actually!)

---

Saanjh stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the edge of her saree with visible discomfort. The petticoat felt tight, and the pleats weren’t falling the way she wanted. She wrinkled her nose, mentally questioning her life choices.

Her mother, standing behind her with a bindi in one hand and authority in her eyes, smiled proudly.

"Ab dekh, kitni sundar lag rahi hai meri beti!"

(Now look—how beautiful my daughter looks!)

She smacked Saanjh’s cheek gently and turned her chin toward the mirror.

"Munh mat banao waise. Face thik karo apna."

(Don’t make that face. Fix it up.)

Saanjh, still frowning, rolled her eyes. “Thik hi to hai. Makeup thodi kiya hai maine!.”

(It is fixed. I didn’t even put on makeup.)

"Ab itna sab kar diya hai, toh baal bhi baandh do."

(Now that everything else is done, at least let me fix your hair too.)

With a sigh that carried the weight of reluctant acceptance, Saanjh sat down on the stool. Her mother stood behind, combing through her slightly wavy hair, then parting it gently. She took two strands from either side of Saanjh's face, twisted them into soft braids, and pinned them together at the back of her head. The rest of the hair flowed down freely.

Saanjh stared at her reflection. She didn’t want to admit it… but she looked nice. Her cheeks had a natural glow, and the saree flattered her figure more than she was ready to admit. Her nose ring shimmered a little under the yellow light. She bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to smile.

Just then—

Honk!

The sharp blare of a car horn cut through the air. Saanjh flinched slightly.

"Jamai ji aa gaye lagta hai," her mother grinned mischievously, walking toward the front door to greet him.

(Son-in-law seems to have arrived.)

Saanjh’s eyebrows nearly flew off her forehead.

"What the hell is this Jamai ji, Mummy?" she muttered, half to herself, half loud enough to scold.

She followed her mom halfway through the hallway, muttering under her breath.

"Ajeeb family hai... kuch bhi seriously le lete hai."

(Weird family... they take everything so seriously.)

She peeked out the window to see Nikhil stepping out of the car in a crisp kurta, looking completely at home with the situation. Saanjh, meanwhile, wanted the earth to open up and swallow her saree and all.

"Arey beta, andar aao na!"

(Come in, dear!)

Her mother greeted Nikhil at the door with the warmth of a thousand suns. She stepped aside like he was a VIP guest, ushering him in with both hands, while her dupatta trailed behind.

Nikhil stepped inside, his shoes quiet against the tiles, his eyes casually scanning the hallway.

And then—

Chan-chan... chan-chan...

The unmistakable sound of anklets filled the silence like windchimes before a storm.

Saanjh walked in with a chai tray carefully balanced between her hands. The soft rustle of her saree mingled with the jingling of her payals, and her waist swayed naturally, as if her body had a rhythm of its own. She walked with intention, but her eyes were trained on the tray, clearly trying to avoid eye contact.

Nikhil’s gaze instinctively dropped.

From her feet—anklets glimmering against her skin,

to her curves—graceful but confident,

and finally to her face—awkward smile plastered like an emergency sticker.

His lips twitched.

Was she embarrassed? Or annoyed? Or both?

"Chai lijiye," she said, her voice a little too formal, placing the tray on the center table.

(Have some tea.)

She straightened up and gave a half-smile, not quite meeting his eyes, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Nikhil sat down, but his eyes hadn’t left her.

She wasn’t trying to impress him—he could tell.

But that made her more real than anything.

And damn, even her nervous energy was kind of... charming.

---

The car hummed with low music. The outside world blurred in soft pastels as houses and trees sped past, but inside, silence lingered like fog on glass.

Saanjh adjusted the pallu of her saree for the tenth time, her anklets still catching her own attention with every move.

"Tumhara family strict hai?"

(Is your family strict?)

Her voice sliced through the quiet. Soft. Curious. A little unsure.

Nikhil glanced sideways. Her voice hadn’t changed, but this time... her eyes were all wide and soft, like a questioning puppy without realizing it.

He almost smiled.

"Ye to mujhe nahi pata," he replied, one hand still on the wheel.

"Tum khud kyun nahi check kar leti?"

(That, I don’t know. Why don’t you check for yourself?)

She rolled her eyes. "Smartass."

But before she could counter, he suddenly hit the brake.

"Oye!" she jolted slightly forward, hand gripping the seat.

"Car kyun stop kiya?"

(Why did you stop the car?)

He didn’t reply right away.

Instead, he leaned slightly toward her.

Smooth.

Silent.

His face was close now.

Too close.

She blinked. Her breath slowed.

Her eyes involuntarily scanned his face—his lips slightly parted, jawline clean, eyes dancing in playful calm.

"Kyuki… Mera…" he said softly.

(Because… my…)

"Tumhara?" she whispered, unsure, frozen in the moment.

(Your?)

He leaned in just a little more. Her breath caught. Her fingers twitched in her lap.

"Mera..." he repeated, and with deliberate calm, his fingers reached up—

(My....)

and adjusted her slightly off-center bindi.

Her eyes shut without warning.

"Mera ghar aa gaya hai."

(We are already here.)

He leaned back with a nonchalant smirk, like he didn't just mess with her pulse rate.

Her eyes opened. Narrowed.

And glared.

"You are unbearable." She hissed under her breath.

He chuckled, already unlocking the doors.

"And you look pretty when you’re mad."

He said it casually, hopping out to come open her side.

She muttered something about dramatic boys and fancy sarcasm, but her heart was doing thumkas in her chest.

---

Saanjh stood at the threshold of Nikhil’s home like a soldier about to enter enemy territory. Only this battlefield was emotional and familial—and potentially filled with unsolicited marriage talk and judgmental aunties. The grand door loomed before her, and her confidence was somewhere back at the second flight of stairs. She froze in place, one step below the top, clutching her clutch like it held the secret escape route. Her stomach did a somersault for the fourth time since they’d parked.

“Mujhe palpitations ho rahe hain,” she muttered to Nikhil, eyes wide, voice trembling. “Mujhe ghar jaana hai.”

("I’m getting palpitations. I want to go home.")

Nikhil just chuckled, hands deep in his pockets like he’d seen this coming. His grin stretched across his face as he tilted his head. “I thought Mrignayani Pandey was confident. My bad, clearly.”

She turned her head slowly to him, eyes narrowed into slits. Confidence toh designer life mein hoti hai, Nikhil Chaturvedi. Confidence was for client meetings, fashion expos, and sending couriers on time—not for being paraded in front of a boy’s family like a potential “bahu” when she hadn’t even mentally agreed to that label. If anyone asked, she was just being a well-mannered guest. A sanskari visitor in a saree. That’s it. Nothing more.

But before she could fake a call and escape, the door creaked open with the drama of a daily soap. And there stood the lady of the house,

Manjari Anmol Chaturvedi, holding a perfectly balanced aarti thaali, her expression sharp enough to slice through chiffon. The moment felt like an unplanned audition for Sasural Designer Ka and Saanjh, for once, hadn’t memorized the script.

She took one cautious step forward—only to nearly knock the diya off the plate. The flame flickered like it was considering calling it quits. Saanjh gasped, flinched back, and awkwardly caught herself before causing divine disaster. The petals shifted. The bell on the thaali chimed, unnecessarily loud. Her bangles clinked nervously.

(Ch*d Gaye Mrignayani Garbari Pandey)

Manjari’s eyes moved up from Saanjh’s saree-clad frame to her carefully braided hair with the precision of a tailoring master inspecting seams. Then, she looked at her husband and said with visible confusion,

“Anmol ji, aap to keh rahe the bahu modern hai—kandhon ke upar tak baal hain. Par yeh to saree mein hai, aur baal bhi lambey hain.”

("Anmol ji, you said our daughter-in-law is modern—short hair and all. But she’s in a saree, and her hair is long.")

Saanjh blinked. Did she just say "bahu"? Already?! Her soul briefly left her body.

Nikhil, unbothered and annoyingly smooth, leaned a bit forward, his voice casual but loaded with that smug glint in his eyes.

“Aapke liye saj-dhaj ke aayi hai, Mummy. Aur jitna mujhe bataya gaya hai, inke baal lambey hi hain. Us din woh short hair wig tha.”

("She dressed up for you, Mom. And from what I know, her hair has always been long. That day, it was a short-hair wig.")

Saanjh whipped her head to him, scandalized. Wig?! This man noticed her wig?

“Yeh meri Maa hai,” Nikhil added casually, as if his mother wasn’t two seconds away from quizzing her on whether she could make perfect round rotis.

("This is my mom.")

“Namastey, aunty.” Saanjh joined her hands, trying not to let her nerves show. Her voice was sweet, respectful, but her mind was doing cartwheels in panic.

Manjari gave her a slight smile and started the aarti. Saanjh lowered her eyes, trying to look sanskari. Just as she bent down to touch her feet, Manjari took a quick step back, mildly horrified.

“Humare yahan ki ladkiyaan kisi ke paon nahi chhooti. Nikhil, tune bataya nahi bahu ko?”

("Girls in our house don’t touch anyone’s feet. Nikhil, didn’t you tell our daughter-in-law?")

Saanjh blinked. Excuse me, ma’am. I just came to return your son. What’s with all this bahu talk?

Manjari passed the thaali to her husband, stepped forward, and then—hugged her. A warm, proper hug. One that smelled like sandalwood and ghee and generations of family tradition.

“Tumhara is ghar mein swagat hai.”

("You are welcome in this house.")

Saanjh stood stiff like a coat stand for two whole seconds before slowly returning the hug, her brain whispering, What is happening right now?

Then began the family tour, like a full-cast reveal of a quirky sitcom. She was quickly greeted by Uncle Arvind, a police officer whose handshake was firmer than required, and Shakuntala aunty who looked at Saanjh like she’d just walked out of a sari catalogue.

“Mat ghabraiye beta,” Arvind said, in a voice that hinted he’d interrogated people in his sleep. “Giraftari sirf criminals ki hoti hai.”

("Don’t worry, dear. Arrest warrants are only for criminals.")

She gave a nervous laugh. Great. Now I just have to be the opposite of suspicious.

Riddhima, Nikhil’s cousin, came bouncing over next. “Bhabhi!” she screamed like they were in the middle of a baraat. “Aapke kapdon ka page mummy ne sabko dikhaya hai. Pados wali aunty toh kehti hai ab hum fashion pagal log lagte hain!”

("Bhabhi! My mom showed your clothing page to everyone. The neighbor aunty now thinks we’re fashion-forward people!")

Saanjh smiled, genuinely this time. Well, at least her work was getting some attention. Unintentional PR by future-saas—not bad.

But then her eyes caught something behind the curtain. A movement. A small figure.

“Woh kaun hai?” she asked, pointing.

(Who is that?)

Riddhima laughed and pulled out a boy with a perfectly round, bald head. He looked half-saint, half-traumatized.

“Yeh hai hum sab se chhota—Daksh.”

("This is our youngest—Daksh.")

"Isko bald kisne kiya?" Saanjh asked.

(Who made him bald?)

Daksh pouted. “Sabko sirf mera takla sir hi dikh raha hai.”

("Everyone’s only noticing my bald head.")

Saanjh laughed for real now, the tension starting to leave her shoulders.

“Iska upanayan hai aaj,” Nikhil added beside her. “Isiliye mundan kar diya gaya hai.”

("It’s his upanayan today. That’s why his head’s shaved.")

“Oye, chal bhabhi ko hello bol!” Riddhima grinned and smacked Daksh’s head like a bongo drum. Daksh waved, shy and ran inside his room before she could play with him.

(Hey! Say hello to her.)

Saanjh stood there, laughing softly, surrounded by warmth, madness, and unfamiliar familiarity. Maybe… this wasn’t so bad after all.