The evening rolled in gently, wrapped in the warm scent of ghee, incense, and a house buzzing with post-ceremony chatter. Daksh’s head was still shining like a temple bell, and he was lounging proudly with a string of marigolds around his neck like he’d won a championship. Men were settled in the living room, sipping chai and discussing cricket, while the women had gathered in the kitchen like every desi household ever—plates clinking, aprons flying, and at least one burner always too high.

Saanjh stepped into the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, eyes scanning for where she could help. Her saree’s pallu was neatly tucked at her waist, turning the elegant outfit into workwear. Before she could even reach for the rolling pin, Shakuntala turned around like she’d sensed mischief.

“Tu kya kar rahi hai idhar?” Shakuntala’s voice was scandalized, her eyebrows raised to heavens.

("What are you doing here?")

“Saanjh, tu abhi bhi bahu bani nahi hai. Tujhse kaise kaam karwayein?”

("You’re not even officially our daughter-in-law yet. How can we make you work?")

Saanjh paused, hands on the edge of the counter, a soft smile on her lips.

“Par Chhoti Aunty ji,” she said sweetly, “mujhe cooking aati hai aur accha bhi lagta hai. Main kheer bana loon?”

("But Chhoti Aunty ji, I know how to cook and I actually enjoy it. Can I make the kheer?")

The other women exchanged amused glances, some impressed, some raising mental eyebrows.

Shakuntala opened her mouth to protest—"Par beta—"

("But dear—")

But before she could finish, Manjari waved a flour-covered hand.

“Karne de ise, Shakku,” Manjari said, giving her sister-in-law a knowing look. “Itni pyaar se bol rahi hai. Tu ja, kheer bana de sabke liye.”

("Let her, Shakku. She’s asking so sweetly. Go ahead, make kheer for everyone.")

Saanjh grinned and got to work like a pro. She moved around like she belonged there, opening cupboards without hesitation, checking the jaggery-to-milk ratio, and politely asking for saffron like a chef on a mission.

Meanwhile, Manjari stood beside her, pressing puris into hot oil with a rhythmic flair only generations of practice can perfect. The room smelled divine.

Shakuntala leaned closer to Manjari and whispered, clearly unable to hold it in.

“Jiji... Anmol Bhai aur Nikhil ne jaise descriptions diye the... us anusaar hone wali bahu utni bhi modern nahi lag rahi hai.”

("Sister... the way Anmol Bhai and Nikhil had described her... she doesn’t seem that modern.")

Manjari didn’t even look up. She flipped a puri that puffed up instantly, like the universe was agreeing with her.

“Pehle hi din koi hone wala sasural aakar uchal kood karta hai bhala?” she whispered back.

("Who comes jumping around in their would-be in-laws’ home on the first day anyway?")

Then she glanced sideways at her sister-in-law. “Tu to isse bhi zyada sharmili thi. Yaad hai?”

("You were shyer than her, remember?")

Shakuntala huffed but didn’t deny it.

Manjari lowered her voice even more, watching Saanjh sprinkle chopped pistachios on the simmering kheer with delicate precision.

“Aur waise bhi, Pandit ji jaise jaise keh rahe the, mujhe waisi hi gun dikh raha hai ismein. Ab ye shaadi ke liye haan kar de bas.”

("Besides, she has all the qualities Pandit ji had mentioned. Now she just needs to say yes to the marriage.")

Just then, Saanjh turned around, holding a spoon out with a hopeful smile.

“Aunty ji, taste karke batayein? Cheeni theek hai?”

("Aunty ji, will you taste please? Is the sugar okay?")

Manjari tasted it and nodded like a judge in a cooking competition.

“Bilkul perfect.” She smiled. “Jaise tum.”

Saanjh blinked, unsure if she heard that last part right.

From the living room, Nikhil peeked in, watching her move about in his kitchen, with his mother, in his home. Something about that sight pulled at his lips in a way that even he didn’t expect.

Noticing him, Saanjh walked near him.

“Chhoti Aunty keh rahi thi ke, main modern nahi lagti,” Saanjh teased, raising one brow at him.

("Chhoti Aunty said, I don’t seem modern enough.")

He smirked. “Wig wapas pehna doon?”

("Should I bring back the wig?")

She threw a dish towel at him. He caught it, laughing.

Kitchen full of food. House full of love. Drama full of heart. And amidst all that, kheer that tasted like home.

....

After dinner, laughter echoing in the corridors and kheer bowls wiped clean, it was finally time to bid goodbye. The Chaturvedi household had been unexpectedly warm, and as Saanjh stepped out with Nikhil toward the car, she found herself a little more attached than she was prepared for.

The night was cool, the stars tucked neatly above the quiet city lanes. Nikhil opened the car door for her like a true gentleman—though his expression was unreadable, somewhere between thoughtful and smug.

The car ride started in comfortable silence, the soft hum of the engine and occasional whoosh of passing bikes filling the gap. A few turns later, Nikhil finally spoke, his voice gentle but laced with amusement.

“Can I tell you something honestly? I thought you’d run away today,” he said, glancing at her briefly before focusing back on the road. “But you didn’t. You adjusted with my family. Really well, actually. So… thank you.”

Saanjh smiled faintly, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on her saree.

“Honestly? I didn’t expect this from myself either,” she said, a quiet laugh escaping her lips.

“I walked in there thinking I’d be awkward, fake a smile or two, leave early… but I ended up doing something else entirely. And now… I think your family might actually believe I’m their ideal daughter-in-law......I heard your mom say something like that.”

Nikhil’s lips quirked slightly. “Mom liked you ever since I showed her your picture,” he admitted. “And today… she gave you a shagun without blinking. That doesn’t happen often.”

His eyes stayed fixed on the road, but his words were measured—careful, not too pushy.

“Whatever happens next… it’s up to you. Do what feels right to you, Saanjh.”

Saanjh turned to look at him, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, softly, she exhaled.

“Nikhil,” she said, her tone a mix of curiosity and vulnerability, “what do you think of me?”

The question hung in the air like a sudden turn in a calm drive.

Nikhil hit the brakes instinctively—not harshly, just enough to pull the car to a stop near the side of the road. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at her, properly, as if trying to figure out whether she was joking.

But she wasn’t.

Saanjh looked at him, the streetlights casting a golden glow over her face. She wasn’t flirting. She wasn’t fishing. She really wanted to know.

And that made his heart beat a little faster.

He leaned slightly forward, his voice low.

“Honestly?” he said, meeting her eyes. “You confuse the hell out of me.”

Her brows rose slightly.

“You walk into my life wearing a wig, acting like a fashion show ka tornado just to reject my brother but unknowingly impress me, and then suddenly you’re in my kitchen working with my mother, making kheer like you’ve been doing it for years. One second you’re throwing attitude, the next second you’re saying namaste to everyone like a sanskaari serial heroine.”

He shook his head, almost amused at himself. “You’re not what I expected. But maybe that’s why I can’t stop noticing you.”

Saanjh’s eyes softened, her cheeks slightly tinged with heat. For once, she didn’t have a smart comeback. The honesty was too heavy, too real.

“So…” she murmured, “you don’t think I’m too much?”

Nikhil chuckled.

“I think you’re exactly enough to keep me on my toes. And trust me, that’s not easy.”

There was a beat of silence, but this one was warm. Familiar.

The kind that could turn into something.

“Let’s go,” she whispered.

He nodded, pulling the car back onto the road, but this time—something had shifted. Something unspoken, but deeply felt.

And neither of them minded the silence anymore.

  .......

They arrived at her doorstep under the soft glow of the porch light. The engine went quiet, leaving behind the hum of the night—distant traffic, a barking dog, the rustle of leaves in the light breeze. Neither of them rushed to speak or move.

Saanjh unbuckled her seatbelt slowly, her hands resting on her lap for a moment before reaching for the door handle. She didn’t get out right away.

Nikhil looked ahead, then turned to her, his voice quiet and even.

“Today meant something. Not just for my family… but for me too.”

Saanjh met his gaze, her expression unreadable, but calm. “It was unexpected… all of it. But nice.”

He gave her a small nod, as if acknowledging the weight of the moment. “You didn’t have to say yes to coming today. You didn’t have to stay. But you did. And I saw you… I mean really saw you—for who you are.”

She gave a small smile, her eyes softer now. “I think… I saw myself differently too.”

A pause.

He didn’t reach for her hand, didn’t lean in. He just sat there, his presence steady.

“I won’t rush anything, Saanjh. Whatever you decide, however long it takes—I’ll wait.”

Her hand was already on the door handle, but his words made her pause. Her eyes flickered toward him once more.

“I’m not used to this kind of patience,” she said.

“I’m not used to wanting to be patient,” he replied simply.

She opened the door finally, stepping out into the stillness. She turned once before walking inside.

“Goodnight, Nikhil.”

“Goodnight, Saanjh.”

And just like that, she disappeared behind the door—leaving behind the warmth of a quiet goodbye, and the possibility of something that didn’t need to be loud to be real.

.....

As soon as Saanjh pushed open the front door and stepped inside, she was greeted not by her family’s warmth, but by the dramatic shriek of an elderly woman echoing from the living room TV.

“Ae ladki, tumse koi kaam dhang se nahi hota?!”

Armaan’s Daadi saa was once again on a mission to ruin someone's existence, her voice vibrating through the wooden floorboards like a war trumpet.

The volume was on full blast—as if her parents thought dialogue was best consumed at concert-level decibels. Saanjh blinked in mild disbelief. Her parents were on the couch, side by side, both leaning slightly forward, completely entranced. Her mother clutched the TV remote like a sacred relic, and her father was muttering something under his breath, likely analyzing Armaan’s terrible decision-making with the seriousness of a war strategist.

She cleared her throat. No response.

She stepped further in and dumped her purse on the console with an exaggerated sigh. Still nothing. Daadi saa was now dramatically collapsing on a couch because Abhira dared to breathe in the same house as her. Saanjh couldn’t take it anymore.

"I got married, had a baby, and moved to Canada. Do you guys even care?"

Her mother absentmindedly waved a hand without breaking her gaze from the screen. "That's nice, beta. Make sure to dress the baby warmly, it's cold there."

Saanjh groaned and flopped onto the single-seater. "Hello? I went to my maybe-in-laws' house today. I wore a saree. I made kheer. I got aarti-fied. Can I get a little acknowledgment before Daadi saa curses another grandchild?"

Her father blinked, then turned his head slowly. "Wait, wait—you wore a saree? Voluntarily?"

"Yes? NO. YOUR WIFE MADE ME" she shouted.

"And you cooked? In a real kitchen?"

"Yes!"

Her mother finally glanced her way. "Was the kheer good?"

"It was amazing."

"Did you put enough elaichi?"

"Yes, Mumma."

"Then I'm proud of you," she said with a nod and turned back to the TV.

Saanjh stared in disbelief. "This is emotional neglect."

Her father shrugged. "Complain after the episode ends. Armaan just found out Abhira is pregnant but Daadi still thinks she's infertile. It’s very stressful."

Saanjh leaned back on the sofa, sighing deeply. "I could walk in here with a Nobel Prize and y’all would still be watching Yeh Rishta like it’s the national news."

Her mother suddenly perked up. “Wait, are you pregnant?”

"MUMMY, NO!"

“Just checking,” her mother replied innocently, turning the volume up again as Daadi saa prepared to throw someone out of the house.

Saanjh let her head fall back with a groan. "I should’ve stayed at Nikhil’s. At least his family thinks I’m decent."

"Then go live with them," her father muttered, not unkindly, "but make sure you bring kheer."

"Unbelievable," she mumbled, defeated, as Armaan started another monologue and her parents nodded solemnly like it was Shakespeare.

This… was home.

..

In the dead of night, as Saanjh lay cocooned in her blanket, half-lost in dreams about a life where people didn’t shout or plot rishtas at 2 AM, her phone buzzed violently on the nightstand. She groaned, squinting at the screen—Pallavi.

She picked up, expecting maybe a breakdown, a breakup, or a desperate craving for Maggi at an unholy hour. What she didn’t expect was—

"KUTTI! KAMINI! SAAND KI BEHEN! TU SO RAHI HAI?"

(You female doggy? Bitch! Sister of Bull! You're sleeping?)

Saanjh jerked upright. “What the actual—Bhauk kyu rahi hai aadhi raat ko?!”

(Why are you barking at this hour!?)

"TUNE VIDYUT KO REJECT KIYA? VIDYUT CHATURVEDI KO? ADVOCATE VIDYUT CHATURVEDI KO?"

(YOU REJECTED VIDYUT CHATURVEDI?)

"Haaan," she replied, yawning.

(yes)

There was a pause.

"Haan? Sach mein?"

(Yes? Really?)

"Yes, truly. He’s just… not my type."

"THANK YOU, BEHEN KI PAKODI!" Pallavi shrieked. "SUN! Kal tu khud Nikhil ke ghar jaayegi AUR MERA RISHTA LEKAR. Behen hai meri, itna to kar hi sakti hai apni saat din badi didi ke liye?"

(Thankyou, sissy Missy!) (Listen! Tomorrow you'll approach their family with my proposal. You're my sister, a sister can do it for her elder sister right!)

Saanjh blinked in disbelief. "Wait, what? Why?"

Pallavi suddenly turned into a dramatic Bollywood heroine. "Vidyut pe mera college life se crush hai, yaar! Woh apna law ka bachelor kar raha tha aur main performing arts mein thi. Main first year mein thi, woh final mein. Sirf ek hi senior pe dil aaya tha mera—aur woh bhi SINGLE. Tab propose nahi kar paayi. Par ab jab chance hai, I wanna TRY."

(I had crush on Vidyut from my college life, bro! He was doing bachelor in law and I was in performing arts. I was a fresher and he was in this final year. You know, I had a big big crush on him aur plus point- he was single too. Couldn't propose then, but now I have a chance.)

"You’re kidding me."

"TU KAL RISHTA LEKAR JAAYEGI YA NAHI?"

(You're approaching them or not?)

"I—oh my God—PHONE RAKH, MUJHE NEEND AA RAHI HAI."

(Hang up please. I'm sleepy.)

"ANSWER FIRST!"

"Mama ji ko bhej. Meri apni kahani bhagwan bharose hai, aur main teri paar lagaaun?

Kabhi nahi."

(Send uncle. My own story is in God's hands and you want me to write yours? Neverrr!)

"Don’t you dare."

"PHONE RAKH, BHADWI," Saanjh mumbled, slamming the pillow on her face like it could smother both the call and the chaos it brought.

(CUT THE CALL, DUMBASS)

Only in her life could rejections turn into matchmaking missions at 2:11 AM.

©siviecore