Wedding

Ishara’s Point of View

I stood before the mirror in my chamber, the faint scent of rose oil still clinging to the air.

Parvati — my closest companion, my dasi, my only shadow of comfort — stood behind me, holding out layers of blood-red silk and heavy bridal jewels.

The lehenga shimmered like spilled wine under candlelight. From head to toe, every ornament screamed of royalty... and yet, none of it felt mine.

I had already said yes to marrying Rivaanveer Singh Rathore.

That wasn’t the difficult part.

The hard part was accepting that I didn’t know what came after.

What kind of life waited for me in the cursed palace of Devgarh?

I didn’t know.

But I was sure of one thing—

Whatever lay ahead… it had to be better than what I was leaving behind.

At least there… strangers would look like strangers.

Here, my own blood had always made me feel like I didn’t belong.

My father, and the woman he called his wife — they never saw me as their own.

After my mother’s death, the man I once called brother lost himself in the wars, and never returned… at least, not for me.

And me? I learned to smile with a still heart.

To stay silent in crowded rooms.

To exist without expectation.

I had heard the whispers about Kajalrasam —

that every bride who married the King of Devgarh died the night of the ritual.

They said it was cursed. They said love couldn’t live there.

But maybe… maybe death wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to me.

Maybe, for someone like me, death was mercy.

Because what I truly feared now—

was surviving another day of being unloved.

Tonight, I was no longer a princess.

I was his bride — dressed in red and draped in fate.

Parvati held my trembling hand as she walked me towards the mandap.

And there he sat — Rivaanveer Singh Rathore, the King of Devgarh.

It felt as though he had come straight from war, not for a wedding…

Broad shoulders, hardened gaze, blood still breathing through his silence.

I tried to lift my eyes toward him.

But the veil was too heavy… too cruel.

I took my place beside him.

The priest began chanting, and with each mantra, I felt breath leave my body—

As if each verse pulled me closer to my death.

Parvati had told me that thirty-five thousand soldiers from Devgarh, along with Rivaan’s younger brother, were arriving soon.

But of his family... I knew nothing.

Not even names.

Then came the words:

"Var-vadhu ki maang bhariye."

He filled my parting with vermilion, without even sparing a glance.

Like he had done it a hundred times before.

Like he would do it again.

And then...

He stood up and left.

Without a word. Without a look.

As if the bride he married wasn’t worth even that much.

I touched my father’s feet. My stepmother’s.

Parvati wept softly as she hugged me.

And then, I climbed into the palanquin — this time not as a daughter of Niravgarh, but as a doomed queen.

I must’ve fallen asleep somewhere in the long journey.

Because I woke to a whisper—

“Rani Sa, the palace has arrived. Please awaken.”

I opened my eyes.

The night had deepened, and so had my heart’s silence.

I waited at the threshold for Rivaanveer.

But a daasi stepped forward, lowering her head.

“Rani Sa, agar aap Maharaj ka intezaar kar rahi hain… toh rehne deejiye. Woh apne kaksha mein jaa chuke hain. So gaye honge.”

Another woman stepped forward, her presence quiet but kind.

She was visibly pregnant. And yet, she bent down to touch my feet.

I stopped her.

“Yeh kya kar rahi hai aap? Aisi haalat mein jhukte nahi hain, Maharani Sa.”

She smiled.

“Bhabhi Sa, humein Nandini bulaiyega. Hum aapse bhi, aur Bhai Sa se bhi, chhoti hain. Abeer Singh Rathore ki patni hain hum… aapki devraani.”

She helped me inside.

“Bhabhi Sa, hum Bhai Sa aur Hukum Sa ko bulate hain. Kajalrasam ke liye sab tayaar hai.”

The word Kajalrasam struck me like a blade.

I froze.

But somewhere inside me... a strange calm whispered —

It’s almost over, Ishara. Just a few moments more. Then the pain will end.

I waited.

And then, they arrived.

My husband — still in his wedding attire,

ivory sherwani loosened at the neck, his dark hair disheveled, his eyes… unreadable.

He didn’t speak.

He opened a small iron box, poured oil onto the kohl, and stirred them together.

He handed me a mirror.

“Bhabhi Sa, aap yeh kajal apni aankhon mein laga lijiye,” his younger brother said softly.

My hands trembled.

I looked up — and Rivaanveer was staring at me like a man waiting for his wife to die.

Maybe he was.

I closed my eyes, whispered the name of Devi Maa,

and dragged the kohl across my eyes.

For a moment… I couldn’t see anything.

My vision blurred.

The world dimmed.

Rivaanveer’s POV

I didn’t know what possessed me.

But the moment her fingers touched the kajal, and her body gave in — collapsing like a fallen bloom —

I moved.

I moved before the daashis did.

Before even Abeer could breathe a word.

And I caught her.

In my arms.

She was unconscious, but breathing... shallow, fragile.

Her dupatta slipped from her head, revealing her delicate features — lips parted slightly, hair framing her face like a painting long hidden from the world.

Holding her felt... unfamiliar. Unsettling. But also, strangely peaceful.

I had held dying queens.

Burning palaces.

Bleeding soldiers.

But never a girl who felt like she might break if I simply let her go.

Without saying a word, I carried her to my chamber.

The rose-decked bed that had once witnessed death... tonight, it became a resting place for something I couldn’t name.

I laid her down gently.

And as soon as her head touched the pillow...

She opened her eyes.

Not in fear.

Not in pain.

She looked straight at me — and smiled.

"Yamraj ji… aap itne khubsurat kyun lag rahe hain?"

Her voice was cracked at the edges, like rain falling on scorched land —

Dry, but melodic.

Tired, but teasing.

For a second, I forgot to breathe.

I stared at her — this absurd girl who had just defied death and was now calling me Yamraj with a half-dead smile.

"Yeh koi Yamraj nahi, hum hain… aapke pati, Ishara."

My words were firm, low — almost a whisper.

But even I could hear the tension in them.

She blinked… and blinked again.

Then softly, she asked —

"Pati… hum zinda hai kya, Shahib?"

Shahib…?

I raised a brow, confused.

"Shahib? Yeh Shahib kaun hai?"

I asked, still hovering over her, my arms braced on either side, her body just inches away from mine.

She looked mildly embarrassed, biting her lower lip as if caught.

"Aa… aap hai…"

Her voice faltered playfully, her eyes locked on mine.

"Ab hum aapko naam se thodi bulayenge…"

The smile that curved on her lips — it was not of a scared bride.

It was of a girl who had seen death… and chosen to flirt with it.

With me.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel cursed.

I felt… seen.

♥️

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