"I am sitting here, waiting for my baraat to arrive. My hands tremble, and my heart feels heavier with every passing minute. I am nervous about the responsibilities that will soon become mine. I have never seen the man I am about to marry. Mother says he is kind, owns land, and is well respected. Everyone tells me I am fortunate.
Yet, a quiet fear lives inside me. I loved my studies and dreamed of continuing them, of becoming more than what is expected of me today. As I sit dressed as a bride, I wonder—are my parents right, or am I leaving a part of myself behind forever?"
Madhav Prasad stood at the entrance of the mandap, greeting the baraat as it arrived. He welcomed the guests with folded hands and a steady expression. Everything followed the customs he had known all his life. To those watching, he was a father performing his duty quietly.
"As I enter the mandap, I cannot see him clearly because of the veil. He is sitting beside the sacred fire, tall with broad shoulders, his posture calm and composed. He speaks little, yet there is a quiet steadiness in him that I notice even without seeing his face clearly."
The rituals begin quietly. The priest’s voice rises and falls in steady chants, mixing with the crackling sound of the sacred fire. My hands move as instructed—sometimes guided by my mother, sometimes by women I barely recognize. Bangles clink, flowers fall, and rice grains slip through my fingers as prayers are offered for a life I am yet to understand.
He remains seated beside me, calm and composed. When our hands are joined for the rituals, his grip is firm but gentle, steady like someone used to responsibility. The pheras circle us around the fire—seven rounds, seven promises spoken more by tradition than by choice. With each round, I feel myself moving further away from the girl I was and closer to the woman I am expected to become.
Sindoor touches the parting of my hair, and mangalsutra rests around my neck, its weight both symbolic and real. The priest declares the marriage complete. Blessings follow—elders place their hands on our heads, voices murmur prayers, and smiles fill the mandap.
Then comes the vidaai. My mother’s tears soak into my bridal veil as she embraces me, whispering strength where words fail. My father stands nearby, silent, watching as I step away from the home that raised me. The dhol plays again, louder this time, as I walk toward a new life—uncertain, unfamiliar, and sealed by rituals that have now come to an end.
Her eyes glistened with a mix of tears and hope, memories of laughter-filled mornings with her family mingling with the thought of the future she was about to embrace. She felt proud, adorned in her bridal attire, yet vulnerable, realizing that from this moment, life would never be the same. Somewhere between longing and courage, love and apprehension, she walked forward, carrying her past in her heart and her dreams in her hands.
