I might delete this chapter later.

Chapter 30

Days started to pass in harmony. Aaradhya too had slipped into the rhythm of her new life — rising before sunrise, handling the household, instructing the workers, sitting with Rajeshwari in the courtyard, and listening to the problems of the village women before giving them her thoughtful judgment. Slowly, she had begun to feel the weight of being the Thakur household’s bahu.

One Monday morning, the haveli echoed with bustling voices and footsteps. Servants carried trays of sweets, women from the village poured in with baskets of flowers, and the courtyards filled with the fragrance of turmeric, sandalwood, and freshly washed clothes swaying on ropes.

Tomorrow was Teej — the festival every married woman in the village looked forward to with devotion.

Rajeshwari sat in the verandah, instructing women about the rituals. Aaradhya listened intently, her eyes widening at the customs.

“Teej pe, suhagan auratein poore chhabbis ghante ka vrat rakhti hain yahi raat 12 baje se agli subah 12 baje tak, apne pati ki lambi umar ke liye,” Rajeshwari explained. “Na ek daana khana, na ek boond paani peena. Sirf prarthana aur shraddha.”

Aaradhya’s heart fluttered. This would be her first Teej after marriage.

She imagined herself rising before dawn,  decorating the shiv mandir with flowers, and joining the line of women, all in vibrant ghagharas and glittering ornaments. The rituals sounded beautiful, but what made her cheeks burn was the last step — at dawn, after the vrat, a wife had to take her husband’s blessings before breaking the fast.

Her fingers tightened on the edge of her veil feeling nervous at the thought of being hungry for whole day.

Her heart raced.

By noon the haveli had turned into a small bazaar of its own. Rajeshwari had personally summoned the kapde wala (clothing merchant) and the village jeweler.

Bolts of colorful ghaghras and cholis lay spread across the long verandah floor — rich maroons, deep greens, peacock blues, turmeric yellows, and vibrant pinks, all embroidered with zari and mirror work that shimmered under the afternoon light. Beside them, the jeweler carefully opened his velvet boxes, revealing bangles, anklets, earrings, and necklaces glittering with stones, pearls, and kundan work.

The women of the haveli gathered around, excited chatter filling the air. Rajeshwari’s voice rose above them, calm yet commanding.

“Sab ko naye kapde aur gehne milenge… par sabse pehle Aaradhya chunegi. Yeh uska pehla Teej hai iss haveli mein.”

All eyes turned toward her. Aaradhya froze for a moment, clutching her veil tightly against her chest, her cheeks heating at the sudden attention.

Rajeshwari beckoned warmly. “Aa, bindni. Yeh din tere liye khaas hai. Thakur parivaar ki nayi peedhi ki pehli bahu ke roop mein, tujhe sabse khaas sajna hoga.”

Slowly, Aaradhya stepped forward, her anklets tinkling softly. She knelt by the spread-out ghaghras, her fingers brushing over the fabrics. The deep maroon one, heavy with gold embroidery, caught her eye. Another, in emerald green, shimmered with tiny mirror work that reflected the sunlight like a hundred tiny stars.

Rajeshwari noticed. “Yeh dono bahut khoobsurat hain. Par tujhe wahi chunna hai jo tujhe pehen kar Vijayendra ki bhi nazar na hategi.”

Aaradhya’s heart lurched at her mother-in-law’s teasing tone, and she quickly lowered her eyes, biting her lip.

Meanwhile, at the back of the verandah, leaning casually against a pillar, Vijayendra watched silently. He hadn’t interfered, but his gaze never left Aaradhya. Every time her fingers hovered over a color, every time her lips curved in a faint smile, his eyes followed.

The jeweler then held up a set of kundan haar with matching earrings and bangles. The soft gold shone against the velvet backdrop, the red stones glinting like fire.

“Yeh Aaradhya ke liye bilkul sahi hai,” Rajeshwari declared. “Dekha na, jaise iske liye hi bana ho.”

The women nodded in agreement, while Aaradhya, flustered, tried to hide her blush.

From the corner of her eye, she felt it — his gaze. Vijayendra had stepped into the courtyard, his white kurta crisp, eyes sharp. Though he stood at a distance, his glance brushed over her just once — enough to make her lower her eyes, her pulse quickening.

He didn’t say anything, but she knew. He had heard everything.

The haveli slowly fell into silence after a long day of preparations. The corridors, which had been buzzing with footsteps and laughter, now echoed only with the faint rustle of curtains swaying in the night breeze.

Inside her room, Aaradhya sat before the large wooden mirror. The maroon ghaghra-choli chosen by her lay carefully spread on the bed. Its zari work gleamed faintly in the dim oil lamp light. Beside it, the kundan ornaments waited in their velvet box, glowing like tiny fires.

She didn’t dare touch them yet. Teej required the outfit to remain unworn — the kora — and she was acutely aware of the rules. So she only stared, tracing the embroidery with her eyes, imagining the bangles jingling on her wrists, the necklace resting just above her heartbeat.

Her heart fluttered as her thoughts wandered. Tomorrow would be her first Teej — her first vrat as a wife. Every ritual, every adornment, would be for Vijayendra. Tonight, the anticipation alone sent a warmth rushing through her chest, a mix of nervousness and something tenderly thrilling.

A soft creak at the door made her start. Her gaze flicked up to meet Vijayendra standing there, his shawl draped casually over one shoulder. He paused, letting his eyes roam over the ghaghra and jewelry — and then finally to her.

Aaradhya’s cheeks flushed. She tried to look away, but he stepped inside, closing the door slowly behind him.

Vijayendra’s voice, low and deliberate, broke the silence.

“Bas dekh ke hi shringar ka maza le rahi ho?”

("Just enjoying the adornment with your eyes?")

Aaradhya’s breath hitched. She could only nod, her cheeks flaming.

He leaned slightly closer, the warmth of his shoulder brushing against hers. “Kal, jab tum is ghaghra aur in gehno ke saath khadi hoge… mujhe lagta hai tu khud bhagwan se kam nahi dikhunga,” he murmured with a teasing smile.

("Tomorrow, when you stand in this ghaghra and jewelry… I think even you won’t seem less than Goddess.")

Her pulse raced. The thought of Vijayendra seeing her adorned, transforming into a symbol of her devotion — both sacred and personal — made her shiver with anticipation.

Aaradhya’s fingers brushed lightly against the edge of the ghaghra, imagining its softness against her skin, its weight on her frame, and the delicate jingle of the bangles she would wear..

“Par… kal vrat hai…” she whispered, almost to herself herself more than with him.

("But… tomorrow is the fast…")

Vijayendra chuckled low in his chest, the sound reverberating like a secret meant only for her. He leaned closer, his reflection towering over hers in the mirror. His fingers reached up, brushing lightly against the dupatta lying on the bed.

“Vrat ke din bhale bhooki rehna, par aaj toh main tujhe bhookha rehne nahi doonga.”

("Tomorrow you may stay hungry, but tonight I will not let you remain hungry.")

Her chest rose sharply, and she lowered her gaze, afraid he could read her thoughts too easily.

His hand moved slowly, lifting up the dupatta before keeping it on her head.

In the mirror, their eyes met again — his smoldering with an unspoken claim, hers wide with both hesitation and longing.

“Tumne jo rang chuna tha…” he murmured, his thumb now teasing the border of her dupatta, “…mera pasandida rang.”

("The color you chose… it is my favorite color.")

Her lips parted in shock. She remembered his mother's teasing words in the afternoon, and now his quiet confession made her cheeks flame even more.

Unable to bear the weight of his nearness, Aaradhya turned suddenly, her ghaghra swirling faintly with the movement. But the moment she faced him, she realized her mistake — his hand now rested against the table, caging her in.

“Thakur sa…” she whispered, her voice trembling.

He lowered his face just enough that his breath fanned across her lips. His other hand lifted slowly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The simple gesture was intimate in a way that stole her breath.

“Kal subah tum bhagwan se mere lambi umar maagogi…” he said softly, his eyes locked onto hers, “…aur aaj raat main tumhari khamoshi se apna haq.”

("Tomorrow morning you will pray to God for my long life… and tonight, I claim my right through your silence.")

Aaradhya’s heart pounded wildly. Her knees weakened, her body betraying the resolve she tried to hold. She wanted to speak, to resist, but the words died in her throat as his thumb grazed the corner of her lips.

Just as the air thickened, a firm knock resounded on the door.

“Aaradhya!” Rajeshwari’s voice came from the hallway. “Subah jaldi uthna hai kal… so jao abhi.”

("Aaradhya! Tomorrow you must wake up early… go to sleep now.")

Aaradhya’s entire body jolted. She pushed lightly at his chest, her dupatta falling forward to cover her flushed face.

“J-ji Maasa…” she called back, her voice breaking.

Vijayendra’s lips curved into a smirk, his eyes never leaving her. He leaned down just enough to murmur, low enough for only her to hear:

“Bach gayi aaj… par kal koi bhi bachane nahi aayega.”

("You escaped tonight… but tomorrow night, no one will come to save you.")

Aaradhya’s heart skipped a beat, her pulse drumming loud in her ears. He stepped back finally, leaving her trembling against the table, her reflection still glowing with the weight of his words.

.

.

.

Next morning

The faint sound of the temple bell drifted across the haveli as the first streaks of light touched the sky. The fragrance of jasmine and ghee lamps filled the corridors, mingling with the early morning chill.

Inside her room, Aaradhya stirred awake. Her eyes were heavy, for sleep had been elusive.

She rose quietly, slipping into her daily outfit before walking out.

Outside, the haveli was alive in ways Aaradhya had never seen before. Courtyards echoed with laughter, anklets rang against the polished stone floors, and the air was thick with the smell of sweets, mehendi, and fresh marigold garlands.

Rajeshwari, draped in her heavy green saree, stood at the center, guiding the younger women.

“Aaradhya, aaja bindni.”

("Come, daughter-in-law.")

Aaradhya bent to touch her feet. Rajeshwari blessed her, pressing a little haldi tilak on her forehead.

“Sada suhagan rahe… pati ki umar lambi ho.”

("May you always remain married, may your husband’s life be long.")

Soon the ritual started the women lit earthen lamps before the small idol of Goddess Parvati placed in the courtyard. One by one, they circled the idol, singing folk songs of Teej — their voices rising like prayers to the dawn.

“Teej maa, suhaag banayi rakho… pati ki lambi umar likho…”

("O Teej Mother, keep our suhaag intact… write long lives for our husbands…")

Aaradhya joined the circle, her bangles jingling softly with each movement. She felt the weight of every word, every step, knowing this vrat was not just ritual — it was a silent vow she was making for the man who had become both her fear and her desire.

Her eyes lifted once, almost unconsciously, toward the haveli’s balcony.

And there he was.

Vijayendra stood leaning against the carved railing, his arms folded, his shawl draped carelessly across his shoulder. The morning light brushed against his face, sharp and commanding, his gaze fixed only on her.

For a heartbeat, the world blurred — the songs, the clinking, the murmurs — until it was just his eyes and her vow.

Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly looked away, nearly stumbling in her step. One of the older women chuckled softly.

“Sharmati bahu toh badi pyari lagti hai.”

("A shy daughter-in-law looks very lovely.")

Aaradhya’s lips curved into a small, nervous smile.

In the inner courtyard, all the women gathered in a circle, their ghaghras spreading like colorful flowers across the floor. A mehendi-wali sat in the center with her cones of henna, carefully etching intricate designs on each woman’s hands.

Rajeshwari’s voice rose above the cheerful din, commanding yet affectionate:

“Aaradhya! Aaja, pehli Teej hai teri… mehendi mein pati ka naam likhna zaroori hai.”

("Aaradhya! Come, it’s your first Teej… your husband’s name must be written in your mehendi.")

Aaradhya blushed instantly, lowering her eyes as she sat before the mehendi-wali. The woman took her delicate hands and began tracing floral vines. Then, with a teasing smile, she asked:

(if you don't know then only haveli’s elder women have seen her face , no one from outside have seen her without veil. Even Rani's matter was also just an inside matter,  no one from the villager are much aware of these all things they just have heard rumours from inside the haveli , so indirectly they only have seen her during her welcome ceremony. And here the women of haveli are like the workers and some if vijayendra close cousin family who are not important enough to introduce. )

“Thakurain, pati ka naam kya hai is nayi bahu ka?” the mehndi artist asked.

("Mother-in-law, what is the husband’s name of this new bride?")

Before Aaradhya could even open her mouth, Rajeshwari chuckled knowingly.

“ Yeh  tere thakur and maare Vijayendra ki lugai se . Toh naam bhi utna hi gehra hai jitna rishta hona chahiye.”

(She is my elder son's  wife. His name should be  as deep as the bond should be.")

The women laughed, and Aaradhya’s ears burned red. She whispered faintly:

“Naam chhupana bhi zaroori hota hai…”

("The name must also be hidden…")

The mehendi-wali grinned.

“Chhupayenge hi, choti thakurain. Aur Thakur sahab dhundhenge kal subah!”

("Of course, we’ll hide it, daughter-in-law. And your husband will search for it tomorrow!")

The courtyard burst into giggles. Aaradhya’s lips trembled into a shy smile, but her heart thudded at the thought of Vijayendra searching for his name.

As the mehendi dried, the women began singing traditional Teej folk songs, clapping their hands in rhythm.

“Sawan aayo re, suhaagan ke ghar, rang bhare re mori chunari…”

("The rains have come, bringing color to a married woman’s veil…")

One of Vijayendra’s cousin-sisters leaned close to Aaradhya, whispering with a mischievous grin:

“Bhabhi, suna hai aapne kal jo ghaghra chuna tha… woh Bhai-sa ka pasandida rang hai?”

("Sister-in-law, I heard the ghaghra you chose yesterday… it’s Bhai-sa’s favorite color?")

Aaradhya’s head shot up, eyes wide, the memory of his gaze in the mirror flashing through her mind. Her cheeks flushed so deeply that the cousin squealed and hugged her.

“Arre! Sach mein rang milte hai toh rishta bhi khilta hai!”

("Oh! If the colors match, then the bond also blooms!")

The women clapped louder, turning the teasing into a playful chorus, singing her name into the folk songs. Aaradhya buried her face in her dupatta, helpless.

Later, under the drowning sun, the haveli women carried their pooja thalis to the village temple. Aaradhya wearing her maroon ghaghara, kundan haar and lots of ornaments followed her mother-in-law, her steps carefully handling the light headness, the weight of her first vrat pressing against her hunger.

At the temple, Rajeshwari guided her.

“Yeh sindoor ki reet hai, Aaradhya. Apni maang bharna aur prarthana karna ki yeh kabhi sunee na ho.” Rajeshwari told her after the puja completed.

("This is the sindoor ritual, Aaradhya. Fill your hair parting with vermillion and pray it is never left empty.")

With trembling fingers, Aaradhya dipped the silver stick into the sindoor and touched it to her maang. The red streak glowed against her parted hair, and she felt a shiver run through her — as if the weight of his name, his presence, his rights, had settled upon her.

Back at the haveli, trays of ghevar and sweets were laid out, but Aaradhya could not eat. The fast was strict — no water, no food until the next day starts (after 12 am).

Her lips were dry, but her resolve firm. Each time her stomach rumbled, she reminded herself softly:

“Yeh vrat unki lambi umar ke liye hai… meri bhakti hai, meri shakti bhi.”

("This fast is for his long life… it is my devotion, and also my strength.")

But each time she repeated it, an image of his face flickered in her mind. Was it really just devotion… or something more?

Soon the night passed , Vijayendra still hasn't returned from his work making Aaradhya restless.

Next morning at the dawn the women again  gathered in the courtyard with their thalis, decorated with diyas, sweets. The moon had started to vanish under the morning rays.

Aaradhya stood with trembling hands, her eyes fixed at the Goddess adorned like a newly wed bride.Through its delicate net, she lifted her gaze — and there he was.

Vijayendra.

He had come quietly, standing tall at the far end of the courtyard, watching her with a stillness that felt heavier than the rituals themselves.

Her heart skipped. She lowered the eyes, touched the thali to her forehead, and whispered the prayer:

“Mere pati ki umar lambi ho, unka sukh sadai rahe…”

("May my husband’s life be long, may his happiness always remain…")

When the ritual ended, Rajeshwari’s voice called warmly:

“Chalo, ab puja puri ho gayi. Ab tum sab jaakar apne apne beend ke aashirwaad le kar apna vrat pura kar lo.” Rajeshwari said before turning toward Aaradhya.

("Come, now the ritual have ended take your husband’sblessing before breaking the fast.")

"Tu bhi jaa Jaakar apne beend ka aashirwaad le woh aa gaya hai. "

Aaradhya froze. Her eyes darted to Vijayendra — who had already begun walking toward her.

The courtyard fell hushed. The women smiled knowingly before walking to their own houses.

"Aap yaha itni subah?" She asked.

He held out the glass of water, his fingers brushing hers deliberately. His voice was low, meant only for her:

“Din bhar bhookhi-pyaasi rahi… sirf meri umar ke liye. Tujhe lagta hai mujhe need aayegi?

("You stayed hungry and thirsty all day… just for my life? Do you really think I’ve slept leaving you hungry.")

Aaradhya’s throat tightened. She lowered her eyes, whispering only one word:

“Vrat… tha”

("It’s the fast…")

He tilted the glass, holding it at her lips, making her shake her head,  before bending down , touching his feet. Then she sipped from his hand, and in that moment — with the first rays of sun falling on them.

Itsyourblackrose