Anchored in you

Chapter 10: The Circle of Gold

The two weeks leading up to the engagement were a whirlwind of silk, gold, and a surprising amount of filter coffee. My life, which I had carefully curated to be a balance of professional consulting and quiet weekends, had been hijacked by a formidable committee of elders.

Jewelry shopping in Chennai is not an errand; it is an endurance sport. My mother and Vasundra Aunty-who I was now training myself to call Athai-had formed an alliance that was terrifyingly efficient. We spent six hours at a heritage jeweler in Cathedral Road.

"Kanna, the vanki (armlet) must be traditional temple jewelry," my mother insisted, holding up a piece that felt heavy enough to be a weapon. "It must match the Lakshmi motif on your saree."

Vasundra Aunty shook her head gently. "Devaki, for the engagement, let's go with something contemporary-traditional. Look at this diamond-encrusted choker. It will highlight Samaira's collarbones perfectly."

I sat on the velvet-covered stool, paralyzed by choice, as trays of glittering gold were paraded before me. Every piece felt like a heavy anchor tying me to a new reality. But then, my phone buzzed in my lap.

Harish: I hear you're being held hostage by the Gold Syndicate. Blink twice if you need me to send a rescue team.

I stifled a laugh, my stress melting instantly. I quickly snapped a photo of the heavy gold armlet and sent it back.

Samaira: I think this armlet weighs more than Advay. Send help. Or snacks.

Harish: Stay strong. Just remember, once the rings are on, we get to go back to being 'us'. Only with more shiny stuff.

I smiled, and suddenly the gold didn't feel so heavy. It felt like a celebration.

The morning of the engagement arrived with a clarity that surprised me. I woke up at 5:00 AM, the house already buzzing with activity. We had rented a small, traditional hall in Alwarpet, one with carved wooden pillars and a central courtyard that let in the morning light.

My father was in the garden, obsessively checking the quality of the jasmine garlands that had just arrived. Niti was on a video call from Kolkata, her voice echoing through the house as she directed Adi on how to pack the kids' clothes for their flight back for the wedding later.

"Harish! Why are you still in your trackpants?" my mother cried out, rushing past me with a tray of silver bowls. "The auspicious time starts soon!"

I walked over to the mirror in my room. On the bed lay my outfit-a cream-colored silk veshti and a matching kurta with a thin border of gold zari. It was traditional, grounded, and felt right. As I dressed, I found myself looking at the small velvet box on my dresser.

Inside was a simple diamond ring. No flashy settings, just a stone with perfect clarity. It reminded me of her.

I was thirty years old. I had built a company from a single laptop in a garage. I had navigated boardrooms full of sharks. But as I tried to fold the veshti correctly, my hands were actually shaking. It wasn't the fear of commitment; it was the weight of the joy. I was finally about to claim the person who made the silence feel like music.

The hall was a sensory overload. The scent of burnt camphor and fresh marigolds filled the air. Relatives I hadn't seen since I was ten appeared out of the crowd, pinching my cheeks and telling me how I used to cry for ice cream.

"Samaira! You've grown into such a beauty!" a grand-aunt exclaimed, adjusted my silk pallu for the tenth time. "Harish is a lucky boy. The Kesavan family is very prestigious, you know."

I nodded politely, but my eyes were scanning the entrance. I was wearing a Kanchipuram silk saree in a shade of sunrise orange-the color Harish had admired on our first beach date. The gold zari on the border shimmered under the chandeliers.

Then, the music changed. The nadaswaram played a bright, celebratory tune, and the Kesavan family walked in.

Harish was at the center. I had seen him in suits and casual polos, but seeing him in a traditional veshti took my breath away. He looked like a king from an old legend, tall and steady. As he walked toward the stage, our eyes met. He didn't look at the decor or the crowd. He looked at me with a focus that made the hundreds of people in the room vanish.

He climbed the steps to the stage, and as he sat on the ornate wooden chair next to me, he whispered, "You look... like you were carved from sunlight, Samaira."

I felt the familiar heat rise to my cheeks. "And you look like you've finally mastered how to tie a veshti," I teased back, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

"My father did it for me," he admitted with a grin. "I almost tripped twice in the car."

The priest was chanting Sanskrit verses, the rhythmic sound creating a sacred canopy over us. The smoke from the small ceremonial fire rose in a thin, blue line toward the open roof.

It was time.

My mother handed me the ring. I took Samaira's hand. Her fingers were cool, but as I touched them, I felt a spark of warmth. I looked at her-her eyes were wide, glowing with a mix of nerves and happiness. I slid the ring onto her finger, the diamond catching the light.

Mine, I thought. My partner. My home.

Then, she took my hand. Her touch was firm now, confident. She slid the gold band onto my finger, and as it settled, I felt a sense of completion. The "arrangement" was over. The journey had officially begun.

The priest stopped his chanting and looked at our parents, then at us. He began to consult a thick, yellowed almanac, his finger tracing the lunar dates. The room fell into a hushed silence. This was the moment the families had been waiting for-the official date.

"The alignment of the stars is perfect," the priest announced, his voice booming through the hall. "The most auspicious time for the union of Harish and Samaira will be in exactly three months from today."

A cheer erupted from the relatives. My father hugged Ram Uncle, and our mothers were already dabbing their eyes with their saree pallus.

Three months.

I turned to Samaira. She was smiling, a radiant, open expression that made my heart ache with how much I loved her. She looked at me, her eyes dancing with the realization that our 'dating' phase was about to get a very permanent upgrade.

I leaned in slightly, close enough that only she could hear me. "Three months, Samaira. Better start practicing your cake-baking. I have a feeling we're going to have a lot of anniversaries to celebrate."

She laughed, a bright, beautiful sound that cut through the noise of the crowd. "And you better start practicing your patience, Mr. CEO. You're stuck with me now."

As we stood up to take the blessings of the elders, I caught her eye one last time. I couldn't help it. I gave her a slow, deliberate wink-a silent promise that through the chaos of the next three months and the rest of our lives, it would always be just us.

Samaira blushed a deep, beautiful crimson, ducking her head as she laughed, her hand instinctively touching the new ring on her finger.

The circle was closed. The future was ours.