𝑨𝑵𝑰𝑫𝑰𝑻𝑨: 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐞 - Yours With All My Heart

•𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞•

~♡

ANIRUDH

---
1915

My eyes widened in sheer horror as I stood frozen, unable to believe what was happening before me. My breath hitched, and my hands curled into tight fists at my sides. This… this is not what I came here for. This is a crime. A sin.

Are these villagers insane? How can they, for God’s sake—

A sharp wave of anger surged through me, and without thinking, I stormed forward, my voice cutting through the murmurs and the rhythmic chants of the priests.

“Stop this marriage right now!”

The entire mandap (wedding altar) fell into stunned silence. The priest halted mid-chant, his lips parting in surprise. The men seated near the sacred fire turned their heads toward me, their expressions shifting from shock to suspicion. Women who had been singing wedding songs gasped, some clutching their veils, their voices tapering into worried whispers.

My jaw clenched as I noticed the villagers exchanging uneasy glances. Then, through the parting crowd, I saw a familiar face rushing toward me—Varun, the groom himself. His forehead was beaded with sweat, his silk kurta slightly disheveled as he stumbled forward. He was panting, breathless, as if he had sprinted across the courtyard.

“Chote Malik! What—what happened?” he asked in a hurried whisper, his eyes darting nervously between me and the stunned audience.

Yes, Chote Malik. That’s what he called me. His father worked for my family, but I had never seen Varun as a servant in this 18 years. He was one of my closest friends, one of the few people I trusted. And today, I had come to Krishanagar celebrate his wedding. Everything had been going smoothly—he was set to marry a young woman named Suman.

But then—then I saw this.

My gaze snapped back to the mandap, and my stomach churned at the sight.

A small girl, no older than eleven or twelve, stood there, draped in a heavy bridal saree that was far too big for her tiny frame. The red fabric pooled around her feet as if it was swallowing her whole. Thick jewelry adorned her fragile neck, her little wrists clinking with gold bangles that seemed heavier than her own limbs. She stood trembling, her wide, terrified eyes glistening with unshed tears.

She was a child. A child being married off.

A sharp pang of rage struck through my chest. I could see the woman beside her gripping her hand tightly, as if forcing her to stand still. The girl’s lips quivered, her small hands fidgeting with the edge of her dupatta (veil), as though she wanted to run but couldn’t.

And if that wasn’t horrifying enough, my fury exploded when my gaze landed on the so-called groom.

An old man stood before the little girl, dressed in ceremonial attire, his hands trembling from age. He was ancient—wrinkled, frail, his back hunched with time. He was old enough to be her grandfather. No—her great-grandfather.

My nails dug into my palms, my entire body shaking with barely contained rage.

I turned to Varun, my voice laced with venom. “Varun, you’re asking me what happened?” My tone was sharp, furious. I gestured toward the mandap, my eyes burning with disbelief. “For God’s sake, look at what’s happening! That little girl—she’s just a child! And they’re forcing her to marry an old man? This is disgusting! We have to stop this wedding right now!”