This is story about a girl whose name is Tara mehra , she is so beautiful and hardworking she always think about her family which is her MAMA's family , they torture her so much , she is a broken girl , her life is caged because of them , she is not...
The grand wedding hall was bathed in soft, muted lighting, its understated decor reflecting the groom's preference for simplicity. This wasn't an extravagant affair filled with laughter, music, or the usual grandeur of Indian weddings. It was a silent, almost clinical marriage, as per Ayushman Agnihotri's strict instructions. He despised unnecessary noise and fanfare, and above all, he wanted this union to remain under the radar.
The small guest list consisted of a select few—close family members, trusted employees, and a handful of high-profile clients. Despite the subdued atmosphere, there was an undeniable tension in the air, most of it directed at the bride who was about to arrive.
Ayushman sat on the mandap, his posture exuding authority and indifference all at once. Dressed in an impeccably tailored cream sherwani, he looked every bit the powerful tycoon that made headlines across the nation. His face, however, was a mask of disinterest, his sharp features devoid of emotion.
He wasn't here for love or tradition; he was here for duty. For his mother. This marriage, like everything else in his life, was a calculated move, another business deal he had to endure.
As the priest chanted mantras, Ayushman's focus wasn't on the sacred fire before him or the anticipation of the bride's arrival. Instead, he was glued to his phone, scanning emails and approving business proposals, as if this were just another day at the office.
The priest's voice broke through his concentration. "Kanya ko bulaya jaye, muhurta ka samay beet raha hai." (The bride should be called, the auspicious time is passing.)
Ayushman's jaw clenched, his irritation barely concealed. He didn't like waiting, not for anyone, not even for his bride. Every second that ticked by chipped away at his already thinning patience.
His mind churned with impatience as he silently willed the ceremony to be over. This marriage was merely a formality, a box to check off his meticulously organized life plan. Love, romance, or even excitement had no place in it. For Ayushman Agnihotri, this was just another task.
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The soft rustle of fabric and the faint tinkling of bangles echoed in the quiet hall as the bride entered, her head bowed and face hidden beneath the heavy red veil of her lehenga. The intricate gold embroidery shimmered under the dim lights, but her hesitant, faltering steps were far from what one might expect from a bride walking toward her new beginning.
The small gathering stirred with murmurs of curiosity. Her veiled appearance puzzled some of the guests, until a woman in her thirties stepped forward, her voice breaking the silence.
"Hamare yaha ye rivaaj hai ki shaadi ke pehle ladki apna ghoonghat niche hi rakhti hai, jab tak apne sasural na chali jaye." (It is our custom here that the girl keeps her veil down before marriage, until she goes to her in-laws' house.)
