Despite their vastly different worlds, fate throws Ishan and Shivangi together in an arranged marriage. It's a collision of two worlds - Ishan, with his star-studded cricket career and larger-than-life persona, and Shivangi, the grounded middle clas...
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The soft ting, ting of the hand bell echoed through the living room, a sound so familiar that it seemed to blend seamlessly with the other early morning noises—a distant bird's call, the faint hum of the ceiling fan, the quiet creaks of a house slowly waking up.
As Vihaan Randhawa stepped out of his bedroom, each slow, measured step he took was accompanied by the steady thud of his forearm crutch against the cool floor, the rhythm almost as predictable as the bell's chime.
Over the years, that sound had woven itself into the fabric of their mornings, becoming as much a part of the household as the sunlight that streamed in through the windows, casting long, gentle shadows across the room.
It was like the heartbeat of their home, a reassuring reminder that the day was beginning, that life, with all its ups and downs, was moving forward, even if it did so at its own, unhurried pace.
Vihaan paused at the doorway, leaning slightly on his crutch as he took in the familiar scent of sandalwood and incense that filled the air, the fragrance wrapping around him like the warmth of an old, favorite shawl.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, savoring the scent that had become as much a part of their mornings as the sight that greeted him now—his sister, Shivangi, deeply absorbed in her prayers, her whole being focused on her Mahadev as if the world outside didn't exist, or at least didn't matter until she had completed this sacred ritual.
He couldn't help but smile as he watched her, sitting cross-legged in front of their small home temple, her eyes squeezed shut so tightly that the small red bindi on her forehead seemed to glow with a life of its own.
Her lips moved in perfect sync with the chant of "Om Namah Shivaay," the words flowing from her with the ease of someone who had recited them countless times before.
There was something both amusing and profoundly touching about the way she approached her morning pooja with such solemnity, as if the entire day depended on these few quiet moments of devotion. And maybe, in her mind, it really did.
Vihaan stood there a little longer, watching as Shivangi carefully placed a belpatra on the Shiva lingam, the leaf's glossy surface catching the morning light as she turned it just so, ensuring that it was placed exactly right.
The bell in her other hand continued its steady rhythm, the sound filling the room with a sense of calm and order.
The sunlight filtering through the windows caught the small red bindi on her forehead, making it sparkle like a tiny jewel, a detail so small yet so significant in this scene of pure peace.
In that moment, Vihaan felt a rush of warmth and affection for his sister, a reminder of the bond they shared—a bond that had only grown stronger with time, weathered by life's challenges but never broken.
