Yeh Mera Deewanapan Hai🍂🏵️🍂

⟪1⟫

31st January 1999

The room was dimly lit with a soft golden glow, adorned with flowers and subtle perfumes that filled the air, reminding her of the conversations she'd overheard back in her village.

Those older, married women would giggle and whisper about their wedding nights, leaving her cheeks red and her heart fluttering with a mix of curiosity and dread.

Now, with her own wedding night here, the reality of it all was far more nerve-wracking than she'd anticipated.

Her hands trembled slightly, fingers fidgeting as she sat on the edge of the large, ornate bed, her delicate veil cascading over her face, framing the world in a light, shimmering hue.

She was the younger daughter-in-law in this rich, prestigious family, and the weight of that title felt as heavy as her elaborate bridal lehenga.

In the silence, she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching.

Her heart pounded as the door opened, and through the thin fabric of her veil, she saw the silhouette of her husband.

She felt her pulse quicken, but instead of coming toward her, he headed to the bathroom.

Confusion flickered in her chest, and she sat quietly, waiting as the minutes stretched on.

It must have been nearly half an hour before he emerged.

He looked at her, still sitting in the same position, and sighed. "You should change your clothes," he said, his voice deep and resonant.

A shiver ran down her spine at the sound of it, and she wanted to say something, to ask him to lift her veil as tradition went, but the words caught in her throat.

She remembered what the women had told her back in her village: always listen to your husband's words, never argue, and don't express your own opinions.

So, she simply nodded and stood, feeling the weight of her lehenga making it hard to move gracefully.

She lifted her veil slightly, just enough to see him more clearly, only to find him settling on the sofa and closing his eyes.

Her brow furrowed in confusion, but she didn't want to disturb him.

Quietly, she took a simple saree from her bag and made her way to the bathroom.

The feeling of uncertainty lingered in her heart as she carefully undid the intricate layers of her bridal outfit, slipping into the plain saree.

She couldn't help but wonder about her new husband, the silence between them thick with unspoken questions.

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The first rays of sunlight crept through the ornate curtains of his room, casting a soft glow over the bridal decorations that seemed untouched from the night before.

Brijraj Maheshwari, the younger son of the Maheshwari family, sat up on the sofa where he had spent most of the night, barely sleeping, his mind too restless and resentful.

As his gaze swept over the rose petals scattered across the bed, his eyes fell on his bride, Sangeeta, sleeping soundly with her face half-buried in the pillow, a calm innocence etched into her delicate features.

He felt a pang of anger twist in his chest, his jaw tightening as he looked at her.

This-this village girl, this symbol of his family's outdated thinking-was now his wife.