Making Her Mine- An IPKKND story.

Chapter 83 - Wedding

It was meant to be a meaningless ritual, something borne of superstition and tradition, things that held no meaning for Arnav Singh Raizada. For him, a wedding was inconsequential— a relationship was not built on a ceremony, but a partnership.

What was the point of these superficial things, the ceremonies and prayers, the chants in a language that nobody spoke and few understood fully, written by someone else eons ago? Weddings meant nothing — marriages ended as often as not, in betrayal and heartbreak, the failure to keep promises to be loyal and faithful and a true partner for life.

For him, what mattered was the knowledge that he loved Khushi, that he would never dream of hurting her, that he trusted her, that he knew he would happily spend every moment of the rest of his life with her. And that she loved him, that they cared for one another, and for each other's wellbeing. That he could not imagine being unfaithful to her, and could be equally certain of her loyalty to him. All of that did not come from a ceremony, or a series of rituals. It just was, and some pointless rituals would neither make nor break his bond with her.

But still, the impending wedding ceremony gave him a strange sense of anticipation. If he was a different sort of person, he would have called it butterflies.

It was the flurry around him – the arrival of the Pandit, his family all dressed up, huge smiles on their faces, fussing over what he was wearing and who was going to be where exactly, and when. The people he knew arriving, smiles on their faces too, acknowledging that he and this woman he loved were tied in a bond, husband and wife.

He didn't mind the sherwani he was made to wear, dark blue with gold embroidery, with a cream scarf. It wasn't nearly as flashy as the sangeet one, and Khushi had loved it.

NK, Akash, Aman and Aarav flanked him as he walked downstairs to where the wedding was to take place, all of them dressed to the nines, huge smiles on their faces.

Garima Aunty and Buaji received him with a prayer and tilak, and stood him at the start of a path that led to the Mandap, which had been decorated with red and cream roses and twinkling lights.

Finally, the arrival of the bride was announced with music, and Khushi emerged: in her green and red outfit, gold glinting on her forehead and ears and throat, more beautiful than he could believe it was possible for anyone to be. She was surrounded by Payal and Lavanya, and a gaggle of her friends, including the round-faced Preeto.

She met his eyes as she walked to him, her face lit up in a bedazzling smile.

He wanted to take her hand, but he was handed a garland for her, while she stood before him, resplendent, holding a garland for him. It was a strangely intimate thing to do, to place the wreaths of jasmine and rose around each others' necks, and to then walk side by side to sit beside a leaping fire.

It meant something, having his scarf knotted to the end of hers, and the fact that Di was the one to tie that knot— the person who had brought them together. He could not help glancing at Khushi every few moments, and exchanging a smile every time their eyes met.

He would never admit it, but walking around the fire, tied in this way to Khushi – felt significant too. The promises they made each other solemnly meant something. The laughter and chatter around them, as their family and friends scattered flower petals and rice, felt distant but also right — echoes of happiness as they existed in a bubble of their own little world, Arnav and Khushi. 

The red vermillion he placed on the part of her hair, the marriage necklace of black beads he clasped around her neck, meant something.

Perhaps they exchanged words, but no words seemed necessary. Today, he could speak to Khushi with a glance, and read her every thought in her eyes.

He did not need rituals to be her husband, or for her to be his wife, but every chant seemed to bind them to each other in a new and more profound way.

And then, it was done. They were bound – not just in their private world, but for all to see. He couldn't help feeling a swell of happiness as they completed the final ceremonies, and she stood before him, Khushi Kumari Gupta Singh Raizada – his wife.

It had been, of necessity, a somewhat small and private ceremony, not at all the wedding people would expect ASR to have. He hadn't bothered to invite anyone, no one outside his immediate family meant anything to him, and he hadn't wanted it to become a networking opportunity, like Aman had suggested. Di and Nani had gone ahead and invited relatives, and Khushi had invited everyone she knew, but it was still an unusually small affair.

There was no tearful bidaai – Khushi hadn't wanted that, and she and Di had agreed that the ceremonies to welcome her to the house had already been completed as well. The auspicious hour had been at mid-morning, leading straight to a reception afterwards.

Arnav held Khushi's hand as they accepted the good wishes of the people who came to greet them, smiles and thank-yous ready.

Khushi really had invited everyone. There was Happy Singh who ran the garage near Buaji's house, and Shukla, who helped Khushi with her dabba business, with half his office staff – even the grumpy security guard duo. Preeto and Ankur, Dubey, who looked almost unrecognizable in a Sherwani, Kamini Mehta, who also looked unrecognizable in a saree, the gaggle of Khushi's friends from Laxmi Nagar, her old neighbours, including the toothy old woman who he artfully dodged when she reached out to muss his hair.

Khushi held his arm, and introduced him to a bunch of people he didn't know— Aarav's teachers, Pushpaji who ran the orphanage, a vaguely familiar, overly muscular man who Khushi said was her rakhi brother, a woman she told him used to run the AR Canteen before Shukla (he couldn't remember her for the life of him), a Bedi Uncle, who had sold the garage to Happy ...

He was just getting over his amazement at seeing the couple who owned a Dhaba in the outskirts of Delhi – Manjeet Uncle and Bhagwan Aunty, Khushi said excitedly, prodding and asking him if he remembered them – when someone called his name.

"Arnav."

His smile disappeared when he turned to face the owner of the voice.

Arjun Malik stood before him, cloaked in a shawl, his round face red and covered in a sheen of sweat, a crazed look in his eyes.

Chachaji.

His uncle, who had cruelly turned him and Di out of Sheesh Mahal, their only home, because their parents had killed themselves and that had been a disgrace to his Chachaji's good name.

His uncle, who had not cared to keep up with what he or Di had been doing, until the day he had returned to buy Sheesh Mahal back, humiliate Chachaji, and remove him from the mansion.

Arnav didn't have the millisecond it took to sort through his confused thoughts – why was he here, surely Dadi was to blame— or even for the stirrings of anger – when he saw it. Underneath Chachaji's shawl, the black barrel of a pistol.

Then, everything happened at once.

He lunged forward, shielding Khushi from the pistol in his uncle's hand. A shot went off, there were screams, Dubey wrestled his uncle to the ground, and then he felt a blinding pain.

He reached for the pain, touched something wet, and when he lifted his hand, the screams echoing around him, he saw it was covered in blood.