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|Chapter 3| "Sometimes, the loudest things in life are the silences between two people."
The days following the engagement felt like a blur, each one melding into the next with a suffocating sameness. Bhargavi watched her life transform from a predictable routine of her accounting job and her mother's scathing comments into a whirlwind of wedding preparations she had no control over.
Every decision-every tiny detail-seemed to be made without her, as though she were a mere prop in this grand production.
The saree she would wear, the flowers that would adorn the venue, the sweets to be served at the reception-everything was chosen by others. She'd stopped voicing her opinions after the third time her mother silenced her with an impatient wave of her hand.
"This is your chance, Bhargavi," her mother had snapped one evening when Bhargavi had hesitated over the weighty gold necklace being thrust at her. "Do you think someone like Vikram Khatri would have even looked at you if not for this arrangement? Be grateful."
Grateful. Bhargavi turned the word over in her mind like a jagged stone. Grateful for being reduced to a commodity? For being someone's practical choice? For being reminded, time and again, that she wasn't extraordinary enough to be loved, only suitable enough to be married off?
The jewelry store had been an overwhelming affair. The glaring lights bounced off the rows of sparkling necklaces and bangles, each piece heavier and more elaborate than the last.
Her mother and the jeweler exchanged animated opinions about what would look best on "the bride," while Bhargavi stood stiffly, trying to ignore the sickening weight of expectations settling on her shoulders.
"Try this," her mother had ordered, shoving a choker at her. "It'll hide that bony neck of yours."
The assistant clasped the necklace around her throat, and Bhargavi stared at her reflection. The ornate gold piece sparkled brilliantly against her skin, but all she could see was a girl trapped in a gilded cage.
"I don't like it," Bhargavi had murmured, running her fingers along the edges of the choker.
Her mother's eyes snapped up, sharp and unforgiving. "You're not the one paying for it. Stop being so picky."
Bhargavi bit back a retort, swallowing her pride like she had been taught to all her life.
This wasn't about her. It never was.
The saree shopping had been no different. Her mother's eyes gleamed with a mix of excitement and control as she sifted through layers of rich silks and heavy embellishments. "Red," her mother had declared, pulling out an intricately embroidered saree. "It's traditional. Elegant. Perfect."
