A Glimpse of Red

Wedding Day

The air in Nitya Singh Rajput's room was heavy with the scent of sandalwood and jasmine. She stood before the antique mirror, her reflection a vision of both defiance and grace. The bride's ensemble was a declaration of her strength and her legacy.

Her white lehenga, embroidered with golden zari in intricate Rajput motifs, shimmered under the soft light. From afar, it seemed to hold a creamy but closer inspection revealed the boldness of its pure white—an audacious choice for a bride, symbolizing peace, sacrifice and resilience. Draped over her head was her chunni, dyed crimson with the blood of Pratham Singh Rawal. Its rich red mark, bordered with pearls and gold thread, was a reminder of the blood that had forged this union.

Her blouse, a deep red masterpiece adorned with gold embroidery, perfectly complemented the lehenga. Its bold, open-backed design was tied with a single golden thread, emphasizing her elegance and unyielding spirit. Around her neck rested a heavy polki necklace, studded with emeralds and uncut diamonds, its weight a symbol of the crown she was about to don.

Nitya adjusted her chunni one last time, her gaze locked with her reflection. Her dark eyes shimmered with determination. Today, she wasn't just a bride—she was a Rajput princess standing at the threshold of history.

"Didi Sahib," came Ishika's excited voice from the doorway, breaking her thoughts. "The baraat has arrived."

Nitya turned, her eyes meeting her younger sister's. Ishika, dressed in a soft pink lehenga, her youthful face glowing with excitement, hurried into the room. She stopped short, her expression softening as she took in Nitya's appearance.

"Didi," Ishika whispered, her voice catching, "you look... like a queen."

Nitya's lips curved into a faint smile. "Queens aren't born, Ishika. They're forged." Her voice was steady, but the weight of her words hung in the air.

Ishika didn't fully understand the depth of Nitya's statement, but she nodded, her smile unwavering. "Come, Didi. Everyone is waiting for you."

Nitya walked down the aisle adorned with a path of red rose petals meticulously laid out beneath her feet, creating an ethereal scene of grace and grandeur. Each step she took felt like poetry in motion, her off-white lehenga with its golden embroidery shimmering in the soft glow of the chandeliers. The deep red blouse complemented the red roses beneath her, while her blood-stained chunni, draped over her head, added a weight of history and sacrifice.

The air was thick with reverence, and the gathered crowd of royals and dignitaries fell silent, their eyes glued to the bride. Awe filled their expressions, mouths slightly agape as they took in the elegance and strength of the Rajput princess.

As Nitya neared the mandap, her gaze lifted and locked with Pratham Singh Rawal's. He stood tall and regal, draped in a red velvet sherwani, a striking representation of both the joy of the occasion and the blood-streaked history that had brought them here. The sherwani's intricate golden embroidery told stories of battles and victories, while his off-white turban, adorned with a diamond-studded sarpech, stood in sharp contrast, a nod to peace and unity.

In his hand, he held the Rawal family's legendary sword, its ruby-studded hilt gleaming under the golden lights. As Nitya's eyes fell upon the weapon, a faint, knowing smile played on her lips—a mix of irony and acceptance. This was the same sword that had been used to sever her father's leg, a constant reminder of the tumultuous history between their families. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and with quiet resolve, stepped onto the mandap, standing shoulder to shoulder with Pratham.

Pratham, captivated by Nitya's presence, struggled to look away. Her beauty was unparalleled, but it was her aura—an unyielding strength wrapped in elegance—that held him spellbound.