The vivid reds in wedding symbols of celebration , Happiness and Joy . But what will happen if the same red colour change into the colour of blood betrayal and the symphony of despair.
Meera sweet little innocent girl end up being the pawn in the d...
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The soft rays of the morning sun peeked through the curtains, casting a golden hue over the room. I blinked, adjusting to the light, but the warmth that surrounded me made it impossible to move just yet.
Khadoos's arms were tightly wrapped around me, his face calm and serene. For a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, he looked so peaceful when he slept. His dark hair was tousled, a few strands falling over his forehead. A small smile tugged at my lips.
"Mr. Khadoos," I whispered softly, brushing away the unruly strands. I leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.
He stirred slightly, his grip on me tightening for a moment before relaxing again. I carefully slipped out of his hold, making sure not to wake him. Today was special. My first Karwachauth.
I stood in front of the mirror, dressed in a simple pink kurta, the color symbolizing the joy and love I carried in my heart. My hands traced the faint marks of henna that still lingered from the previous day. The intricate designs were a reminder of the traditions I was now a part of — a reminder that I wasn't just Meera anymore. I was Meera Arjun Singh Rajvansh.
Karwachauth had always been a festival I admired from afar. I had grown up watching women dress in vibrant colors, their bangles clinking with every movement, their smiles radiant as they prayed for the long life of their husbands. But now, it wasn't just a distant tradition. It was my own.
I knew the fast would be difficult — no food or water until the moonrise. But every bit of it would be worth it. For my Khadoos.
He might not believe in such rituals, but I did. Because this wasn't just a custom to me. It was a silent promise — a day to celebrate the bond we shared, to pray for his well-being, and to cherish the love that was blossoming between us.
"Aapke liye, Mr. Khadoos," I whispered to my reflection, a determined smile curving my lips.
The house was still draped in silence when I stepped downstairs. Only the faint clinking of utensils from the kitchen echoed through the air. Ma and Chachi were already awake, preparing the Sargi — the traditional pre-dawn meal for the daughters-in-law who would observe the fast.
"Meera!" Ma's eyes lit up as she saw me. "Aa jaa beta, sab tayyar hai."
"Good morning, Ma," I greeted softly, bending down to touch her feet. She blessed me, her hands cupping my face with pride.
"First Karwachauth," Chachi beamed, setting a silver thali on the table. "Kitni pyaari lag rahi hai humari Meera."
I smiled, the warmth of their words filling my heart. For all the storms I had weathered in this house, it was moments like these that reminded me of the family I had gained.
