Where is bride mr. Mehra his father asked?
There parents are looking down they don't have words to say to them that there daughter run away from her own marriage...
Sorry Raghuvanshi sahab mai aapke hath judta ho mujhe maaf karde .
Ab kuch nhi ho sa...
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The silence in the car isn't awkward—it’s oddly comforting. The kind that makes you feel seen without saying a word. I glance sideways, stealing a look at Abhimanyu as he drives, his jaw slightly clenched, eyes fixed on the road ahead, but softer than usual.
He didn't say anything after I told him I needed time. Just… “Okay.” That’s it.
No drama. No disappointment. Just acceptance.
And somehow, that "okay" weighs more than a hundred romantic lines.
When we pull into the Raghuvanshi haveli, the place is alive with laughter and colors. The Satyanarayan Puja is over, but the festive warmth still lingers in the air. Everyone is gathered outside in the courtyard. As soon as we step out of the car, I feel a hundred eyes on me. Grandma is the first to reach us, holding a thali with aarti.
“Lo aa gaye dono, bhagwan ki kripa bani rahe tum dono par,” she blesses us with her typical motherly affection. (Here they are—may God keep his blessings on you both.)
I smile and bend to touch her feet, stealing a glance at Abhimanyu as he does the same. Something about the way he bows his head with so much respect makes my chest tighten.
“Bas bas, ab andar chalo,” Ma says, holding my hand gently. (Enough now, come inside.)
The moment we step into the house, a shower of flower petals greets us. Riya di and Reyansh had clearly been waiting. I laugh as petals get stuck in my hair.
“You both are glowing!” Riya winks, elbowing me playfully.
I smile but inside, a storm brews.
Because I’m glowing for someone I didn’t choose—but my heart did.
Everyone disperses into the living room, and Abhimanyu excuses himself to his room. I stand for a second, watching his retreating back. There’s a strange ache building in my chest. Did I hurt him by asking for time?
“Come, Anika. Sit,” Papa says gently, patting the couch beside him.
Just when I settle in, something unexpected happens.
“Badi maa! Anika bhabhi!” A panicked voice echoes from the main gate.
We all turn to see a guard rushing in with a paper in hand. His face is pale.
“Yeh letter gate ke paas mila…” he says breathlessly, handing it to Dadaji. (This letter was found near the gate…)
A chill runs down my spine. Dadaji unfolds the letter slowly. His expressions darken.
“What is it?” Ma asks, her voice trembling.
Dadaji looks up. “It’s a warning… for Anika.”
My breath hitches.
“Aur likha hai—‘Tum Abhimanyu ki patni nahi ban sakti. Yeh shaadi tod do, warna—’” (It says: You cannot be Abhimanyu’s wife. End this marriage or else—)
