"Ehsaas"~ A Story Of Falling In Love

CHAPTER :- 25

The mandap was a quiet dream—bathed in marigold garlands, fairy lights twinkling like stars around the sacred fire, the air filled with the heady scent of sandalwood and fresh mogra. Traditional shehnai played in the background, mingling with the hushed excitement of the guests.

But Agni stood on that stage, lost in a bubble where none of it mattered.

Because she was walking in.

And he could feel it before he saw her—the subtle shift in the air, the collective breath of awe from the guests, the sudden stillness in his own chest.

And then—Diya.

She stepped into the mandap with the grace of someone who didn’t know she was breathtaking. Her lehenga, deep red with intricate zardozi work, shimmered under the lights. A soft gold net dupatta was draped over her head, pinned delicately so her earrings—those traditional chandbalis he once said looked like poetry—could dance freely.

But it wasn’t the outfit.

It was her eyes.

They sought him out, instinctively. And when their eyes met, she gave him a small, crooked smile—the kind they’d exchanged countless times since that birthday surprise he gave her. That evening had melted something between them. Broken the ice. Grown into laughter, late-night conversations, a friendship that felt like it had always existed.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

She took slow steps toward the stage, her father by her side, but her gaze only on one man. The one waiting. The one who, though quiet and guarded, had shown her he cared—in small, profound ways. In silences. In gestures. In the way he never asked for anything but somehow always gave more.

Agni exhaled slowly as she reached the stage.

“You’re late,” he murmured softly when she stepped beside him.

“I wanted you to get nervous,” she replied, lips curved in playful defiance. “Did it work?”

He tilted his head just slightly. “Terrifyingly.”

She laughed softly under her breath, her bangles clinking.

They stood for the varmala, and Diya lifted the garland first. He didn’t make it difficult for her, didn’t pull back in teasing machismo like grooms often did. He just bent slightly, steady and still, eyes locked on hers.

When it was his turn, he brushed a stray strand of hair off her cheek before slipping the garland over her. Her breath caught—but just a little.

The priest began the rituals. They sat side by side on the stage, their shoulders barely touching, but the heat between them was unmistakable.

At one point, a strand from her maang tikka came loose and rested against her cheek. Agni, without a word, reached out and gently tucked it back into place. She turned to him, eyes widening just a little. He didn’t speak. Just smiled.

Her hands trembled slightly when she handed him the sindoor, and he noticed. Instead of teasing her, he placed his hand gently over hers for a moment before taking it.

“I’ve never done this before,” he whispered.

“I know,” she said. “But somehow, I trust you’ll get it right.”

And he did.

With steady fingers, he filled the parting of her hair, the red standing out against the dark sheen of her hair like a mark of belonging. Of promise.