Song suggestion:Surili Akhiyon Wale

Author pov

Isha stepped into the washroom, closing the door softly behind her. The faint sound of the latch clicking echoed in the quietness, and for a moment she pressed her back against the wooden door, letting out a shaky breath. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, as if her own heartbeat was trying to escape, betraying the mix of nervousness and awkwardness storming inside her. This was supposed to be her new beginning, yet her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the marble sink for support.

Why was she feeling so restless? Perhaps it was the memory of Dadi’s words replaying in her mind, tugging painfully at her heart. The love, the guidance, the blessings—everything still lingered, soft yet heavy. A part of her longed for that comfort again, but then, almost guiltily, another thought emerged—she had been blessed with a new family. A mother who accepted her, a father who treated her with warmth, a brother who laughed with her, and above all… Shivam ji. Her husband. The one who stood beside her now, quietly yet firmly, as if he was her anchor in this unknown ocean of change.

Her throat tightened as she thought of his name. Isha and Shivam ji. Together. The words sounded fragile, almost unbelievable, as if they belonged to someone else’s story, not hers. Her large eyes grew wider with the weight of the realization. She didn’t know what exactly she was thinking, only that her emotions swirled in confusing circles—yet her lips did not carry a smile. Nor did her face hold the brightness of laughter. Instead, she shook her head gently, a helpless motion, and tears brimmed in her eyes before spilling silently across her cheeks.

The reflection in the mirror startled her. A face bare of pretence, glowing only with innocence and fragile beauty. There was no heavy layer of adornment, no practiced charm—just a young woman caught between fear and hope. Yet, even in that vulnerability, her lips curved faintly into a fragile smile, a smile that belonged only to someone who was learning what it meant to begin again.

Her gaze drifted upwards, to her forehead where the fresh vermilion streaked across the parting of her hairline. It shone with quiet brilliance, stark and undeniable—the mark of a bride, of a wife. A symbol that she was no longer alone, that she carried with her a bond sealed not just by rituals but by silent promises. Isha touched it lightly, her fingertips trembling, as if acknowledging that her identity had shifted overnight.

She quickly splashed her face with cool water, wiping away the tears with the edge of her dupatta. She did not want Shivam to see her like this—fragile, unsure, drowning in emotions she couldn’t yet name. She pressed her lips together, steadying her breath, before gathering the courage to step outside.

The door creaked faintly as she opened it. Shivam was there.

He was standing just a few steps away, as if he had been waiting for her all along. The moment his eyes fell on her, something unspoken passed between them. His gaze lingered—on the freshness of her face, the wet strands of hair sticking against her temple, the small traces of nervousness she tried to hide. He moved forward, not hurriedly but with a calm grace that felt strangely reassuring.

“You sit down,” his voice was gentle, steady, yet it carried a firmness that left no space for argument. “I’ll just freshen up and come.”

Isha blinked, momentarily caught by the depth in his eyes. For a second, she wondered if he could see through her façade, if he knew about the storm she was hiding inside. His words were simple, but the way he said them—so natural, so considerate—made her heart tighten with a strange warmth.

She nodded faintly, lowering her gaze, her hands clutching the edge of her dupatta as if it could shield her. That small nod, barely visible, was enough for him. Shivam lingered for another heartbeat, his eyes tracing the contours of her face, before turning and stepping into the bathroom. The sound of running water soon filled the silence of the room.

Isha, left alone, let her eyes wander.

The room was unlike anything she had expected. It wasn’t grand in a way that screamed for attention; it was simple yet elegant, filled with warmth. The wooden furniture carried a deep, earthy tone that blended with the soft cream walls. The light that filtered through the curtains bathed everything in a golden glow, making the space feel alive, almost breathing. A small potted plant stood in the corner, its green leaves swaying gently under the breeze from the ceiling fan.

She walked slowly, her bare feet brushing against the polished floor, her dupatta trailing behind her. Every corner of the room seemed to whisper of comfort, of care, of a life that had been waiting quietly for her arrival. Her fingers brushed the edge of a wooden table, pausing to feel its texture, grounding herself in this new reality.

Then her eyes fell on the balcony.

Drawn by an invisible pull, she moved towards it. The curtains swayed softly, and with a gentle push, she stepped outside. The night air greeted her, cool and soothing against her still-warm skin. The balcony opened to a view that stretched into the quiet distance—trees rustling under the starlight, the faint hum of crickets filling the silence, and somewhere far away, the soft murmur of city lights twinkling like scattered jewels.

Isha gripped the railing, leaning forward slightly, as if the breeze could carry away her tangled emotions. Her heart still beat erratically, but out here, under the vastness of the sky, it didn’t feel suffocating. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, letting the freshness calm her. Somewhere behind her, she could still hear the faint splash of water from the bathroom. It reminded her she was not alone anymore.

Minutes passed. Or perhaps only seconds—it was hard to tell. Then, soft footsteps echoed behind her.

Shivam had returned.

He stood in the doorway, watching her quietly. His hair was damp, droplets of water trailing down his temples. The faint scent of soap lingered around him, crisp and clean. For a moment, he didn’t speak, simply observing the way she leaned against the railing, her dupatta fluttering gently in the breeze, her silhouette fragile yet radiant under the moonlight.

There was something unexplainable in his chest—a tug, a quiet pull—that urged him to step forward. And so, he did.

Isha turned, startled by the sound of his approach. Their eyes met, and just like that, time slowed. Neither spoke. Neither needed to. The silence between them carried more weight than words ever could.

.................................

The balcony air was cool, scented faintly with damp soil and the fragrance of blooming jasmine from somewhere in the garden below. Isha leaned slightly on the railing, her dupatta fluttering gently with the breeze. Her eyes roamed the view outside—the sky still carrying streaks of fading sunlight, where orange melted into the purples of the evening. It was one of those rare moments where the heart felt full yet restless, like it wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words.

“Wo actually—” she began softly, turning toward Shivam who had just stepped out from behind her. She wanted to explain, to tell him that she had come here only to admire the view, to feel the air on her face and calm the storm in her chest.

But Shivam lifted his hand, a small gesture, a silent sign that told her it was okay. His eyes carried no demand, no question—only a quiet reassurance that she didn’t need to justify herself. The simplicity of that gesture made her throat tighten. For a moment she could only look at him, startled by how easily he seemed to read what she couldn’t express.

By now the sun had nearly slipped beyond the horizon. When they had first arrived, sunlight still lingered in golden pools across the courtyard, but time had moved swiftly. It was 4:35 already, the last hints of day giving way to evening’s hush. Soon, Mira ji’s words would pull them both back—reminding them that the family was waiting for them to join the dining table, to complete the lunch that had been delayed.

Shivam’s voice broke the quiet. Calm, steady, but carrying a weight that touched her differently.

“You don’t have to say anything, Isha. This room…” he glanced briefly around, then looked back at her, “is as much yours as it is mine.”

Her breath caught at the way he said her name. On his lips, “Isha” didn’t sound ordinary. It didn’t sound like just a name. It was as if he was worshipping the very syllables, like he was offering reverence to something sacred. A strange warmth spread through her chest, making her lower her gaze quickly before he could notice the turmoil in her eyes.

She managed a slight nod, acknowledging his words though her mind was still tangled. Her fingers twisted the edge of her dupatta as she searched for something—anything—to say that would not reveal too much of her vulnerable heart. At last she whispered, “Your house is very beautiful. Especially the garden.”

Her words came out hesitantly, almost clumsily, but they carried honesty. She had been enchanted by the lush greenery, the carefully tended flowers, the quiet fountain that glimmered in the afternoon sun. There was serenity in every corner of this house, and she had felt it from the moment she stepped inside.

Shivam raised a brow, the corner of his lips curving into a faint, teasing smile. “This isn’t my house,” he corrected gently. “It belongs to my parents. Ours, in a way. But mine? No. My house—I’ll take you there tomorrow.”

Isha’s eyes widened in surprise. “This… isn’t yours?”

He shook his head, that smile still tugging at his lips. “No. This is where my parents live, where the family breathes together. My house—our house—is somewhere else. Not here.” His voice deepened slightly when he said “ours,” stretching the word as though he was carefully weaving her existence into his own.

For a second, Isha’s heart stumbled. Ours. It sounded foreign and familiar all at once, and she didn’t know how to hold it inside her without trembling. She could only nod faintly again, unable to trust her voice.

Then Shivam straightened, slipping his hands into his pockets, but his eyes didn’t leave her face. “Come,” he said after a pause.

“Mother must be waiting. If we delay any longer, she’ll start imagining that I’m scolding her new daughter-in-law already.”

The playfulness in his tone eased the heaviness in the air, though only slightly. Isha gave him a sideways look, her lips parting in the faintest attempt at a smile.

“As if I’d let you scold me,” she murmured, a flicker of challenge in her voice.

She stepped past him, intending to walk toward the dining room on her own. But before she could move farther, she felt a sudden tug at her wrist. Her breath hitched.

Shivam’s fingers had closed firmly around her delicate wrist, halting her steps.

“Not at all,” he said softly, almost under his breath, but every word carried a weight that pressed against her pulse. “You’re my only wife. My one and only. And I won’t let you go ahead without me.”

The firmness in his voice, mixed with the gentleness of his grip, sent shivers down her spine. She tried to pull her hand back, irritation flashing briefly in her eyes. “Why did you hold my hand without asking for permission?” she demanded, her tone sharper than she intended.

Shivam tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. “Hmm. A good question,” he murmured, as if seriously considering her challenge. Then slowly, deliberately, he released her wrist—only to extend his hand toward her, palm open, waiting.

“Can I, love?” he asked.

The words hung in the air, unhurried and steady, but they struck Isha like a sudden storm. Her eyes widened, her breath caught, and the world around her seemed to pause, leaving only the weight of his question between them.

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