I was thinking about his behavior last night and today, and a thought crossed my mind—should I also apologize for throwing that bottle?
I pondered for a while but quickly came to a conclusion. Why should I? I did nothing wrong. It was just a reaction.
As we all know, every action has an equal and opposite reaction—a fundamental law of physics.
"Chal ab zyada aisa ban mat jaise bahut physics aati ho. Bas yahi ek cheez pata hai," my subconscious mocked me.
(Translation: "Come on, don't act like you know everything about physics. That's all you know.")
I was about to freshen up when a knock on the door interrupted me. A house help stood there, informing me that Mr. Singhania had sent a doctor for me and that he had made space for my things in the closet.
As soon as I heard that, a new thought struck me:
Yeh itna dayalu bhi hai? "Kal room se nikala, aaj closet mein space!"
(Translation: "Yesterday I was evicted from the room, and today they made space in the closet!")
The irony wasn't lost on me.
The doctor arrived and examined me. My shoulder was slightly swollen, and I had some minor bruises. She prescribed medicine, assuring me it was nothing serious. I simply nodded, ready to let it go, but just as she was about to leave, I realized—
"Mein prescription lena toh bhool hi gayi!"
I quickly called her back and asked for the prescription.
She denied. "The medicines will be handed to you directly," she said.
I hesitated for a moment, feeling a wave of frustration rise within me. I don't want to owe him or his family anything. But I kept those thoughts to myself and simply insisted, "Still, I would like to have the prescription. "But she simply ignored my protest and walked away.
"Oh Bhagwan ji, why?"
(Translation: "Oh God, why?")
I chose to let it go, not wanting to ruin my mood further. I'll just pay him back later
"But remember this, Balika," my subconscious taunted again.
Ugh! I needed to freshen up before I went mad.
Finally, I stepped into the bathroom, took a mixed shower of hot and cold to gain benefits of both.
"Just accept that you can't handle either hot or cold water, Balika," my subconscious chimed in again.
"Ugh! Could you just shut up for a while and let me get ready?"
Now, what should I wear? That shouldn't even be a question. Balika, obviously a saree.
(Translation: "Girl, obviously a saree.")
But two things held me back:
I just wanted to wear my T-shirt and lower, relax, and have a peaceful morning. How do I even wear a saree?
I remembered how excited I was for my farewell and to have a trial look decided to drape it but after hours of struggle and frustration I ended up crying due to exhaustion.
"Wapas wahi sab?" I sighed.
(Translation: "Is it all the same again?")
Shaking off the memory, I picked out a red net saree with a full-sleeved blouse with a thick silver border. Somehow I was able to drape it the sheer fabric hugged my curves just right, draping elegantly over my form. The soft shimmer of the silver embroidery caught the light as I moved.
I carefully styled my hair into a low bun, letting a few strands frame my face. I slipped on a delicate waist chain, feeling the cool metal rest against my skin, and adorned my feet with payal, the soft tinkling sound oddly comforting.
A touch of nude lipstick brightened my face, and I fastened my mangalsutra around my neck. The black and gold beads rested against my skin, a silent reminder of the bond I had accepted, even if it was still unfamiliar to me. I slid on my silver toe rings (bichiya), another sign of my marital status, though they felt slightly foreign on my feet.
My hands hesitated over my earrings before I finally picked a pair of silver jhumkas, intricately designed with tiny pearl droplets. The moment I put them on, they swayed gently, adding a touch of grace to my look.
Next came the final touches—a small red bindi, a streak of sindoor in my parting, and a tiny nose ring.
At last, I picked up my kajal.
I rarely applied it because of my specs, but when I did, my eyes looked bigger and more beautiful.
"Self-compliment is as important as self-respect, hehehe," I thought, admiring my reflection.
(Translation: "Self-compliment is as important as self-respect, hehehe.")
After all, I had received many compliments on my eyes.
"But they don't work," (that viral reel voice echoed in my mind.)
"Faltu baatein chhod aur kaam par dhyan de," I chided myself.
(Translation: "Drop the useless talk and focus on work.")
Now, the final dilemma—should I wear my specs or not?
I didn't have lenses, nor did I use them. I could see fine up close, only distant things were blurry. I often avoided wearing glasses anyway, so it wouldn't make much difference.
Feeling satisfied with my look, I made my way downstairs, nerves bubbling in my chest. Except for Dadi Sa, I knew no one in this family particularly liked me. Advait's behavior had already left a bitter taste in my heart, and I wasn't keen on experiencing more of the same from his family.
If they disliked me, they could at least ignore me. But taunts? Those would sting, no matter how much I told myself to brush them off. Deep down, their words would linger, resurfacing in bits and pieces. It wasn't that I couldn't respond—I could, effortlessly.
Par mujhe mera maan ki shanti bahut pyaari hai yaarrrrrr...
(But my peace of mind is far too precious, yaar...)
Shaking off my thoughts, I walked into the living area, where Dadi Sa was seated with Mr. Singhania's father and uncle. I stepped toward them, bending first to take Dadi Sa's blessings.
"Khush raho, bahut sundar lag rahi ho bacche," she said with a warm smile.
(Stay blessed, my child. You look very beautiful.)
Her kind words eased my nerves a little. I turned to his father and uncle, touching their feet as well. They simply gave me a curt nod, their expressions unreadable. A neutral reaction—better than hostility, I supposed.
Standing beside Dadi Sa, I tried to blend into the background when his aunt walked in, holding a cup of tea. She eyed me before speaking, her tone light but laced with taunt.
"Nayi bahu ko der tak sone ki aadat hai, lagta hai?"
(Looks like the new daughter-in-law has a habit of sleeping in late?)
"Lijiye Maa Sa, aapki chai. Lagta hai, ab bhi mujhe hi deni hogi," she added with a laugh.
(Here, Maa Sa, your tea. Seems like I still have to serve it myself.)
Before I could respond, Dadi Sa spoke up in the same playful tone.
"Neelima, yaad hai? Tum toh apni shaadi ke pehle din subah aayi hi nahi thi.
(Neelima, do you remember? On the morning after your wedding, you didn't wake up early either. Remember?)
"Humein toh laga tha shayad tum behosh ho gayi ho jab tum uthi hi nahi rahi thi!" she added, laughing.
(We actually thought you had fainted since you just wouldn't wake up!)
And then she laughed.
The look on Chachi's face was priceless. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Aa gaya sawad chachi ji!
(That was satisfying, Chachi ji!)
I thought to myself, enjoying the moment.
Dadi Sa turned toward me with a gentle smile and said,
"Beta, aap jaiye aur kuch meetha bana dijiye apki pheli rasoi ki rasam hai, Baaki nashta Maharaj ji dekh lenge."
(Dear, go and prepare something sweet. The rest of the breakfast will be handled by chef.)
I nodded in acknowledgment and quietly left.
Growing up with Mami had made me independent at a young age, accustomed to handling things on my own. I had learned to rely on myself for even the smallest of tasks. Before emotions could overwhelm me, I pushed them aside and focused on the immediate dilemma—what sweet dish should I prepare?
Gajar ka halwa? Chawal ki kheer? Or both?
Because honestly, I loved both. Haan, dono banati hoon. (Yes, I'll make both.)
I made my way to the kitchen, which, given the sheer size of this house, took longer than expected.
Upon entering, I saw that Maharaj ji had almost finished preparing breakfast. When they inquired if I needed help, I simply assured them that I'd manage and asked them to show me where the ingredients were kept.
Once they left, I tucked my saree pallu securely at the side of my waist and got to work.
After an hour, both dishes were ready. The kheer had taken comparatively less time than the halwa, but still, I was finally done. I carefully scooped some into a separate bowl for bhog to Bhagwan ji, covered the dishes properly, and made my way to the home temple.
I asked one of the workers for directions to the temple and started walking. It was a beautifully adorned space, exuding a divine aura. The soft scent of sandalwood and fresh flowers lingered in the air, and the faint sound of temple bells echoed in the quiet morning.
At the center stood an intricately decorated Radha-Krishna idol, draped in rich fabrics, adorned with delicate flower garlands, and surrounded by glowing diyas. The sight itself was calming, filling my heart with a strange sense of peace.
After placing the bhog before the deities, I folded my hands and closed my eyes.
Give me the strength to face whatever comes my way and help me become a better person—that's all I ask. The rest is your divine grace, Bhagwan ji.
"Baaki toh aapki kripa hai hi." (The rest is your blessing anyway.)
I stood there for a moment longer, letting the warmth of the flickering diyas and the serenity of the space settle within me before stepping out.
The Singhania family had gathered for breakfast. Ishaani and Aarav were bickering, as always, their voices filling the dining space with their playful arguments. Pratap and Rajveer Singhania were engrossed in a serious business discussion, their deep voices a steady hum in the background. Meanwhile, Neelima and Savitri Singhania sat together, engaged in their own gossip. Saransh, ever the reserved one, remained silent, barely acknowledging the conversations around him.
The lively atmosphere came to an abrupt halt as Advait entered, his presence commanding immediate attention. Without a word, he walked to the head seat and took his place.
Just as he settled in, Vrinda entered.
Every pair of eyes turned toward her except Advait — she felt the weight of a dozen scrutinizing eyes turning toward her. Some gazes held mild disinterest, while others were sharper, disapproving. The air grew heavier with unspoken judgments, and for a moment, she hesitated, shifting slightly under the weight of their gazes. Only Dadi sa's warm, reassuring presence provided her with an anchor. Under the weight of their piercing gazes, Vrinda felt a wave of awkwardness creep in.
Then, breaking the silence, Advait's deep, authoritative voice echoed across the room.
"Sit."
He motioned to the chair beside him.
His tone was firm, authoritative—more of an order than an invitation.
A wave of shock rippled through the room. No one expected it. But no one dared to question it either.
Vrinda felt a strange mix of emotions at Advait's unexpected gesture. She hadn't anticipated any acknowledgment from Advait, let alone this. Yet, the way his voice left no room for argument made her move instinctively, almost before she had the chance to overthink it. With a small nod, she quietly pulled out the chair beside him and took her seat, feeling a mixture of relief and silent gratitude toward him.
Breakfast resumed, though the atmosphere remained unnaturally quiet. Vrinda kept her eyes down, focusing on her plate, yet curiosity tugged at her. Against her better judgment, her gaze lifted slightly, drawn toward Advait.
Dressed in a crisp black three-piece suit, he exuded effortless authority. The stark contrast of his attire against the morning light only enhanced the dark, intimidating aura radiating from him. He sat with his usual composed demeanor, sipping his coffee in silence. The morning light filtering through the grand windows accentuated the sharp planes of his face—the precise cut of his jaw, his ocean-blue eyes remained unreadable, yet piercing, holding a depth she couldn't quite decipher. The furrow between his brows that never seemed to smoothen. The dark aura around him was undeniable, as though he carried an unspoken storm within him.
He didn't spare her a single glance.
She wondered, How can someone look this composed yet so dangerous at the same time?
Dadisa's voice suddenly broke through the silence, pulling Vrinda from her thoughts.
"Vrinda, beta. Aap apni pehli rasoi ka meetha le aayiye."
(Vrinda, dear. Go bring the sweet dish you prepared for your first rasoi.)
Vrinda nodded and was just about to leave when the sound of a chair scraping against the floor interrupted her.
"I'm done. I'm leaving,"
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How was the chapter guys ? if you some suggestions do tell me
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