The sun was beginning to dip beyond the water, casting a golden-red hue across the ghat as chants of “Durga Ma ki jai!” echoed into the sky.

The visarjan procession had been emotional, but celebratory — an explosion of colors, drums, and ritual. The Roys and the Bajajs stood on opposite sides of the waterbank, keeping their carefully measured distance.

The Sindoor Khela had begun. Women, draped in traditional red-and-white sarees, danced and laughed as they applied vermilion to each other’s cheeks and foreheads, blessing each other with long, happy marriages. The air was electric with joy and nostalgia.

But on the far side of the crowd, things were far less serene.

Vaibhav Bajaj, having just returned from the business meeting, had barely loosened his collar before he was pulled aside by his cousins, Kartik and Utkarsh, both covered in streaks of red powder and sweat.

“Bhai, come on!” Kartik called, throwing a puff of sindoor at Vaibhav, who dodged it just in time.

“You guys look like you fell into a Holi bonfire,” Vaibhav smirked, dusting off his kurta.

Utkarsh grinned. “We call it festive spirit. You call it dry cleaning.”

Before Vaibhav could respond, Kartik sneak-attacked, smearing a line of sindoor across Vaibhav’s jaw.

“KARTIK!” Vaibhav shouted, lunging after him.

The chase was on.

Laughing, the three boys ran through the crowd, dodging aunties, side-stepping plates of sweets, and narrowly missing an idol-bearer. Utkarsh ducked behind a speaker, Kartik leapt over a bench.

And Vaibhav — in full sprint — collided.

Smack.

He slammed right into someone turning the corner from the other side.

Mihiksha.

She had been holding a brass thali, full of sindoor, sweets, and a small diya. The tray wobbled, spun — and tipped forward.

In that single, fateful second—

Vaibhav’s hand instinctively reached out to stop the tray.

But instead — his palm struck the center of her forehead.

Right above the eyebrows.

Right where the sindoor should be.

Red powder exploded between them, dusting the air, staining both of their faces — but none more strikingly than Mihiksha Roy, who now stood, stunned, as a perfect streak of sindoor glowed across her maang.

It looked like he had married her.

Silence fell.

All the shouting, music, and laughter seemed to vanish into a vacuum.

Kartik froze mid-laugh, eyes wide.

Utkarsh’s jaw dropped. “Bhai...”

Vaibhav blinked. His hand still hovered near her forehead. His breath caught in his throat.

And Mihiksha—

Her eyes were wide, dark pools of disbelief. The moment stretched too long.

She slowly touched her forehead.

Realization hit her like lightning.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Like dominos, people turned, stared, whispered.

One aunty dropped her sweet plate. Another covered her mouth.

And then—

“HE PUT SINDOOR ON HER!”

The shout came from someone in the crowd — and the chaos exploded.

From the Roy side, Mahua screamed, running forward. “Mihiksha! What happened?!”

Bhumi dropped her thali, mouth open in horror. “What is this nonsense?!”

Durga Prasad’s face turned red with fury. “Is this some kind of sick joke?!”

And from the Bajaj camp—

Yamini gasped, grabbing her husband’s arm. “Mahendra ji—did you see what just happened?!”

Deeplai’s voice rose, shrill and indignant. “Woh ladki toh... she planned this!”

“Vaibhav!” Mahendra’s voice cracked like thunder. “What did you do!?”

All eyes were now on the boy and the girl, standing inches apart in a cloud of red dust, their families thundering toward them from both sides.

“I-It was an accident,” Vaibhav stammered, backing a step. “I didn’t mean— I just—”

But it didn’t matter.

Not to the Bajajs. Not to the Roys. Not to the dozens of neighbors who had just witnessed what looked, unmistakably, like a public sindoor daan.

For one sacred second, a mark meant only for a husband’s hand now gleamed on Mihiksha’s forehead — placed by Vaibhav Bajaj, the boy from the house she had grown up learning to despise.

And somewhere, as the last drumbeat faded into silence, the goddess was immersed into the water — her eyes closed, her hands folded, as if blessing or witnessing what had just begun.

Mihiksha stood frozen, tears welling.

Then—

She turned.

And ran.

Through the crowd. Past the chants. Past her stunned family. Into the Roy house.

Up the stairs.

SLAM.

The door shut behind her like a final verdict.

Inside, she collapsed to the floor, her hands shaking.

The sindoor still burned on her forehead like a scar.

Outside, war had begun.