Just then, as the silence hung heavy in the room, a thought struck Manohar. His eyes lingered on Chirag—the quiet strength in his posture, the influence that even his silence carried. He wasn’t just a grieving man. He was power. Standing. Breathing. Untapped.

“Yeh aadmi sirf dard ka maara nahi hai,” Manohar thought to himself.

(This man isn't just someone broken by pain,)

 “Yeh to taqat hai. Agar yeh hamare rishtedaar ban jayein... toh kismet palat sakti hai.”

(He’s power. If he becomes part of our family... our fate could change.)

He cleared his throat, breaking the silence gently.

“Lajvanti ji…” he began, his voice more respectful than before.
“Ek baat kehni thi, agar aap bura na maanein.”

(I wanted to say something, if you don't mind.)

Lajavanti turned to him, curious.
“Boliyega, Manohar ji.”

Manohar glanced at Chandan briefly—who looked back at him, confused—but he pushed on.

“Hamare Chandan ke ghar mein ek beti hai.”
(Chandan has a daughter at home.)

Chandan’s eyes widened slightly, but he stayed silent, lips parting in disbelief.

“Achhi parvarish mein pali hai. Padhi-likhi hai. Saanskari hai.” Manohar continued smoothly, “Agar aap ko aur Chirag ji ko theek lage... toh hum rishta rakhne ko tayyaar hain.”

(She’s been raised well. Educated. Cultured. If you and Chirag ji find it appropriate… we are willing to propose the alliance.)

Lajavanti’s eyes lit up instantly—like the first spark of a long-awaited monsoon.

“Sach keh rahe ho, Manohar ji?” she asked, almost not believing it.
(Are you saying this truly, Manohar ji?)

Manohar nodded slowly.
“Dil se keh rahe hain. Rishta agar banta hai, toh dono parivaaron ke liye shubh hoga.”
(Saying it from the heart. If this alliance happens, it will be auspicious for both families.)

Lajavanti looked at Chirag, her eyes hopeful now, not demanding.

Chirag sat still for a moment. Then, silently, he gave a single nod.

“Theek hai,” he said simply.
(Alright.)

That was all he said. But in that quiet nod was acceptance, surrender, and maybe—even if just a flicker—the beginning of something new.

Bajwa Haveli 

The stars above the haveli flickered faintly, veiled behind drifting clouds. Inside, the marble floors carried the warmth of the day, and the flickering yellow lights from the antique chandeliers made the old walls glow like gold.

Manohar and Chirag walked into the grand entrance, the air still carrying the smell of roasted spices from the kitchen.

In the dining hall, the long wooden table was already set. Kamini sat at the head, adjusting her bangles as she eyed the clock.

“Itni der kaise ho gayi? Shaam ko to keh rahe the bas do ghante mein laut aayenge,” she said sharply, narrowing her eyes at Manohar.
(What took you so long? You said you’d be back in two hours.)

Manohar glanced at her—sharp and cold—but his mood was unusually light tonight.

“Chup baith. Mood kharaab mat kar,” he muttered under his breath, waving a hand.
(Sit quietly. Don’t ruin the mood.)

Then, as he pulled out his chair and sat beside Chirag, a faint smile crept across his face.

“Ek achhi khabar mili hai. Par khane ke baad batayenge.”
(We’ve received good news. But we’ll share it after dinner.)

Kamini raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

After the meal—Kusum, Kamini, and Mugdha gathered in the main sitting area. As usual, Sahil was out, likely drinking and dancing with his group of spoiled friends in some Jaipur lounge. His absence wasn’t even surprising anymore.

Manohar stood at the center, arms folded behind him. His tone shifted, becoming heavier, more deliberate.

“Sab sun lo. Aaj ek faisla hua hai.”
(Everyone, listen. A decision has been made today.)

Kamini looked up sharply. Kusum remained quiet as ever, her fingers nervously twisting the edge of her dupatta.

Mugdha sat silently, a cup of chai untouched in her hands.

“Mugdha ki shaadi fix kar di hai,” Manohar declared calmly, like he was announcing a land deal.
(Mugdha’s marriage has been fixed.)

For a moment, no one reacted.

Then—like a bomb dropped in the middle of the haveli—the weight of the words settled.

Mugdha’s eyes widened.

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her throat went dry, heartbeat loud in her ears. She looked at her father, then at her mother, then down again. Her lips parted, but no words came.

Kamini smirked slightly, hiding it behind her glass of water.

Kusum's expression tightened, her knuckles whitening around the fabric in her hand—but still, she said nothing.

Manohar, proud and satisfied, nodded once.

“Chirag se. Rishta tay hua hai. Dono parivaaron ke liye yeh bahut hi shubh yog hai.”
(To Chirag. The alliance has been settled. It’s an auspicious match for both families.)

Mugdha sat frozen, her eyes flickering toward Chirag—but he wasn’t even there to meet her gaze.

Because for now, this wasn’t a conversation. It was an announcement. A decree.

Later That Night

After dropping the bombshell about Mugdha’s marriage, the room had fallen into an uneasy silence. Kamini looked pleased. Kusum looked shaken. Mugdha looked like her soul had quietly left the room.

Manohar, however, stood tall—his chest puffed with pride, as if he had just conquered new land, not someone's future.

He turned to his younger brother, who had remained quiet throughout the announcement.

“Chandan,” he said firmly, his voice low but commanding, “kal se taiyari shuru kar do. Woh log Mugdha ko dekhne aa rahe hain.”
(Chandan, start the preparations from tomorrow. They’re coming to see Mugdha.)

Chandan looked up, startled.

“Itni jaldi, bhai saab?”
(So soon, elder brother?)

Manohar gave him a hard look.

“Ha. Jaldi hi theek hai. Zyada sochne ka samay diya to ladki ko lagne lagega jaise uski marzi ka bhi kuch matlab hai.”
(Yes. Sooner is better. If you give girls too much time to think, they start believing their opinions matter.)

Chandan hesitated. His eyes flickered toward Kusum, who stood quietly in the corner, her gaze fixed on Mugdha.

But Manohar didn’t wait for an answer. He clapped his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Yeh rishta humare ghar ke liye sauda nahi, samjhauta hai. Aur Chirag jaise damad ka sapna sabhi dekhte hain—humein mil raha hai.”
(This alliance isn’t just a deal, it’s a settlement—for our house. Everyone dreams of a son-in-law like Chirag. And we’re getting him.)

Then he turned and walked away, the echo of his steps lingering like a warning.

Chandan stood frozen for a moment. He looked at Mugdha, who was still seated, her expression unreadable.

He opened his mouth to say something—but no words came.

Midnight

The world outside the haveli had gone still. Only the distant howling of a desert wind echoed through the jharokhas, brushing softly against the curtains like ghosts of unspoken words.

Mugdha sat on the edge of her bed, her back straight, hands resting in her lap like she’d been taught. The room around her was neat—too neat. Her books stacked perfectly, her shawl folded on the chair, the mirror undisturbed. Everything in its place.

Except her.

The silence was deafening.

Her eyes were wide open, but she wasn’t really looking at anything. Just staring—at nothing. Processing. Or trying to.

She blinked, finally. Once. Then again.

And then—the first tear escaped.

Slow. Quiet. Almost embarrassed.

She didn’t wipe it away.

"Shaadi..." she whispered to herself.
(Marriage…)

She let the word sit on her tongue like something foreign. Uninvited.

"Chirag..."

Not that anyone had asked her what she imagined.

A knock wouldn’t come. No one would ask.

This wasn't that kind of house.

Her breath caught in her throat. She clenched her fists in her lap.

She thought about her mother. Kusum had looked at her—but said nothing. Because even a mother’s love here had limits. It knew its boundaries.

"Baba sa ne... poocha bhi nahi."
(Baba sa didn’t even ask.)

Her voice was hoarse, barely audible.

She stood up, slowly, walked to the mirror.

Looked at herself.

Not the version everyone saw during the day—the obedient daughter, the soft-spoken girl who served chai and kept her head down.

Now, she looked at herself like a stranger.

“Main kiski ho jaungi?”
(Whose will I become?)

“Kya main khud ki kabhi thi bhi?”
(Was I ever even mine?)

She touched the edge of the mirror, her reflection rippling faintly.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. She wanted someone to tell her this wasn’t real.

But this was the Bajwa haveli.

And here, fate wasn’t asked. It was announced.

The oil lamp on Mugdha’s bedside table flickered gently, casting long, wavering shadows on the walls. The wind had died down. Now, it was just silence—and her own breathing.

She sat curled up by the window, knees pulled to her chest, cheek resting on her arm. Her face was dry, but her eyes still held the weight of unshed tears.

Then—a soft knock.

Once. Then again.

“Mugdha...” came the quiet voice.

It was Kusum.

Without waiting for permission, Kusum entered slowly. She carried with her a faint smell of jasmine oil and old warmth. She closed the door gently behind her, as if trying not to disturb the shadows.

She didn’t ask what was wrong.

She just sat beside her daughter.

There was a long silence between them.

Finally, Kusum reached out and touched Mugdha’s hair, combing her fingers through it like she used to when Mugdha was a child.

“Suna sabne... humein bhi pata chala usi waqt,” Kusum said softly.
(I heard it when you did... I found out at the same time.)

Mugdha didn’t look at her. She just stared out into the night.

“Aap kuch keh kyu nahi rahi thi, Maa?”
(Why didn’t you say anything, Maa?)

Kusum sighed. Not like someone who didn’t care—but like someone who had lived long enough to know some walls don’t break when you push. Only when they fall on you.

“Kya kehti, Mugdha?” she said gently.
(What could I have said, Mugdha?)
“Yeh ghar... yeh rishton ka rivaaz... yeh faisle... sab kuch kab se humare haathon se nikal gaya hai.”
(This house, these traditions, these decisions… they stopped being in our hands a long time ago.)

Mugdha looked at her now, her voice trembling.

“Aapko lagta hai main khush rahungi? Us aadmi ke saath jise main jaanti bhi nahi?”
(You think I’ll be happy? With a man I don’t even know?)

Kusum hesitated. Her eyes softened, but her voice stayed steady.

“Khushi... Mugdha, woh kisi bhi rishte mein pehle se nahi hoti. Banani padti hai.”
(Happiness... Mugdha, it doesn’t come ready-made in any relationship. You have to build it.)

She reached out and held her daughter’s hands tightly.

“Chirag bura aadmi nahi hai. Dard se guzra hai. Akela hai. Aur sabse badi baat—us ghar mein tujhe izzat milegi.”
(Chirag is not a bad man. He’s been through pain. He’s alone. And most importantly—you’ll get respect in that house.)

Mugdha bit her lip, looking down.

“Par kya yehi raasta hai, Maa?”
(But is this the only way, Maa?)

Kusum nodded slowly.

“Hamare liye... haan, Mugdha. Shaadi hi ek raasta hai. Ek nikalne ka, ek bachaav ka. Is ghar mein tu kabhi apni marzi se kuch nahi kar payegi. Par agar wahan jaake tu ek nayi zindagi shuru kare... toh shayad khud pe haq paaye.”
(For us… yes, Mugdha. Marriage is the only path. A way out, a way to survive. Here, you'll never be able to live by your own will. But if you go there and start a new life… maybe you’ll finally have some say in your own fate.)

There was silence again.

Kusum stood, kissed the top of her daughter’s head, and turned to leave. Before she walked out, she whispered:

“Hamesha ladne wale nahi jeet te, Mugdha. Kabhi-kabhi... chup rehkar bhi jung jeeti jaati hai.”
(Not everyone who fights wins, Mugdha. Sometimes… even silence can win wars.)

And with that, she closed the door behind her.

Mugdha sat still, the quiet wrapping around her like a blanket—one she hadn’t chosen, but one she now had to live inside.

The room had settled into a stillness again, the only sound now the soft rustle of the neem tree outside brushing against the jharokha.

Mugdha was still seated by the window, her eyes distant, her emotions dulled into silence. The storm inside her had not passed—but it had quieted, like desert winds after a dust storm. Nothing was clear, but everything was decided.

The door creaked gently. Kusum peeked in once more, her expression softer now—less of a mother with expectations, more of a woman who had simply accepted her fate, and now hoped her daughter could learn to live with hers.

She walked in slowly and stood near the bed.

“Chal beta, soja ab,” she said gently, brushing her palm across Mugdha’s shoulder.
(Come now, child. Sleep.)

Mugdha looked up at her mother.

Kusum gave her a faint smile, the kind that hides more than it shows.

“Kal subah unka ghar se bulawa aayega. Tujhe tayar hona hoga. Saari pehen lena woh hara rang wali, jo teri daadi ke kangan ke saath achhi lagti hai.”
(Tomorrow morning, they’ll send word. You’ll need to get ready. Wear that green saree—the one that looks good with your grandmother’s bangles.)

Mugdha nodded slowly. No resistance. No words.

Just understanding.

Kusum stepped closer, kissed her forehead, and whispered:

“Sapne har baar apne nahi hote, Mugdha... par zindagi mein sukoon unhi mein milta hai jo humein mil jaate hain.”
(Not all dreams are our own, Mugdha… but sometimes peace is found in the ones that come to us anyway.)

She turned off the lamp beside the bed and pulled the curtains. The room slipped into a soft darkness.

“Soya jaa. Subah jaldi uthna hoga.”
(Get some sleep. Morning will come early.)

As the door closed softly behind her mother, Mugdha lay back on her bed. Eyes open. Breathing steady.

A bride-to-be.

A girl on the edge of something she couldn’t name.

Sneak peek- Chapter 12

“Chalo, thoda chal kar dikhao ki tum achhi tarah se chal sakti ho.”
(Come, walk a little and show that you can walk properly.)

Mugdha hesitated, then took a few tentative steps forward, feeling all eyes on her.

Lajvanti’s gaze then shifted to Mugdha’s hair.

“Tumhare baal kitne lamba hain?”
(How long is your hair?)

Before Mugdha could respond, Kamini interjected with a smirk.

“Bahut lambi aur ghani hain, bahut hi sundar.”
(Very long and thick, very beautiful.)