Few days later

The Chaturvedi Haveli was glowing like an old royal painting brought to life.

Marigold garlands swayed lazily in the warm September breeze. From the open courtyard to the upper balconies, laughter echoed, spices sizzled, bangles jingled, and songs of old weddings drifted across sandstone walls.

The first major pre-wedding function was only two days away, and relatives had flooded the haveli—loud Bhabhis in bright sarees, gossip-loving Chachis, indulgent Mausis with kajal-streaked eyes, and teenage cousins.

But Mugdha?

She stayed in her room.

Not hiding—but detached. Still. Quiet in a way that made even joy sound too loud.

She was standing near her window, loosely braiding her hair, when the door burst open.

“Arrey Mugdhaaa!”
Three Chachis, two Bhabhis, and one overly dramatic Mami came in like a colorful tornado of silk sarees, sindoor, and unsolicited advice.

"You're still sitting here? The wedding is soon , and you're standing here like some ghost!"
 

“You're about to become a bride! Enjoy these days… after marriage, it's only responsibilities and sacrifices.”
—Another said, helping herself to the almonds on Mugdha’s side table.

One of the younger Bhabhis, recently married, leaned closer with a whisper:

“Have fun now… after shaadi, your saas and pati matter more than even your own self.”

Everyone giggled in agreement.

Mugdha smiled politely—but didn’t speak.

Another Chachi sat up straighter, her voice now carrying the weight of tradition.

“Listen beta, even if your husband gets angry or raises his voice, a good wife stays silent. After all, husband is like God.”

“And if your mother-in-law says something, just agree with a smile. Only then a marriage survives.”

“From childhood we’re taught, girls are the honour of the house… and to keep that honour, they must learn to suffer quietly.”
 

They nodded like a well-rehearsed chorus.

Serve. Obey. Adjust. Accept.
That was the unspoken vow they all expected Mugdha to take—without question, without resistance.

Their voices continued—but Mugdha had stopped listening.

Instead, her mind wandered…

To Chirag—with his greedy eyes and cold touch.
To that temple evening…
To Akhand’s voice—gentle but unafraid.
To how he had said:

“ i wants you to become my guide.”

And more than his words, she remembered how he had listened.

Not instructed. Not corrected. Just… listened.

And in that moment, a sharp thought pierced her chest:

What if I don’t want to be like them either?
What if I want a life where I don’t have to disappear into someone else’s expectations?

“Chalo! Mehendi ke liye kapde nikaal le. Kal function hai.”
(“Come on! Let’s take out the clothes for your mehendi tomorrow.”)

They opened her wardrobe and laid out all the designer lehengas, jewellery, and bridal chunnis—each one heavier than the last.

But Mugdha wasn’t looking at the clothes.

She was looking at the closed window.

And beyond it—at the sun setting gently behind the neem trees.

Suddenly, she stood up.

“Main bas 5 minute mein aayi.”
(“I’ll be back in five minutes.”)

“Kahan jaa rahi hai?”
(“Where are you going?”)

“Bas… aangan dekhna tha.”
(“Just wanted to see the courtyard.”)

She didn’t wait for permission.

She stepped out, walked through the hallway… past the temple… past the kitchen… and then toward the back gate of the haveli.

Her heart thudded in her chest.

But her steps didn’t stop.

Each one was a quiet rebellion.

Not loud. Not angry.

Just certain.

Akhand was seated on the edge of the land site—shirt sleeves rolled up, face smudged with dust, yet eyes sharp as ever.

“Sir, we will start as soon as the legal paper will get into our hand.”
—said Brijesh, handing him a bottle of water.

Akhand nodded, distracted.

His eyes kept scanning the road.

Not for deliveries.
Not for blueprints.
But for a reason to believe the village still had something worth staying for.

The golden hour sun cast long shadows across the cobbled streets. Dust swirled around Mugdha’s feet as she ran barefoot, her pale peach dupatta trailing behind her like the last ribbon of a tethered soul finally breaking free.

Her hair was open.
Her face—uncovered.

For the first time in her life, she didn’t care who saw her.

Children stopped playing. Shopkeepers paused mid-transaction. A few whispered, others stared—everyone knew who she was.

“Chandan ki beti…”
“Mugdha… itni khule chehre ke saath?”
(Chaturvedi’s daughter… with her face uncovered?)

But no one said anything aloud.

Except one.

Mugdha stepped out of the narrow mud lane, brushing a stray hair behind her ear as she spotted a group of children playing marbles under the big banyan tree. Their carefree laughter filled the warm afternoon air.

She approached them, her anklets giving a soft chime. One of the boys—barefoot, thin, and bright-eyed—looked up and beamed.

“Arre, Didi aa gayi!”
(Oh, Didi is here!)

Mugdha smiled. “Arre suno… mujhe tumse kuch poochna tha.”
Listen… I wanted to ask you something.

The boy straightened proudly. “Poochiye na, Didi.”
(Ask me, Didi.)

She crouched down to his level. “I heard there’s a new boy in the village. Came from the city. Kya tum jaante ho uske baare mein?”
(Do you know anything about him?)

The boy’s eyes widened, and he nodded eagerly.
“Haan Didi! Unka naam Akhand hai.”
(Yes, Didi! His name is Akhand.)

“Akhand?” she repeated, intrigued. “Kahan rukta hai woh? Do you know?”
(Where is he staying? Do you know?)

The boy pointed toward the path.
“Wahin, Kaka ki Tapri par, milega”
(There, you will find him at Kaka’s Tapri.)

“Well,” she said, , “thank you. Tumne meri bohot help ki.”
Thank you. You helped me a lot.

The boy beamed. “Koi bhi baat, Didi!”
Anytime, Didi!

At the Tea Stall – "Kaka's Tapri"

She stopped at the old tea stall by the neem tree. She was breathing heavily, her forehead glistening, heart thudding wildly.

The tea stall owner, Kaka, looked up—and dropped the cup he was holding.

“Mugdha bitiya?! Aap yahaan?!”
(“Mugdha dear?! You—here?!”)

She didn’t waste time.

“Akhand... woh... yahin aata hai na? Aaj subah tak yahin tha na?”
(“Akhand... he comes here, right? He was here till morning?”)

Kaka stammered, still stunned.
Then slowly nodded.

“Haan... abhi kuch der pehle gaya hai. Talab ke paas wali zameen pe. Wahin kuch logon ke saath tha.”
(“Yes... just a while ago. He went to the land near the pond. He’s there with some men.”)

Mugdha didn’t wait to hear more.

She ran past the edge of the village, heart pounding, skirt catching on dry shrubs. Her breath came in sharp bursts.

And then—
She saw him.

Akhand.

From the back, standing tall in a plain white shirt and denim jeans, gesturing with his hands while speaking to two men holding blueprints.

She stopped.

Something clutched inside her chest.

A swirl of memories hit her—
The temple.
The mango tree.
His laughter.
His silence.

She took a step forward. The crunch of dry leaves made Akhand turn.

He froze.

“Tum? Tum yahaan?”
(“You? You’re here?”)

She didn't answer. Her eyes—moist and burning—were locked onto his.

The two men noticed the tension, quietly moved a few feet away, pretending to get busy with the blueprint papers.

Akhand took a step toward her, concern in his voice.

“Sab theek hai? What are you doing here? Kya hua?”
(“Is everything alright? What happened?”)

But Mugdha didn’t speak.

Instead—she walked right up to him, trembling slightly… and suddenly, grabbed his hand.

Akhand’s breath caught.

“Aap chaliye… mere saath.”
(“Come with me… please.”)

Without waiting for an answer, she pulled him toward the old mango tree nearby. The same place they had first met.

Wind rustled through the leaves.

They stood beneath the ancient tree, just the two of them. A faint smell of ripening mangoes still hung in the air.

Mugdha turned to face him, her eyes searching his.

“Main kuch poochhna chahti hoon… aur sach chahiye.”
(“I want to ask you something… and I need the truth.”)

Akhand nodded slowly, unsure.

“Kya… aapko main pasand hoon?”
(“Do you… like me?”)

Akhand was stunned. The question hit him like lightning.

He opened his mouth—then closed it.
The silence between them was suddenly louder than anything around.

“Main… shaadi karne wali hoon. Saat din baad.”
(“I’m getting married. In seven days.”)

She took a step closer.

“Par jab main aankhein band karti hoon… toh Chirag nahin dikhta. Mandap mein… aap dikhte ho.”
(“But when I close my eyes… I don’t see Chirag. I see you at the wedding altar.”)

Akhand inhaled sharply.

Mugdha’s voice broke—vulnerable, raw:

“Main samajh nahi paayi pehle… lekin ab samajh gayi hoon. Main kisi aur se shaadi nahi kar sakti jise dekh kar bhi dil khali lage.”
(“I didn’t understand before… but now I do. I can’t marry someone who makes me feel empty, even when I look at him.”)

“Aap boliye, sirf ek baar... kya aap bhi wahi mehsoos karte hain?”
(“Tell me—just once... do you feel the same?”)

The world around them slowed.

Akhand looked at her… this girl from the haveli, supposed to be someone else's bride… standing here, trembling… asking a question even fate didn’t have an answer for.

He didn’t speak yet.
But he didn’t look away either.

And Mugdha?

She had never felt stronger.

Mugdha's words still hung in the air like a delicate diya flame—fragile, warm, and threatening to go out.

“Aap boliye, sirf ek baar... kya aap bhi wahi mehsoos karte hain?”
(“Tell me—just once... do you feel the same?”)

She was standing barely inches from him, eyes searching his face—hopeful, terrified, vulnerable.

But Akhand?

He took a step back.

“Mugdha... main tumse pyaar nahi karta.”
(“Mugdha… I don’t love you.”)

It was like a glass breaking inside her.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

She blinked—once, twice—trying to process it.

“Aap… jhoot bol rahe hain. Aapki aankhon mein sab kuch dikh raha hai.”
(“You… you’re lying. I can see everything in your eyes.”)

Akhand forced his face into a blank mask. He turned his back to her.

“Main yeh sab karne gaon aaya hi nahi hoon. Na pyaar dhoondhne, na kisi ki zindagi mein aane.”
(“This isn’t why I came back to the village. Not to fall in love, not to step into someone else’s life.”)

“Maine vaada kiya tha maa se—school aur hospital banega yahaan. Bas.”
(“I made a promise to my mother—that I’d build a school and hospital here. That’s all.”)

Mugdha's voice was now shaking.

“Aur uske baad? Akhand Pratap Chaturvedi fir se sheher laut jaayega?”
(“And after that? Akhand Pratap Chaturvedi will return to the city again?”)

Akhand nodded, jaw clenched.

“Gaon meri zimmedaari hai. Tum meri nahi ho.”
(“The village is my responsibility. You are not.”)

“Tumhare jaise kisi ladki ko... meri zindagi mein aake sirf takleef milegi.”
(“A girl like you… will only find pain if she becomes a part of my life.”)

Mugdha took a breath. Her eyes filled, but no tear fell. She wasn't crying—she was breaking silently.

“Toh woh sab? Mandir mein? Jab main giri thi… jab aapne mujhe dekha tha… sab jhooth tha?”
(“Then all of it? At the temple? When I fell… when you looked at me… was it all a lie?”)

Akhand turned again, fists clenched.

“Tumhare liye shaadi fix ho chuki hai. Tumhare liye sahi wahi hoga. Chirag. Haveli. Tumhara parivaar.”
(“Your marriage is already fixed. That is what’s right for you—Chirag. The haveli. Your family.”)

“Main tumhe barbaad nahi karna chahta.”
(“I don’t want to ruin your life.”)

Mugdha looked at him long and hard. Her voice, when it came, was low. Heavy.

“Aapko yeh lagta hai… ke main kamzor hoon? Ke main apna faisla nahi le sakti?”
(“Do you think I’m weak? That I can’t make my own decisions?”)

“Aap mujhe bacha nahi rahe Akhand… aap sirf khud se bhaag rahe ho.”
(“You’re not protecting me, Akhand… you’re just running away from yourself.”)

She stepped back now. One, two, three steps away from him.

Her voice turned colder.

“Main shaadi kar rahi hoon… kisi aur se. ”
(“I’m getting married… to someone else. ”)

“Us din… aapki yeh doori bhi bachaa nahi paayegi aapko.”
(“On that day… even your distance won’t be enough to protect you from what you’ve lost.”)

She turned and walked away—head high, steps firm.

Akhand didn’t chase after her.

He watched her go, knowing every word she said was true.

But he still believed—

“She deserves peace… not me. Not my mess. Not my war. Not my broken dreams.”

But even as he stood there, alone—

The sound of his own heartbeat betrayed him.

Because it was calling a name he just sent away.

Sneak peek- Chapter 15

Bunty scratched his head. “Par Akhand maanega kaise? Usko kaise fasaayenge?”
(“But how will Akhand agree? How will we trap him?”)

Sahil smirked.

“Nahi maanega. Toh hum banaayenge. Shaadi ke time, ghunghat ke peeche ladki hogi, aur sehra ke peeche ladka.Koi pehchaane bina mandap tak le jaayenge.”

(“He won’t agree. So we’ll make it happen. The bride’s face is covered… the groom's under a sehra. We’ll take him to the altar before anyone notices.”)

Farooq looked uneasy.

“Yeh toh kidnapping aur fraud dono hai.”
(“This is both kidnapping and fraud.”)

“Aur 50 lakh tere baap ne kabhi nahi diye honge.”
(“And your father never gave you 50 lakhs, did he?”)