Chapter 8 Wedding Night

The Broken Vow

The world outside fell away, leaving Arnav and Khushi standing in a hollow silence. Arnav’s eyes were fixed on her maang, the red gulal standing out like a fresh wound against her skin. Khushi was too paralyzed to speak. She stared at him—the man she had loved in secret, the man who was now, by some stroke of madness, her husband. But she knew that a handful of powder didn't make a marriage. This felt like a secondary humiliation, a temporary shield that he would surely discard once the audience was gone. Her heart, foolishly hopeful, wanted the bond to be real, even while her mind warned her that Arnav would never truly accept her.

Anjali appeared with a heavy towel, wrapping it around Khushi’s shivering frame and whispering a soft "congratulations" that felt surreal. Khushi finally let the idea sink in: she was married to her brother-in-law.

Anjali caught Arnav’s hand as he turned to leave. "Wait, Arnav. Do you even realize what you’ve just done?"

He remained silent, his jaw set.

"She was already living in a hell of Dadi's making," Anjali pressed, "and you’ve just made it infinitely harder for her."

"Bhabhi, did you hear them?" Arnav snapped, his voice tight. "I couldn't stand there and watch them strip away her dignity."

"But I don’t consider this a marriage," Anjali countered. "It means nothing to anyone."

Khushi’s eyes welled up. Her worst fear was being voiced aloud by the only person who supported her.

"Applying color doesn't make her your wife, Arnav. It’s an insult without the ritual."

"I don't care, Bhabhi."

"But the world does." Anjali grabbed both their hands and marched them toward the house, not stopping until they were standing before the family deity in the mandir.

"Bhabs, what are you doing?" Arnav asked, his voice weary.

"I want you to marry her with respect," Anjali commanded, pointing to the bowl of sindoor (vermillion) at Kanha Ji’s feet. "You were man enough to claim her in front of the crowd; now be man enough to claim her before God. Only then will I accept this."

Arnav looked at his "bride." It was a sorry sight. She was drenched, wearing a white saree stained with red dust, devoid of jewelry or makeup. Yet, she was breathtaking. Anjali gently wiped the gulal from Khushi's forehead, clearing the path for a permanent mark. Arnav took the bowl, his fingers trembling slightly as he took a pinch of the red powder. Instead of a small dot, he applied the entire pinch, painting the parting of her hair a deep, vibrant red.

Khushi looked up, her tears finally overflowing. Her childhood dream had come true in the most tragic way possible, yet she couldn't complain. He had bathed her in red. He had given her back the colors Dadi had stolen.

Arnav couldn't look away. He hated her in white; seeing her marked in red felt like a victory over the darkness of the last three years. Anjali nudged him, handing him a moli (sacred red thread). "Tie this around her neck. It will serve until you get her a proper mangalsutra." Arnav tied the thread, his breath ghosting over her skin, his fingers grazing the nape of her neck.

Upstairs, Anjali helped Khushi bathe and change. Kittu was confused, asking if she still had to call Khushi "Chachi" now that she was married to "Chachu." Anjali assured her nothing would change. Khushi emerged from the bathroom in one of Anjali’s pink blouses; she wasn't ready for a red saree yet. She needed time to breathe.

Anjali draped the silk over her and handed her a pair of diamond studs and two sleek bangles. "Jiji, I have my own jewelry," Khushi protested.

"No, Khushi. Those were from your previous life. Arnav deserves to see you in things that haven't been touched by anyone else. Our mother-in-law intended these for Chhotey’s bride."

As night fell, Arnav was nowhere to be found. Khushi waited in the dining room until Anjali urged her to go to their bedroom. Arnav wasn't answering his phone. Khushi felt a cold dread. He had left immediately after the puja, and the silence of the house was deafening.

Suddenly, the screech of tires echoed in the driveway. Khushi rushed to the foyer as Shyam and Anjali emerged from their rooms. Arnav was leaning heavily on a security guard, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. He was drunk.

Shyam rushed to catch him as he stumbled. Arnav draped an arm around his brother’s shoulder. "Bhai! I’m married! Do you know who I married?" His words were slurred, thick with alcohol.

"Arnav, you’re not in your senses," Shyam scolded. "You know the rules about drinking in this house."

"Oh, come on! It’s my wedding night! I’m married to the most selfish girl in the world. We should celebrate!"

"Shut up, Arnav," Anjali hissed.

Khushi’s heart shattered. He already regretted it. "This woman killed my brother," Arnav mocked, his eyes finding Khushi's. "And now she's going to make my life hell. I don't accept her. A bit of sindoor doesn't make a wife."

"If you don't stop, I'll slap you," Shyam growled. "She didn't ask for this. You did it."

"Taking her side now, Bhai?" Arnav laughed bitterly before Shyam hauled him upstairs and dumped him on the bed.

Khushi entered the room nervously, locking the door behind her. Arnav lay on the bed, half-asleep. "Get out of my room," he rasped.

When she didn't move, he tried to stand but collapsed immediately. Khushi rushed to help him, silent and steady.

"I don't need you. Don't touch me!" He fought her grip, but he was too weak to stand alone. Finally, he reached out a hand. Khushi took it, but Arnav used her momentum to pull her down, pinning her to the mattress beneath him in one fluid, aggressive motion.

"You want to be a wife so badly?" he hissed, pinning her hands above her head. "I'll show you what that means."

She squirmed as he descended toward her mouth, his other hand tugging at her pallu to expose her midriff.

"Stop it, Arnav!" she cried. "Please. Not like this. Don't force this pain on me just because you're angry." She closed her eyes, praying for the man she loved to return.

Arnav froze. He stared at her for a long moment before pulling away. "You didn't let me kiss you in college, remember? Well, I will never kiss you now. Touching you is beneath me. You’ll be my wife in name only. I’d rather go to a stranger than touch you."

He rolled onto his side, leaving a cold expanse between them.

I wanted to kiss you then, and I want to kiss you now, Khushi thought, staring at the ceiling as her tears soaked the pillow. But not like this. You’re hurting because you don't know the truth, and I'm hurting because I can't tell you. I lost my best friend tonight, and I've gained a husband who hates me.