Prakriti Khurana Rathore

She had imagined this day many times.

But imagination failed the moment she saw him.

Rudraksh stood at the mandap in ivory and gold, calm as always—until his eyes met hers. Then something softened. Something unraveled. The composed man she knew disappeared for a heartbeat, replaced by someone quietly awed.

And she realized—
he was seeing her the same way.

As she walked toward him, her red lehenga felt heavier, not from its fabric but from the meaning it carried. His gaze never left her, not even once.

“You’re staring,” she whispered when they finally sat beside the sacred fire.

“I’m trying to understand how this is real,” he murmured back.

The priest’s chants wrapped around them like time slowing down. Fire crackled. Flowers fell. Their hands brushed again and again, each touch grounding.

When the moment came, Rudraksh turned to her—not ceremoniously, but personally.

“May I?” he asked softly, holding the sindoor between his fingers.

Her breath trembled. She nodded. “Yes.”

His hand was steady as he filled her hair partition. The world seemed to pause. And then—unexpectedly—he bent slightly and pressed a reverent kiss where the vermillion now rested.

Gasps. Cheers. Teasing whistles.

Prakriti’s face burned as she laughed, overwhelmed and happy all at once.

That night, when she stepped into his home for the first time, rice spilled from her palms, laughter echoed, and his mother hugged her tightly.

“You’re ours now,” she said warmly.

Later—much later—when the door finally closed behind them and silence settled, Rudraksh didn’t touch her immediately.

He looked at her instead.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “Do you want this moment… now?”

She reached for his hand. “I do. With you.”

His forehead rested against hers, relief and emotion mixing quietly.

And the world outside ceased to matter.