The temple courtyard smelled of incense and marigold — bright, perfumed, but not bright enough to hide the ugliness of the moment. Fairy lights strung between banyan branches flickered in the evening breeze, and a small canopy had been set up for the ceremony. It looked festive from a distance; up close it felt staged, a trap dressed in color.
Roshni sat beneath the canopy in a heavy maroon lehenga, every inch of its embroidery glittering. Her jewelry weighed down her neck and wrists; the maang tikka on her forehead caught the light. On any other day this would have been a bride's proud hour. Today it felt like armor she had no say in wearing.
Her hands were tied in front of her with a coarse rope. Her eyes — the only part of her face free — burned. She wasn't wearing the shy, frightened look they expected. She watched her mother instead: tied to a low chair at the courtyard's edge, pale, knuckles white where someone had bound her shawl. Her mother's face was a mask of fear and helpless pleading. That small, broken silhouette was the only person Roshni had left in the world who had called her "beti." That's why she sat, why she let them put the bridal veil on her head. To touch or threaten her mother would be to lose everything.
Veer arrived in a cream sherwani, a mockery of gentility. He moved with practiced arrogance, a smear of blood drying near his lip from the morning's beating that now seemed like a badge. Beside him stood the Sarpanch — his frame broad, his face set hard, and a pistol visible at his waist like a language everyone in the courtyard understood.
Veer snapped, sliding onto the stool beside Roshni as if making a claim. His smile was empty. "Pandit ji — start. If you delay the muhurat, it will be lost."
The pandit raised his hands and began the Sanskrit mantras, voice trembling at first, then steadying out of habit and fear. The chanting — Om — ganeshaya namah — — rolled over the courtyard. Each syllable felt like it belonged to a world far removed from the violence happening in its name.
Roshni's mind screamed against the chanting. What can I do, God? How can I stop this? If I resist, they'll kill Maa. Her chest tightened; the ropes bit into her wrists.
The pandit's voice moved to the ritual of kanyadaan — the moment the bride's parents give their daughter away. He turned his gaze toward the corner where her mother sat. "Kanya ka mata ya pita bulaiye, kanyadaan ke liye," he intoned, eyes flicking nervously between the Sarpanch and the trembling family.
Veer laughed softly, the sound like a jeer. "Koi nahi aaya ga. Chup chap shaadi karwa. Yeh sab tamasha band karo," he said, and when the pandit hesitated the laugh turned brittle.
"Without kanyadaan the marriage cannot be sealed," the pandit whispered, voice thin. He swallowed.
Veer's face darkened. Before the priest could speak again, the Sarpanch leaned forward and hissed, "Chalo, agar pandit ji dhakila na karenge, to hum karwayenge. Jaldi karo." Veer brandished his gun, pointing it barely above the ground but clearly visible to every eye.
A collective hush fell. Even the dogs near the temple gate seemed to hold their breath.
Roshni's mother tried to rise from her chair. "Veer — band karo! Mera bete hai woo ! usna kay bigara hai tumhara ," she cried, voice raw.
A goon shoved her back roughly. "Hatt, budhiya!" he spat.
The Sarpanch's voice cut through the protest like a blade. "Chup! Zyada bologi toh muh nochu dunga." He stepped close and spat the threat like a promise. "Aaj shaadi hogi. Jisne rokne ki koshish ki, uska kya hoga... tum sab dekh loge."
The pandit's hands shook as he held the sacred thread; his lips moved faster now, eyes flicking to the gun then to the restrained family. Fear beat the rhythm of his recitation. Still, the ritual words came: "Var-vadha" — the bride and groom to be bound in the sacred knot.
Roshni's heartbeat was a drum in her ears. Every word of the mantra seemed to push her closer to a cliff edge. The Sarpanch ordered the men to pull the family forward; her mother was dragged a few steps, crying out for mercy.
In that moment — bound, watched, humiliated — Roshni felt something cold and raw settle deep inside her chest. It was pain, yes, but also a flash of clarity: betrayal wasn't only in Veer's hands; it had been negotiated, sold. Her own blood had bartered her fate.
The pandit continued, the Sanskrit syllables echoing now like iron in the night. Around them, villagers watched — some with pity, some with shame, many with the sick complacency of people who had learned to look away.
As the priest pronounced the next line, the Sarpanch nodded sharply. "sadi too aaj hii hoo gii Woo Bhii Bandook Kii Noke paa ." His words had the finality of a closed door.
Roshni's hands twitched against the rope. Her jaw set. The fire in her eyes did not dim — if anything, it forged harder, colder. She did not cry; there was no time for raw grief now. There was anger, and after that anger, a plan taking shape inside her — a promise to herself, quiet and terrible.
The ritual moved forward. The sacred smoke curled higher. But underneath the holy chants, beneath the marigold and silk, something far uglier had taken root; a deed that would not be sealed without consequence.
The temple air grew heavier with every chant. The scent of smoke and marigold was suffocating now.
The pandit's voice trembled as he said, "Mang mein sindoor bhariye, var mahashaya."
Veer grinned, lifting the tiny silver box from the plate. His fingers, still bandaged and smeared with blood, dipped into the red powder.
Roshni's heartbeat pounded in her chest — faster, louder — each beat like a scream. Her palms turned clammy, and her breath caught.
This is it, she thought. Everything ends here.
Her father's proud face flashed before her — the man who had dreamed of seeing his daughter wear the IPS uniform. His belief, his words — "Roshni khud ek roshni banegi."
Then her mother's eyes — the same ones now filled with terror — flickered before her.
And then Sameer...
Their first meeting in the training ground, when she'd stubbornly made him carry her luggage.
Their dance — the way his hand had rested protectively on her waist.
The night on the train when he'd let her rest, silently watching her sleep.
All those memories collapsed into one ache. She felt like her world — her dream, her dignity, her Roshni — was about to vanish under the weight of a sindoor box.
Veer leaned closer. The red powder was just inches away from her parted hairline.
And then —
Bang!
A single bullet tore through the temple air.
Veer screamed as the sindoor box flew out of his hand, spilling its red dust across the floor like scattered blood.
Everyone froze.
Their eyes turned toward the temple's entrance.
There — framed against the golden dusk — stood Sameer Pandey, IPS officer in plain clothes, one hand gripping his bike's handle, the other holding a smoking gun.
The bike screeched to a stop beside the steps. Sameer's eyes — sharp, cold, burning — locked straight on Veer and the Sarpanch.
Roshni felt a wave of air rush through her chest — relief, disbelief, and something deeper.
For a moment, she forgot to breathe.
It felt like God had handed her a second life — and the reason had walked into the temple with a gun in his hand.
"Roshni!" Sameer shouted, his voice echoing like a command. "!"
The Sarpanch yelled, "Pakdo usko! Zinda ya murda, le aao!"
His men surged forward — a wave of armed goons charging at one man.
Sameer didn't flinch.
He fired again — one shot, clean, hitting the gun out of the first man's hand. Then he spun, slammed his elbow into another's face, and kicked the third square in the chest.
The fight exploded.
Bullets and shouts filled the temple courtyard. Brass shells scattered near the holy fire.
Veer clutched his wounded arm but still raised his gun with his left hand, firing wildly. Sameer ducked, rolling behind a pillar, reloading with calm precision.
Meanwhile, Ravi — who had entered silently through the back — slipped behind the chaos. His heart was racing, but his hands were steady. He crawled near the altar, reaching Roshni's side.
"roshni !" he whispered harshly. "Main aaya!"
He untied her wrists in quick jerks.
Roshni gasped as the rope fell away. "Maa—!"
"Jaao!" Ravi urged.
Roshni darted to her mother, freeing her from the chair while Ravi rushed to untie Mahesh and Bari Mummy. The elders were shaking, but they clung to each other, crying in relief.
Roshni turned — and her breath stopped.
Sameer was surrounded. He fought with the grace of training and the fury of justice, but it was still one man against ten.
She saw a gun lying near a broken pillar. She ran for it, grabbed it — and froze.
Her fingers trembled around the metal.
I've never shot a gun, she thought. What if I miss? What if I hurt him instead?
Her chest tightened. The sounds of battle blurred into a hum. She could hear her heartbeat again — too fast, too loud.
And then — she saw him.
One of the goons was creeping behind Sameer, a long knife gleaming in his hand. The blade lifted — ready to strike Sameer from behind.
"SAMEER!" she screamed.
But in the chaos, he couldn't hear her.
She ran forward — barefoot, lehenga dragging — and before she could reach him, someone caught her arm.
Veer.
He grinned through his pain, his hand gripping her wrist like iron.
"Areee, kaha chali laila? Apne majnu ko bachane? Aisa nahi hone dunga," he sneered.
Roshni's eyes blazed.
Without thinking, she kicked him hard in the stomach, twisted free, and raised the gun.
"Yeh Roshni Mishra kisi se darti nahi!"
She pulled the trigger.
The bullet hit Veer square in the shoulder. He screamed, falling back against the pillar.
Roshni didn't even blink. Her hands were shaking, but her eyes were steady now.
She turned — and saw the man with the knife just behind Sameer.
For a split second, time slowed.
She exhaled. Aligned the barrel.
And fired.
Bang.
The bullet struck the attacker clean in the head. He dropped instantly, knife clattering to the ground.
Sameer spun around — saw the man fall — and then saw her.
Roshni stood trembling, smoke rising from the barrel of her gun, eyes wide but unbroken.
For a heartbeat, everything was silent.
Then Sameer's lips curved into a faint smirk — proud, fierce, almost relieved.
"That's the Roshni Mishra I know," he thought. You did it.
Sameer slowly lowered his gun, the echo of battle still hanging in the temple air. Smoke drifted across the shattered floor, mixing with the scent of burnt incense and spilled sindoor.
When his eyes finally found her — Roshni — standing there with the gun still trembling in her hand, his chest tightened.
She looked fragile yet fierce, eyes glassy from tears and adrenaline.
He took one slow step toward her.
Roshni's breath hitched.
For a second she couldn't move — and then all at once, she dropped the gun and ran.
"Sir...!" she gasped.
She threw herself into his arms, hugging him tightly — desperately — as if afraid he might vanish if she let go.
Her voice broke between sobs.
"Sir... aap... aap itna late kyun aaye..." she stammered, her words drowned in tears. "Main... main bahut dar gayi thi... mujhe laga... mujhe laga main kabhi wapas nahi jaa paungi... mera sapna... sab kuch tut gaya..."
Sameer wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. His voice was calm, low, steady — the way he always spoke when the world was chaos.
"Shhh... bas, Roshni... kuch nahi hua... sab theek hai," he murmured softly, his hand resting protectively on the back of her head.
She buried her face in his chest, her tears soaking through his shirt.
For that single moment, time seemed to stop.
No chaos.
No temple.
No world.
Just a girl who'd almost lost everything and the man who'd come back to save it.
From a few steps away, Vidya — Roshni's mother — stood watching.
Her eyes filled with tears, but this time they weren't of fear. They were of relief.
Her daughter was safe.
Her daughter's dreams were still alive.
And she could see it — that Roshni had someone beside her now, someone who would protect her not just as a trainer, but as a strength.
Vidya's lips curved into a faint, trembling smile.
"Bhagwan tera bhala kare, beta ajj tumna meri beti meri izaat koo bachi hai ..." she whispered.
But then —
Her smile froze.
She saw Sarpanch — blood on his forehead, fury in his eyes — standing behind a pillar.
His hand shook as he lifted a pistol.
And the muzzle was pointed — straight at Sameer and Roshni.
"Nahi!" Vidya screamed.
Before anyone could react, she ran forward — faster than her age, faster than fear.
She reached them and pushed both Sameer and Roshni aside.
Bang!
The gunfire echoed once more through the temple.
Sameer and Roshni hit the ground, tumbling together.
A cry — raw, agonizing — tore through the air.
They both turned —
and saw Vidya fall.
The bullet had struck her in the chest.
"Maa!" Roshni screamed, her voice breaking apart as she crawled toward her mother.
Sameer's face went pale — fury and shock mixing in his eyes — as he turned back toward the Sarpanch, his jaw tightening, his finger curling around his trigger again.
The temple that had echoed with wedding chants now filled with cries, gunfire, and a daughter's shattered voice.
The air was heavy with the echo of the gunshot. Dust and blood mingled with the fading smoke inside the temple.
Sameer turned sharply, eyes blazing, and fired back. His bullet hit the Sarpanch straight in the shoulder, spinning him backward. Another shot followed, clean and precise — and the man who had caused so much pain fell lifeless to the ground.
The sound of the last bullet faded into silence.
Roshni crawled forward, trembling, her hands shaking as she reached her mother.
"Maa... maa!" she cried, her voice cracking.
Vidya lay on the stone floor, her breath shallow, blood staining her saree. Sameer rushed to her side, his heart pounding, his own shoulder bleeding from a graze — but he didn't care.
"Aunty... aapne humare liye goli kyu le li?" Sameer's voice broke, filled with disbelief.
Vidya smiled weakly, her hand trembling as she touched his cheek.
"Beta... maine apni zindagi jee li hai... ab mere jeene ki koi wajah nahi hai..." she whispered.
Roshni gripped her mother's hand tightly. "Nahi maa! Main hoon na... aap mere liye jiyengi! Ravi bhaiya! Bara papa! Bari mummy! Doctor ko bulao, ambulance bulao, please jaldi!"
Vidya coughed, her voice fading. "Roshni... kuch nahi ho sakta, beta... mat ro. Main bas... apni beti ko shaadi ke jode mein dekhna chahti thi... Sughan ki tarah... ye meri aakhri ichha thi..."
"Bas maa! Chup rahiye!" Roshni cried, tears spilling down her face. "Aapko kuch nahi hoga! Hum dono milke meri shaadi dhum dham saa kaar gaa ! Jab aap theek ho jaayengi... main aapki har baat maan loongi... bus aap marne ki baat mat kariye! Aap hi toh mera sab kuch hain... aapke bina mera koi nahi hai maa..."
Vidya's eyelids fluttered, her breathing growing weaker.
"Roshni..." she whispered, struggling for air. "Agar main abhi... abhi tujhe kisi se shaadi karne ko kahu... tu karegi na?"
"Bas maa, abhi baat mat kijiye... ambulance aa rahi hai..." Roshni said, crying harder, holding her mother close.
Vidya's voice rose again, desperate. "Bol Roshni! Mana karegi ki nahi?"
Under the weight of fear, pain, and helplessness, Roshni broke.
"Haan maa... haan! Main kar loongi shaadi jis se bhi aap kahengi! Bas aap kuch mat kahiye!"
Vidya's fading eyes filled with tears — but also a faint smile.
"Jis se bhi? Pakka?"
"Haan maa... pakka," Roshni sobbed.
Vidya's trembling hand reached toward Sameer. "Toh phir... usse kar le... Sameer se..."
The words fell like thunder in the silence.
Sameer froze — shock and disbelief in his eyes.
"Aunty..." he stammered. "Aap chinta mat kijiye... ambulance aa rahi hai... aap jaldbazi kar rahi hain... Roshni ki poori zindagi ka sawal hai, ek minute mein faisla nahi le sakta..."
Vidya exhaled heavily, her voice weakening but firm. "Beta... meri aakhri iccha hai... mana mat karna..."
Roshni clutched her mother's hand tighter. "Maa, please... faltu stress mat lijiye... sab theek ho jaayega..."
Vidya's eyes rolled slightly, her body trembling. "Bol na Roshni... karegi ki nahi..."
Roshni's heart broke completely. In frustration and fear, she screamed through her tears,
"Haan maa! Kar loongi shaadi Sameer sir se!"
Sameer's breath caught in his chest. He stood still, stunned — a man who had faced gunfire, interrogations, and life-threatening missions, yet never felt so helpless before.
Vidya smiled faintly, her voice barely a whisper now. "Sameer beta... mera ek ehsaan kar do... meri beti se shaadi kar lo... uska khayal rakhna... wada karo... kabhi uska haath mat chhodna... kabhi use meri ya uske pita ki kami mehsoos na hone dena..."
Sameer swallowed hard. His throat burned with emotion. "Aunty... main... main wada karta hoon. Main hamesha Roshni ka khayal rakhunga..."
Vidya's eyes softened — relief shining through pain. "Toh... sindoor aur mangalsutra uthao... aur meri beti se shaadi kar lo..."
Sameer turned his head. On the floor, beside the fallen wedding plate, the sindoor and mangalsutra lay scattered — the same ones meant to seal Roshni's forced marriage.
He looked back at Roshni. She was holding her mother close, crying uncontrollably, unaware of anything else.
Sameer's heart pounded. His every instinct screamed against it — but he couldn't deny the dying wish of the woman who had just saved his life by risking her life .
He stood up slowly, his steps unsteady. The world around him blurred — sounds fading, breath shallow.
He picked up the plate. The sindoor trembled in his hand as he walked toward Roshni.
"Roshni..." he called softly.
She looked up — her eyes red, her face streaked with tears.
Sameer knelt beside her, setting the plate near her mother's still body. His hand reached for hers gently, trembling.
Ravi came forward and held Vidya, supporting her back. Mahesh and Roshni's Bari Mummy stood silently behind, tears streaming down their faces, watching the impossible unfold.
Sameer's gaze met Roshni's — and in that moment, both understood the gravity of what was happening.
It wasn't about a ritual.
It was about keeping a promise — to a mother who was breathing her last breath with a smile of trust.
And as Vidya's lips moved in her final prayer, Sameer slowly lifted the sindoor between his fingers.
The temple was bathed in the soft orange glow of the sacred fire. The smoke of incense curled upward like a silent prayer to the heavens.
Sameer's hands trembled slightly as he picked up the small silver box of sindoor. Roshni sat frozen, her tears tracing quiet paths down her cheeks.
Without a word, he reached forward and gently filled her hairline with the bright red vermilion. The streak of color gleamed against her pale forehead — a mark of destiny written in fire and pain.
A soft gasp escaped her lips. Her mother's eyes, weak but still shining, watched every movement.
Then Sameer picked up the mangalsutra, its golden beads glinting in the flickering firelight. His hands hesitated for a moment — but Vidya's faint smile gave him strength. Slowly, he tied it around Roshni's neck, sealing the bond that fate had drawn between them.
Vidya exhaled in relief, her trembling hands lifting weakly. With great effort, she placed Roshni's hand into Sameer's.
"Ab... yeh tumhara... zimmedari hai..." she whispered.
Sameer's grip tightened around Roshni's fingers — steady, warm, protective.
Suddenly, the pandit stepped forward, his voice breaking the silence.
"Beta, vivaah ke saare vidhiyan poori ho chuki hain... par aagni ke saath saat phere liye bina shaadi adhuri rehti hai."
He took a red dupatta, draped it around Sameer's shoulder, and tied it with Roshni's dupatta in a sacred knot. The fabric fluttered softly, symbolizing their bond — two souls joined as one before the divine flame.
The havan kund burned brighter, its golden embers reflecting in their eyes. Sameer looked at Roshni; she looked back, her tears mixing with the light of the fire. Slowly, he took her hand and led her forward.
The pandit began chanting, explaining each vow — one by one, as they circled the sacred fire together.
First Phera – The Promise of Nourishment
"Is pehle phere mein, var vadhū dono pratigya lete hain ki wo ek-dusre ke jeevan ka poshan karenge — roti, kapda, aur aashraya ke saath ek dusre ka saath nibhayenge."
Sameer whispered under his breath, "Main wada karta hoon, Roshni... tumha kabhi akela nahi padne doonga."
Roshni silently nodded, tears falling as she walked beside him. mai bhii wada karti huu har duk suk mai mai aapka sat rahu gii , aap jasa rakhan gaa was hii rahu gii kabhi akala nahi chor kaa jau gii
Second Phera – Strength and Protection
"In the second phera, the groom promises to protect his wife and the wife promises to be his strength through every storm."
Sameer's eyes stayed fixed ahead, voice low but firm. "Main tumhari raksha karunga — har dukh, har khatra se tumhar har dukh mera abb saa "
Roshni clutched his hand tighter — for the first time, not in fear, but in trust.
Third Phera – Growth and Prosperity
"In the third phera, they pray for prosperity — not just of wealth, but of dreams and duties."
Roshni thought of her father's dream, of the IPS badge she longed for. She closed her eyes. "Main wada karti hoon, maa aur pita ka sapna poora karungi... aur aapka bhi, sir. mai patni hona kaa har dharm nibhau gii "
Sameer's heart clenched, but he said nothing.
Fourth Phera – Family and Faith
"In this vow, the couple prays for the strength to respect their families and honor their faith."
Roshni's steps slowed as she glanced toward her mother. Vidya's faint smile gave her courage.
Sameer whispered, "Aunty ka vishwas kabhi tootne nahi dunga..."
Fifth Phera – Care for Each Other and Future Generations
"This phera blesses them with the responsibility of nurturing life and walking together through old age."
Their footsteps were in rhythm now — one soul, one heartbeat moving around the fire.
Roshni whispered faintly, "Hum dono milke sab kuch theek karenge, mai aapka jeevan mai kabhi duk kaa saya nahi ana duu gii "
Sixth Phera – Lifelong Companionship
"In the sixth vow, they promise loyalty — to share every joy, every sorrow, every path as companions."
Sameer's eyes softened. "Zindagi chahe kaisi bhi ho, main tumhar saath rahunga..."
Roshni's tears glistened in the firelight. For a moment, she forgot the chaos, the fear — it was only them, bound by destiny.
Seventh Phera – Eternal Bond
"In this final phera, they promise togetherness for seven lifetimes — to never part, in life or beyond."
Sameer and Roshni stopped after the seventh round. The dupatta between them swayed in the breeze, carrying with it the weight of seven promises made in the name of destiny.
The pandit raised his hand in blessing. "Ab se aap dono pati-patni hain. Agni ko sakshi maan kar, ye vivaah sampann hua."
Sameer and Roshni turned together — their hands still joined — and walked toward Vidya.
She was lying still now, her breathing shallow, her eyes fixed on them.
Roshni knelt beside her, sobbing. "Maa... dekho... shaadi ho gayi. Ab chalo, hospital chalte hain. Aap theek ho jaayengi, maa..."
Vidya's lips curved into a peaceful smile. Her voice was faint, like a fading breeze. "Khush rehna... mera baccha ..."
Her hand slipped slowly from Roshni's grasp.
Roshni froze. "Maa... maa! Uthiye na..."
Sameer knelt beside her, his own eyes wet. The fire behind them flickered — the last light of Vidya Mishra's blessings reflected in its flames.
The temple fell silent except for Roshni's cries — the sound of a daughter who had just lost her world, and a man who had just been bound to her through love, duty, and destiny.
The classroom was unusually quiet that evening. Only the rustling sound of papers and the low hum of the ceiling fan filled the air. Arpita sat on the desk, her legs crossed, lazily twirling a paper cutter between her fingers while humming a soft tune to herself. The melody echoed lightly through the empty corridors of the academy.
Across the room, Vihaan sat on a bench, resting his chin in his palms — his punishment for yet another mischievous stunt during the morning drill. He sighed dramatically, pretending to faint every few minutes, hoping she'd laugh or at least let him go.
But Arpita didn't even glance at him. She seemed lost somewhere far away — her smile soft, but her eyes carrying a strange restlessness.
Outside, the sky was turning grey. A sudden gust of wind blew through the open window, scattering papers across the floor. The window shutters banged loudly, making Arpita flinch.
A strange chill ran through her spine — an unshakable feeling that something wasn't right. Her heart beat faster.
Why do I feel so uneasy? she thought.
Trying to brush it off, she looked down at the cutter in her hand — and in a distracted moment, the sharp blade slipped.
"Ahh!"
A small gasp of pain escaped her lips as blood instantly bloomed across her palm.
"Ma'am!" Vihaan jumped from his seat, panic flashing in his eyes. He rushed toward her, grabbing her hand gently but firmly. "Yeh kya kar diya aapne? Yeh cutter ke saath kya kar rahi thi aap?"
Arpita winced. "Woh... kuch nahi, bas galti se lag gaya."
"Galti se?" he scolded softly, his voice filled with worry instead of mischief this time. "Bacche jaisi harkatein mat kijiye, please! Aap toh ma'am hain, aur yeh sab—" He stopped himself as he tore his handkerchief from his pocket and began tying it carefully around her bleeding hand.
Arpita stared at him, quietly watching the concern on his face — the same boy who never took anything seriously, now looking at her with pure sincerity. His touch was careful, his eyes reflecting genuine worry.
"Bas... thoda sa cut hai, Vihaan," she whispered, almost trying to convince herself.
"Nahi, ma'am. Aap mere saath abhi chaliye — Siddharth sir ke paas," he said firmly, still holding her hand. "Kya pata infection ho jaye? Chalna hoga."
Before she could protest, he gently pulled her along, his hand still wrapped around hers as they stepped out into the corridor.
Arpita looked at their joined hands — his hold protective yet innocent. Her earlier unease melted away slowly, replaced by a warmth she couldn't quite name.
She smiled faintly, her gaze softening as she thought,
Why are you so innocent, Vihaan? Or is it just me who's starting to see you differently?
The golden light of sunset slipped through the corridor windows, painting the walls with soft orange hues. Ishita was sitting on the railing corner near the training block, a thick IPC book in her hand, her coffee cup beside her. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, but a few loose strands danced around her face with the soft breeze. She tucked them behind her ear absentmindedly, her eyes focused on the law sections she was memorizing.
Between her reading, her thoughts wandered —
"Roshni kya kar rahi hogi... mujhe chinta ho rahi hai... jab hum last baar baat kiye the, tab bhi wo bas apne papa ke baare mai hi bol rahi thi... uske liye sab sambhalna kitna mushkil hoga..."
Her brows knitted with concern, and she sipped her coffee slowly, lost in thought.
Just then, from the other side of the corridor, Sidharth was walking by, files in hand. His eyes caught Ishita — sitting there so seriously, her face half-lit by sunlight, and that bun giving her a perfect studious charm. A teasing smile curved his lips.
He walked closer, pretending to clear his throat,
"Hello, Ms. Ishita..."
Startled slightly, she looked up — then quickly smiled politely, "Hello, sir."
Sidharth leaned slightly on the opposite wall, folding his arms. "What are you doing here alone? Shouldn't the academy's best candidate be resting at this hour?"
Ishita gave a light smile, lowering her gaze to her book. "Nothing, sir... just got bored in my room. So I thought of walking while studying."
Sidharth chuckled. "Hmm... topper wali aadat kabhi jaati nahi. Always books, always studying. Do you ever relax, Ms. Ishita?"
Before she could answer, his mischievous eyes fell on the coffee cup she'd kept on the railing. Without a second thought, he picked it up casually and took a sip.
Ishita was flipping a page and hadn't noticed — until Sidharth's amused voice broke her focus.
"Ms. Ishita, I think you forgot to put sugar in your coffee. It's completely bitter."
Without looking up, she muttered distractedly, "I never taste sweet in my life, sir... there's no space for that taste in my life."
Then suddenly, her words hit her — and her eyes widened. She turned sharply, "Wait—how do you know I didn't put sugar?"
Sidharth just smiled like a caught thief, the cup still in his hand. Ishita's mouth fell open as she saw him taking another small sip.
"Sir! Yeh toh mera coffee tha!" she stammered, cheeks turning red. "Aap bol dete, main doosra bana deti!"
Sidharth leaned closer, voice playful but low, "No, Ishita... it's sweet actually. Maybe I mistook it. In fact, this is the sweetest coffee I've ever tasted."
That made her freeze. Her blush deepened — from her neck to her ears.
She clutched her book tightly, stumbling over her words, "S-sir, I think I should go."
Before he could tease more, she turned and almost ran off — but halfway through, she remembered her cup. With a tiny annoyed pout, she came back, snatched the cup from his hand without meeting his eyes, and hurried away again, her ears still burning red.
Sidharth couldn't stop laughing softly. Watching her run off with that mix of shyness and frustration, he murmured to himself, smiling wide,
"Yaar... yeh chhoti si gilahari ke jaise hai — ek pal mein muh fula leti hai, ek pal mein sharma jaati hai, aur jab baat karti hai na... toh lagta hai jaise main sab kuch bhool jaaun. My little gilahari..."
He shook his head fondly, still smiling as the sound of her footsteps faded down the corridor.
Ishita entered her room, still holding her coffee cup close to her chest as if it had suddenly become something precious. She closed the door behind her and leaned on it, her breath a little uneven.
Her reflection caught in the mirror — her cheeks were still faintly red.
She frowned, muttering to herself, "Yeh mujhe kya ho raha hai... sirf coffee ka sip liya tha unhone, main itna react kyun kar gayi?"
She walked to her study table and sat down, opening her IPC book again. But the letters blurred in front of her eyes. Her mind refused to focus — all she could see was Sidharth's teasing smile, his calm voice, and the way he said, "It's the sweetest coffee I've ever tasted..."
She shook her head quickly, whispering, "No Ishita... tu pagal ho gayi hai kya? He's your senior officer, your trainer! Aise sochna bhi galat hai..."
But her heart betrayed her logic. It kept replaying that moment — his eyes, his smile, the way he had leaned close — and unknowingly, a small smile crept on her lips.
She whispered softly, almost to herself,
"Sweetest coffee... sir toh ajeeb hain. Lekin... pata nahi, unke kehne ka tareeka... jaise kuch alag tha."
Her gaze drifted to the coffee mug again. Absentmindedly, she traced the rim with her finger — as if his touch still lingered there.
A gentle breeze from the window ruffled her notes, and she looked up at the moon outside. The academy courtyard was silent, lights flickering in the distance. Everything was peaceful — except her heartbeat."
Still, a tiny laugh escaped her lips. She closed her book and lay back on her bed, eyes half-closed, whispering,
"Pata nahi, sir ke aas-paas hamesha ek ajeeb sa sukoon milta hai... "
Her heart beat softly against the silence of the room, and before she knew it, sleep took her — a faint smile still resting on her lips.
The air of Rampur was heavy that morning — filled with silence, smoke from the last rites, and the faint fragrance of marigolds left over from the funeral pyre.
Roshni stood inside her small room, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were hollow now — there were no tears left, just a strange calm that carried more pain than any cry could express.
She wore her mother's yellow Banarasi silk saree — the same one her mother had once kept aside lovingly, saying,
"Roshni, yeh mai apni bidaai ke din pehni thi... aur chahti hoon tu bhi isi mein apni bidaai kare."
Her fingers brushed over the golden border of the saree, trembling slightly. The fabric shimmered faintly in the sunlight filtering through the window — bright, pure, and yet heavy with memories.
Beside her bag, one new thing rested quietly — a small box of sindoor and a mangalsutra. She looked at it for a moment, then slipped it gently into her bag. Her hand didn't shake; her heart didn't race. It was as if she had already crossed the line between pain and numbness.
Without a word, Roshni stepped out of the house. Her face was pale but fierce, her eyes burning with something that was not grief — but resolve.
Sameer was standing outside, waiting near the jeep. When she came near, she said in a steady voice,
"Chaliye, hum chaltein hain."
Sameer simply nodded, taking her bag silently. His eyes lingered on her face — he could see her trying to bury everything behind that brave mask.
But before they could move, Mahesh, her bade papa, stepped forward and said softly,
"Beta... mera koi haq nahi banta tujhe rokne ka ab. Lekin... teri maa ka haq tha yeh. Antim bidaai ki rasam to karne de..."
Roshni's head snapped up, and for the first time since the funeral, her voice broke the air — sharp and trembling.
"Mere maa ka naam mat lijiye!" she shouted.
Her voice echoed through the courtyard.
"Sabb aapki wajah se hua hai, bade papa! Maa kabhi maaf nahi karegi aapko... aur main bhi nahi!"
Everyone froze. Sapna, her badi mummy, stepped forward, anger flashing in her eyes.
"Yeh kya tareeka hai baat karne ka? Main jaanti hoon tumhari maa chali gayi hai, lekin iska matlab yeh nahi ke tu apne bade papa se aise baat kare! teri maa naa sab kuch tumhare pati ko bachane ke liye kiya tha — mera pati ko nahi!"
Roshni's lips trembled, rage and disbelief mixing in her eyes.
"Mera pati ko bachana unki ichha thi, aur unki marji ! Lekin aapka pati... usne to mujhe bech diya tha! Us sarpanch ke saath sauda kiya tha mere sapnon ka, meri zindagi ka!"
Sameer froze — his eyes widening as the truth sank in.
He took a step forward, his voice firm but controlled.
"Ms. Misra—" he paused, correcting himself softly, "Roshni... kya keh rahi ho tum?"
Roshni looked at him, tears finally finding their way down her face.
"Yahi, Sir... yahi woh aadmi hai jisne paisa liya tha. Jisne mujhe uss gunda Veer ka baap kaa sath sauda kiya thaa ,yaa kahiya ek taraha saa mujhe bech diya tha. Sarpanch ke haath mein diya tha mujhe, jaise koi samaan hoon main."
Sameer's jaw tightened, fury flashing in his eyes.
He turned to Mahesh, voice rising like thunder,
"Do you even realize what you've done? Selling someone else's daughter — fixing her marriage without her consent — do you know it's a criminal offence? You can be jailed for years!"
He stepped closer, his tone colder now.
"Aur sabse badi baat... aapne ek IPS officer ki patni ko bechne ki koshish ki hai. Sochiye, kaunsi dhara lagau pehle main aap par."dektha rahi
He grabbed Roshni's hand gently but firmly.
"Chalo, Roshni. Yahan ab tumhara koi nahi hai... sirf main hoon."
They turned to leave, but just then, Ravi came running with a small plate of rice. His voice trembled as he said,
"Ek minute, behen... bina bidaai ke ja rahi hai kya? Mujhse mile bina?"
Roshni stopped and turned, her eyes softening for the first time. She stepped forward and hugged him tightly, whispering through tears,
"Nahi, bhaiya... agar aap nahi hote na, toh main IPS banne ka sapna bhi kho deti. Aapne mujhe us narak se bachaya tha."
Ravi smiled faintly, though his eyes glistened.
"Ab pata nahi tu kab wapas aayegi... lekin ek aakhri rasam kar le."
He placed the plate of rice at her feet.
"Yeh chaval peeche ki taraf fekh de. Main ek kapde mein peeche khada hoon — jahan girenge, unhe main rakh lunga. Tu hamare ghar ki Lakshmi thi, ab ja rahi hai... kuch toh nishani chhod ja."
Roshni looked at him, then at the plate. With trembling hands, she took a handful of rice, turned back toward the house, and slowly let them fall behind her. The grains scattered on the ground, some landing softly on the cloth Ravi held — a symbol of goodbye, of blessings, of love that would linger.
Ravi's eyes filled, but he smiled — a faint, bittersweet smile.
"Ja, Roshni..... Ab apni zindagi mein aage badh. Hamare liye nahi, apne liye."
Roshni nodded silently, her eyes still glistening, and turned toward Sameer.
Without another word, she stepped forward. Sameer picked up her bag, opened the jeep door, and she got in.
As the jeep drove away from Rampur, Ravi stood holding that small cloth full of rice — a sister's last trace — and whispered softly to himself,
"Khush rehna, chhoti... tu hamara garv thi, aur hamesha rahegi."
The train moved through the quiet fields of Rampur, cutting through mist and silence. The rhythmic clatter of wheels was the only sound between us.
Across from me, Roshni was sitting near the window — her head resting against the glass, eyes closed, lost in sleep. The morning sun spilled over her face, lighting up the golden threads of her yellow Banarasi saree — the same one her mother had once cherished.
Her wrists were heavy with bangles that chimed softly each time the train swayed. A faint streak of sindoor divided her hairline, and the small mangalsutra glimmered against her skin.
For a moment, I couldn't look away.
She looks beautiful, I thought. No... not just beautiful — divine.
Then the realization hit me again — like a stone sinking deep.
She is mine. My wife.
The words didn't feel real. They sounded... misplaced in my life. I was never ready for this — not now, not like this. Marriage wasn't part of my plan; it wasn't supposed to happen in the middle of all this chaos.
I looked out the window, watching the blur of trees pass by, and sighed silently.
"What has life done to me?" I whispered to myself.
"Everything changed in a single night... and now I don't even know how to handle this. She's not just my candidate anymore. She's my wife. And I—" I paused, pressing my forehead against the cold window glass.
"I don't think I'm ready for this change."
As the train jerked slightly, Roshni stirred awake. She blinked, adjusting her saree's pallu, and found me staring at her — unknowingly, silently.
"Sir..." she asked softly, "kya hua? Aap mujhe aise dekh rahe the?"
I quickly looked away, shaking my head.
"Kuch nahi," I said quietly.
She followed my gaze for a moment, then her eyes fell on her own hands — the bright red bangles, the sindoor. Reality came crashing back for her too. Her face tensed; she turned toward me.
"Sir," she said after a long pause, her voice steady but heavy, "mujhe kuch poochna tha."
I simply nodded.
Roshni took a deep breath.
"Sir, mai aapko force nahi karungi iss shaadi mein. Court mein jaake hum divorce le lenge. Mai aapke liye burden nahi banna chahti. Aur academy mein... agar kisi ko yeh pata chala toh aapki reputation kharab ho sakti hai. Mujhe nahi chahiye meri wajah se aapko koi problem ho."
Her voice broke slightly, but she continued bravely.
"Bas aap mujhe waisa hi treat kijiye jaise pehle karte the — as a candidate, not as a wife. Main kisi ko bhi iss incident ke baare mein nahi bataungi."
Before she could finish, I reached out instinctively and placed my finger gently on her lips.
"Shh..." I said quietly.
For a second, everything went still.
Her lips were soft — fragile, like rose petals. I could feel her breath against my fingers, warm and trembling. A strange pull gripped my chest — but I forced it down.
"Tum meri zimmedari ho, Roshni," I said, my tone firm but gentle. "Main tumhari maa se promise kiya tha. Aur Sameer Pandey kabhi apna promise nahi todta."
She looked at me — her eyes glistening but calm.
I continued, "Main soch raha tha academy ke baare mein. Agar kisi ko yeh shaadi ke baare mein pata chala, toh log galat samjhenge. Tumhara career khatra mein pad sakta hai. Academy head aur director dono tumhe nikal bhi sakte hain. Main nahi chahta tum apne pita ka sapna kho do."
But before I could say more, she smiled faintly and interrupted,
"I know, Sir. Mujhe bhi yahi chahiye. Main bhi nahi chahti log sochen ke maine yeh sab apne husband ke wajah se paaya. Mujhe apni mehnat se sab kuch jeetna hai."
She looked at me directly now — her eyes determined.
"Sir, please... jab tak training chalti hai, hum bas trainer aur candidate hi rahenge. Shaadi ki baat hum dono bhool jaate hain. Jab tak course complete nahi hota, treat me the same way you always did."
I looked at her for a long moment. There was something in her words — strength, dignity, and quiet pain. Then I nodded slowly.
"As you wish... Mrs. Pandey," I said softly.
A faint smile curved on her lips. Mrs. Pandey — the name sounded new, strange, yet it carried a weight that neither of us could ignore.
She turned her gaze toward the window again. The sunlight brushed her face as the train rushed toward Dehradun — toward the Himalayan Civil Academy — toward a new beginning.
This journey was going to be harder, more complicated, and far more emotional than either of us had imagined.
And I, Sameer Pandey, didn't know whether I was ready for it... or already lost in it.
Roshni stepped out of the car, adjusting her simple kurti and jeans.
The yellow saree was gone — along with her bangles, anklets, mangalsutra, and bindi.
Yet she couldn't erase everything. A faint trace of sindoor still lingered, carefully hidden beneath her side-parted hair.
Sameer noticed. Their eyes met briefly — a silent understanding passed between them.
"Go to your room, Roshni," he said quietly.
"Yes, sir," she replied, her voice steady but distant, before walking away.
Roshni's POV
I kept walking toward my hostel block, feeling like every step was pulling me deeper into a storm. My mind was blank, my heart heavy. Everything around me looked the same — the tall trees, the paved path, the faint whistle of the morning breeze — yet nothing felt familiar anymore.
It was as if I had crossed an invisible line in life.
And then I heard it.
"Roshni!"
That voice — warm, excited, full of life.
Before I could even turn, Ishita came running and wrapped me in a tight hug.
"Tu aa gayi, yaar! Itni yaad aa rahi thi teri!" she said, her smile wide and genuine.
A faint smile touched my lips.
"Mujhe bhi, Ishita... bahut yaad aayi thi."
"Chal, chal, room chalte hain! Aaj toh main tujhe chhodungi nahi — poori kahani sunni hai mujhe!" Ishita teased, tugging her arm playfully around Roshni's shoulder.
But the laughter faded when she looked closer.
Her brows furrowed; concern filled her eyes.
"Tu kuch alag lag rahi hai, Roshni... kuch toh hai. Aur yeh—" she gently brushed her fingers against the side of Roshni's forehead — "yeh chot kaisi? Aur haath pe yeh kharoch? Kya hua tujhe? Jaise koi zabardasti hui ho..."
At those words, Roshni's breath caught.
Her chest tightened, and before she could stop herself, her eyes welled up.
The next moment, she was in Ishita's arms — holding her as if that was the only thing keeping her together.
"Ishita..." she whispered, her voice trembling, "main... main thak gayi hoon."
Ishita immediately tightened her hold.
"Arre, yaar... kya hua? Shh... kuch mat bol abhi. Chal, room mein chalte hain, sab theek ho jaayega."
Roshni just nodded faintly, still clutching her friend.
For the first time since everything changed, she let herself break — quietly, safely — in the warmth of someone who didn't ask questions, only offered comfort.
Roshni sat on the edge of her bed, her hands clenched together. The silence between her and Ishita was heavy — not awkward, but full of things left unsaid.
Ishita sat beside her, watching her quietly. Finally, she broke the silence.
"Roshni... tu kuch kehna chahti hai, na?"
Roshni took a deep breath. Her eyes were fixed on the floor.
"Ishi... mujhe nahi pata kahan se shuru karu..."
"Bas kah de, yaar. Main hoon na," Ishita said softly, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
And that one gesture — one touch of comfort — broke the wall inside Roshni.
With trembling lips and a heavy heart, she began,
"Sab kuch uss din se shuru hua... jab meri maa..." her voice cracked, "...meri maa ne mujhe bachate hue apni jaan de di."
Ishita's smile faded instantly. Her eyes widened, her hand froze mid-air.
Roshni continued, her voice trembling but steady enough to carry the weight of her truth.
"Ek case tha, Ishi. Mera bara papa... unhone mujhe bech diya tha. Maine resist kiya... bhaagne ki koshish ki, par... sab kuch control se bahar tha." woo veer mujsa jabardasti sadi kar rah thaa
Her tears rolled freely now.
"Phir... Sameer sir aaye. Unhone mujhe aur meri maa dono ko bachaya. or sadi hona saa rok liya Lekin..." she swallowed hard, "maa naa muja or sameer sir koo bachan kaa liya unho naa goli apna pa le liya ..."
She couldn't finish.
Ishita immediately pulled her into a tight embrace, tears filling her own eyes.
"Bas, Roshni... kuch mat bol abhi," she whispered, her own voice trembling. "Tere saath bahut bura hua hai..."
They stayed like that for a long moment — two souls bound by emotion and silent pain.
Then Ishita gently wiped Roshni's tears and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
But as she did, something caught her eye — a faint streak of sindoor, hidden beneath Roshni's side-parted hair.
She froze.
Her tone changed — confused, sharp, half-angry.
"Roshni... yeh kya hai? Sindoor?"
Roshni blinked, startled.
"Tu toh keh rahi thi teri shaadi nahi hui uss gunde se! Toh yeh sindoor kaise?! Kya kisi ne zabardasti kiya hai? Bata kaun tha woh?! Naam bata uska! Abhi uska mooh tod du main!"
Ishita was already halfway off the bed, ready to storm out, muttering angry words under her breath.
"Kamina! Ganda aadmi! Main chhodungi nahi usse—"
But Roshni suddenly grabbed her hand, stopping her.
"Nahi, Ishi! Koi zabardasti nahi hui!"
Ishita turned, disbelief flooding her face.
"Toh phir ye...?"
Roshni looked down, her voice barely a whisper.
"Sameer sir... mere pati hain."
For a moment, silence. The words hung in the air like thunder before a storm.
Ishita's mouth fell open.
"K-kya? Sameer sir?! Tere husband?!"
Roshni nodded slowly.
"Par... unhone kuch galat nahi kiya. Maa ne... apne antim samay par unse promise liya tha ki wo meri dekhbhal karenge. maa naa hii unha bola tha mujsa sadi karna kaa liya , Unhone too bus apna vaada nibhaya."
Ishita's anger melted into shock and then into quiet disbelief.
She sank back on the bed.
"Yaar... tu aur Sameer sir... ek hi academy mein kaise rahoge ab? Log kya kahenge? Itna bada raaz hai..."
Roshni managed a small smile.
"Wahi toh. Isliye humne decide kiya hai — yeh sab chhupa ke rakhenge. Na koi jaane, na koi soche. Main bas ek candidate hoon, aur wo mere trainer. Bas."
Ishita sighed deeply, then smiled weakly.
"Tu pagal hai, Roshni. Lekin main tujhpe bharosa karti hoon. Main kisi ko kuch nahi bataungi. Kasam se."
Roshni's eyes softened. "Thank you, Ishi..."
But Ishita wasn't done teasing. Her lips curved into a mischievous grin.
"Par iska matlab ye hua... tu aur sir ek hi jagah raho ge na? Ek hi room mein?"
Roshni's eyes widened. "Pagal hai kya tu?"
Ishita laughed, dodging the pillow Roshni threw at her.
"Arey! Tu hi toh soch rahi hai, maine toh kuch bola bhi nahi!"
Roshni hit her again, blushing.
"Hatt, besharam! Tera dimaag kitna ganda hai, Ishita!"
Ishita giggled, clutching the pillow and winking.
"Arey kya karu, yaar? Meri best friend ne khud ke trainer se shaadi kar li! Film bana du kya ispe?"
Roshni couldn't help but laugh through her blush.
And for the first time since her world had turned upside down, her heart felt a little lighter — because no matter how broken things seemed, Ishita was there.
Her anchor. Her sister. Her peace in the chaos.
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