Vidaai
Suman’s POV
It's almost time of my vidaai. Everyone is ready to go but then I saw them.
I don’t remember how long I stood there, staring at their eyes.
My bua.
My stepmother.
Both crying again.
Standing a little far from me near Atharv ji's Car.
It was strange—almost laughable. These were the same women who had mastered silence better than affection, distance better than warmth. Tears didn’t belong to their faces. Not for me.
“Bua?” My voice came out softer than I expected. “Aap ro kyun rahi ho?”
Rajni wiped her eyes hastily, as if she’d been caught committing a crime. “Aise hi,” she said, forcing a smile. “Beti ki shaadi ho gayi na, rona toh aayega hi. ”
Beti.
The word sat heavy in my chest.
Swarnim maa looked away. She picked up the edge of my dupatta and adjusted it carefully, avoiding my eyes. “Sab theek hoga, bachche,” she said, almost to herself.
I watched her.
Her hands were trembling.
For a moment, my mind betrayed me—pulled me back to a time when fire had swallowed my home, when screams had died before help arrived, when tears had meant nothing except loss.
I straightened my shoulders.
“Main theek hoon,” I said quietly. “Aap log pareshaan mat ho.”
Rajni bua inhaled sharply. “Tu hamesha strong banne ki koshish karti hai beta.”
I met her gaze. “Koshish nahi hai, bua. Aadat hai.”
Silence fell again.
The kind that always existed between us.
Swarnim maa finally looked at me then—really looked. “Atharva beta ji achhe insaan hai,” she said. “Tujhe khush rakhenge.”
I nodded. Not because I believed it blindly—but because hope, even borrowed, deserves respect.
“Main kisi se zyada umeed nahi karti,” I replied. “Bas itna kaafi hai.”
Rajni bua reached out, hesitated, then placed her hand on my head. “Sada suhaagan raho.”
The words hit something deep. Something fragile.
I closed my eyes for a second.
Then I heard my Mother-in-law's voice, this time a it grew louder.
" Sandhan ji, jane ka waqt ho gya hai ab ijazat dijiye". She said folding her hands.
My Bua and stepmother nodded and hugged me one last time.
I hop on the car, sitting beside me was Atharv ji.
Once my Professor, now my Husband.
I don't know what to think anymore.
My marriage.
My escape.
Or maybe—
my next cage.
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Author's POV
After the vidaai, when she had stepped into the car with trembling hands and a heart that felt too full and too hollow at the same time, no one spoke.
The road stretched endlessly ahead of them, city lights blurring past the window. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. She had cried enough in front of people. This—this was private.
Atharva sat beside her.
Not too close.
Not too far.
Close enough for her to feel his presence like a quiet wall she could lean on if she fell.
He didn’t ask her to stop crying.
Didn’t tell her everything would be fine.
Instead, he reached into the side pocket of the door, pulled out a bottle of water, and held it out to her.
“Drink,” he said gently. “Slowly.”
She hesitated, then took it.
A few minutes later, he passed her a tissue without looking at her, as if he didn’t want to embarrass her by noticing.
“You can relax a little,” he added softly. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”
Something inside her loosened then.
Not because of the words—but because of the absence of pressure in them.
For the rest of the journey, she watched the road, and he watched only her.
His WIFE.
They shared silence—but it no longer felt empty.
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The car finally stopped before tall iron gates that opened slowly, almost ceremonially.
Suman looked up.
The Deewan Bhavan stood before her—not a house, but a haveli.
Wide corridors framed by carved pillars.
High ceilings where chandeliers glowed softly.
Walls that carried generations in their silence—family portraits, ancestral photographs, quiet pride.
The air smelled of sandalwood and old wealth—refined, restrained.
This was not just a home.
It was a legacy.
As she stepped inside, her feet touched marble floors cool enough to ground her spinning thoughts.
She felt suddenly… small..
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Her mother-in-law came forward first, placing a hand on her head.
“Swagat hai, bahu,” she said warmly.
Suman and Atharv bent down and touched her feet instinctively.
Then came the rituals.
Aarti at the threshold.
Rice-filled kalash she gently nudged with her foot.
The soft laughter of women as she entered with measured steps.
Every ritual was performed with care—not rushed, not careless.
She was not just being welcomed.
She was being claimed—as the Ghar ki badi bahu.
It felt overwhelming.
But not unkind.
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Atharva’s Room
Finally, she was led upstairs by her only Vanshika Deewan(20), her sister-in-law and the youngest member of the house. The most pampered and mischievous child.
The room was large, understated, elegant—bookshelves lining one wall, a wide window overlooking the garden, curtains drawn halfway.
After lots of teasing and jokes Vanshika left Suman alone inside Atharv's room, now her's too.
Suman sat down on the bed, hands folded in her lap, breathing slow, controlled. She waited.
Minutes passed.
Then the door opened.
Atharva walked in quietly.
He didn’t come toward her.
Instead, he went to the window and stood there, his back to her, hands clasped behind him—as if giving her space even now.
The room filled again with that familiar silence.
Only now, it was shared.
The room smelled of incense and new fabric.
Suman sat on the edge of the bed, her saree heavy on her body, bangles unfamiliar on her wrists. The silence inside the room was thicker than the one outside. Here, there were no relatives, no rituals—only two strangers bound by vows neither had spoken from the heart.
Atharva stood near the window, loosening his watch.
“I won’t… touch you, until you want me to. Don't worry,” he said, not turning around.
She looked up, startled—not by the words, but by the certainty in his voice.
“This marriage wasn’t your choice, I know,” he continued. “And I refuse to begin it by taking something you didn’t offer." Silence.
"YET"
She studied him quietly. No expectation. No entitlement. Just restraint.
“I don’t expect anything from you,” Suman said finally. “I never have.”
Atharva turned then. Their eyes met.
“That,” he replied softly, “might be the only unfair thing about you.”
A pause.
“I’ll sleep on the sofa,” he added.
“You don’t have to,” she said. Not as permission—just truth. “This room is… big enough.”
He nodded. Acknowledged. Nothing more.
That night, they slept on opposite sides of the same bed—two people learning that safety can exist without intimacy.
And that sometimes, respect is the first form of love.
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