Chapter 2: Sarees, Secrets, and Side-Eyes

At the wedding venue in Pune, I hovered at the edge of the crowd, lost in a sea of silk sarees, murmured gossip, and the clink of spoons against steel plates. Somewhere in the background, an old Kishore Kumar song played as someone’s ringtone, while a cousin clicked selfies for Instagram, ducking behind a pillar to avoid his mother’s scolding.

But my entire world narrowed to Rohan.

My gaze—almost against my will—kept drifting to him. Each time he laughed loudly with an uncle, or checked his phone instead of looking at me, the ache inside me grew. My heart thudded, louder than the DJ’s remix of 90s Bollywood hits.

Rohan looked every bit the hero aunties would approve of—black suit, hair gelled, easy confidence. “Dekho beta, ladka kitna smart hai,” an aunty nudged her daughter, eyes twinkling.

Next to him, a bridesmaid twirled a red balloon on her finger, giggling. Her laughter sounded like anklet bells, and I envied her carefree spirit. Her cheeks were pink, her braid tipped with jasmine, and she played coy, biting her lip, her eyes always returning to Rohan.

He smiled at her, attentive and warm—the same smile I once thought was reserved for me. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the gentle tilt of his head—it all belonged to someone else now.

A sharp pain flared in my chest. I blinked rapidly, refusing to let my mascara smudge. The taste of sweet paan from earlier soured on my tongue.

Am I overreacting? Is it just the wedding mood? Maybe I’m being too sensitive, the way Amma always says. But the hurt wouldn’t go.

Suddenly, Rohan took the bridesmaid’s phone, crouching down to click photos for her. “Arrey, thoda left—haan, perfect!” he directed, even kneeling for the perfect angle. My fingers tightened on my pallu.

I remembered Rajpur, the gulmohar trees, and how he’d grumbled about my photo obsession—barely clicking a few blurry shots, all the while glued to his phone.

I’d saved those photos anyway, but now they just made my heart ache. I clung to hope, but it slipped away like sand.

I thought this wedding would be a new beginning. Weeks spent choosing the perfect saree, planning how I’d introduce him as my almost-fiancé. In my heart, I’d rehearsed this day a hundred times.

He’d once said he had a surprise for me at the wedding. Even Ma had started dropping hints about gold bangles and diamond rings. “Shaadi pakki ho gayi!” the aunties gossiped, and I’d blushed, secretly hoping they were right.

Eight years. Eight years of Marine Drive walks, bun-maska at Irani cafés, and fights ending in “Sorry yaar, chai peete hain.” Priya had even whispered about the proposal plan, winking slyly. I felt like the heroine of my own Bollywood movie.

But now he stood beside another girl, and all those dreams shattered—like glass bangles breaking, the ache deep and real.

Priya came up behind me, her jasmine gajra brushing my cheek as she hugged me. Her hands were cold from the AC, but her laughter was warm. “Ananya, you finally made it! Shaadi ki laddoo khayegi ya khilaayegi?”

Her teasing made me uneasy, the question stinging more than I expected. I forced a hollow laugh, adjusting my bangles, trying to look convincing. But Priya’s sharp eyes saw through me.

Following my gaze, she spotted Rohan and gave me a knowing look. “Tu toh pakka set hai, haan!” she teased, waving at him. “College ka hero! Ananya says good news is coming!”

Her laughter rang out, drawing looks from all corners. Aunties smiled, some bachelors looked away. Even the photographer paused, raising an eyebrow. My cheeks burned—I wished I could disappear.

I tugged Priya’s wrist, whispering, “Bas kar yaar, Priya!” desperate to stop the gossip.

Rohan turned, his face a mask—eyes cold, mouth set. My heart dropped. His eyes flicked over my face, then slid away.

His voice was chilly: “Bas karo na.” The words hung, silencing even Priya. The world seemed to freeze.

Priya squeezed my arm, her eyes saying: Are you two okay?

“Bas, cold war chal raha hai, yaar,” I muttered, forcing a bitter smile. The words stung, but I tried to act nonchalant, fiddling with my ring.

She patted my shoulder, whispering, “Arrey, sab theek ho jayega. Shaadi season ka asar hai—sab emotional ho jaate hain.”

But inside, I knew things were breaking. And I couldn’t stop it.