Chapter 3: Games, Guilt, and Goodbyes

The bride pick-up game drew a crowd—elders snapping photos, toddlers howling for laddoos, and someone loudly asking, “Pani puri ka counter kidhar hai?” The energy was pure shaadi chaos—loud, messy, brimming with drama.

Rohan lost. “Rohan beta, ab toh bhagwan hi bacha sakte hain!” someone whistled, and the room erupted in laughter.

His punishment: carry the three of us bridesmaids downstairs. The staircase echoed with our giggles and the tinkle of payals. I felt like I’d wandered into an old Hindi movie, one of those silly dares that change everything.

With the other bridesmaids, Rohan was all jokes and smiles. When it was my turn, he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Sorry, yaar, I can’t carry anyone else,” he said, pretending to be exhausted, though his act was see-through. I forced a laugh, but inside I felt invisible, and it hurt more than any slap.

A bridesmaid eyed me curiously. "Do you two know each other?" she asked, her voice gentle but loaded. The other girls leaned in, ready for gossip.

Rohan barely hesitated. “Childhood friends.”

Something broke inside me. Eight years, and I was just a childhood friend. The pain spread, burning hotter than haldi on a bride’s cheeks. I adjusted my bindi, glancing at the aunties watching me.

I forced a smile, “Yeah. If you want his embarrassing stories, ask me.” My words were light, but my heart screamed. I even managed a wink, playing the part.

Rohan’s smile vanished—his face scrunched up like he’d bitten into a karela, eyes flashing with annoyance.

I pressed, “What’s wrong?” I tried to keep it playful. “Afraid I’ll tell everyone about your Spiderman pajamas?”

He snapped, “Ananya, don’t go too far.” The sharpness in his voice made the room go quiet, tension thick as dahi.

The bridesmaid broke the silence, smiling, “Really? Great, I’ve been wanting to know more about him.” She gave me a conspiratorial wink, then turned to Rohan, “Then can I try my luck?” Her bold grin made the crowd titter—uncles murmuring, friends giggling, phones out for Instagram stories.

Rohan didn’t look at me. “Of course,” he said lightly. The finality hit hard.

For the first time, I felt truly abandoned. My world spun. Everything I’d believed in—every shared samosa, every late-night call—felt fake.

He’d always been handsome, always attracting attention, but he used to make it clear: “Sorry, I already have someone I want to marry.” My friends would nudge me, “Kya baat hai, Ananya!”

Back then, he’d talk about honeymoons, kids, flats in Mumbai—dreams that made my heart race. I’d felt safe, cherished. Now, I was erased.

Maybe he was just angry, I told myself. Maybe this was all payback. But the teasing around us was relentless: “Link kar do, yaar! Shaadi ke baad toh full freedom!”

Phones waved, videos recorded, the pandit pausing his chanting. I gritted my teeth, wishing the earth would swallow me. Indian weddings are full of public drama.

Rohan grinned, handed his PayTM QR code to Sneha. “Bas, scan karo!” The crowd roared. His dimple flashed, a cruel echo of old times.

I remembered second year—he’d confessed his feelings in a mosquito-filled garden, voice trembling: “Anu, I like you. I’ve liked you for years.” That shy, sincere smile, once just for me, now meant nothing.

Now, everything tasted bland, flowers looked dull. Eight years of memories felt powerless. Our relationship seemed as fragile as a diya in the wind.

I took a deep breath, smoothing my hair, determined not to cry. “Log kya kahenge,” I reminded myself.

“Come on, group photo!” the photographer called. We all crowded around the bride and groom, the heat from the spotlights making my forehead sweat. Sneha pressed up next to Rohan, looping her arm through his, smiling at the camera. For a moment, I felt edited out of my own story.

Outside that photo, I left behind the girl who believed in forever.