Chapter 1 — The Proposal
Tyra
The smell of freshly brewed chai wafted through the air as Tyra sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers nervously twisting a loose thread on her kurti. Her palms were clammy, and the soft hum of life outside Arya’s guest room window—a distant honking, vendors calling out their wares, and the occasional chirp of a bird—seemed to amplify her restlessness rather than soothe it.
Her sketchbook lay on the bedside table, unopened. She had almost packed it, thinking it might give her a sense of comfort, but had ultimately decided against it. What use was art in a moment like this?
Arya breezed into the room, her vibrant purple dupatta trailing behind her like a streak of sunlight. “Still fidgeting?” she teased, sitting down beside Tyra and placing a hand on her knee. Her voice was warm, her touch familiar.
Tyra sighed, her shoulders slumping. “How can you sound so calm? I’m about to meet a complete stranger and decide if I want to spend the rest of my life with him. What if—what if he thinks I’m not enough?”
Arya’s smile softened, her eyes filled with the kind of unwavering belief Tyra wished she could feel in herself. “I know this feels overwhelming, but you’re stronger than you think. Trust me, Shaurya isn’t some ogre. He’s reserved, yes, but thoughtful. And Veer, his little boy—well, I promise you’ll love him.”
Tyra’s fingers stilled, though her anxiety didn’t fade. She bit her lip, glancing at Arya. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered. “What if it’s just like them? Like Ma and Papa?” The words clung to the air, heavy with memories she rarely let herself revisit.
Arya leaned closer, her voice quiet but firm. “You are not your parents, Tyra. And this isn’t about their mistakes. It’s about you starting something new. Something that could be beautiful if you let it.” She took Tyra’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “And if it doesn’t work out, we’ll figure it out together. You’ve got me, always.”
A faint smile tugged at Tyra’s lips. Arya always had a way of making impossible things seem manageable, even if only for a moment.
“Now,” Arya said, standing and pulling Tyra to her feet, “it’s time to meet them. You’ve got this.” She adjusted Tyra’s dupatta with practiced ease, tilting her head as if appraising her work. “Elegant but approachable. Perfect.”
The word “perfect” made Tyra’s stomach churn, but she let Arya lead her out the door.
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The car ride to the Malhotra home was a blur of shifting landscapes and silent anticipation. Tyra stared out the window, the rolling hills of Shimla cloaked in warm golden light, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Her hands smoothed over her dupatta again and again, her thoughts darting between panic and a fragile hope.
Would she belong here? Could she?
Her childhood home had been a battleground of expectations and silences, a place where warmth felt like a distant stranger. The idea of stepping into another family’s world, with its own unspoken rules and histories, felt like trying to paint on a canvas already full.
When the Malhotra family home finally came into view, Tyra’s breath hitched. Perched on a gentle slope, the house’s weathered stone walls and sloping red-tiled roof exuded history and permanence, as if it had stood witness to countless lives and stories. The terraced gardens surrounding it were alive with marigolds and jasmine, their fragrances mingling in the cool air. For a fleeting moment, Tyra imagined setting up her easel in one of the sunlit corners, painting the way the light danced through the blooms.
The car came to a stop in the circular driveway, and Tyra’s fingers curled into the folds of her kurti.
Shaurya greeted them at the entrance, his tall frame outlined against the late afternoon sun. He was sharper than Tyra had imagined—his angular cheekbones and piercing dark eyes stood in stark contrast to his crisp white shirt and neatly rolled sleeves. He carried himself with a quiet confidence, though his expression gave nothing away.
“Shaurya,” Arya greeted warmly, clasping his hands as if she were trying to thaw his reserve. “This is my sister-in-law, Tyra.”
Tyra forced herself to meet his gaze, her heart thudding. “Hello,” she said softly, her voice steadier than she expected.
Shaurya inclined his head. “Tyra. Please, come in.” His tone was even, almost formal, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps?
The interior of the Malhotra home was a blend of old-world charm and understated warmth. Polished wooden floors creaked softly underfoot, and sepia-toned family photographs lined the walls, their frames slightly worn but lovingly preserved. The faint aroma of sandalwood mingled with the rich scent of chai drifting from the living room.
Shaurya led them to a seating area where his mother awaited, her figure draped in a soft green saree. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and her posture radiated calm authority.
“Sit, sit,” she said, her tone warm but measured. As Tyra settled onto a cushioned armchair, she felt the older woman’s gaze linger on her, assessing.
“So, Tyra,” Shaurya’s mother began, offering her a delicate porcelain cup of chai. “Arya tells us you’re an artist.”
Tyra nodded, her fingers tightening around the cup. “I am. I mainly work with watercolors and charcoal. Nature is my favorite subject.”
“How lovely,” the older woman said, though her tone was polite rather than enthusiastic. “It’s good to have a creative outlet. But tell me, have you had much experience managing a household?”
Tyra hesitated, her pulse quickening. “I’ve helped Arya with hers whenever I visit, but I—well, I’ve mostly lived alone, so I haven’t…”
“What she means,” Arya interjected smoothly, her voice light with a touch of humor, “is that Tyra has a natural talent for creating warmth wherever she goes. You should see her home in Delhi—it’s filled with her beautiful artwork. Truly one of a kind.”
Shaurya’s mother gave a thin smile, but her eyes softened slightly. Tyra wasn’t sure if it was approval or mere civility.
Shaurya cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. “Managing a household isn’t a one-person job. It’s a partnership.” His voice was calm, but his words carried weight.
Tyra glanced at him, surprised. His expression remained composed, but there was a quiet sincerity in his gaze.
For the next hour, the conversation meandered through safe topics: the weather, the hills, Arya’s tireless matchmaking. Tyra answered when spoken to, careful to keep her tone polite and her words measured. Yet beneath her outward composure, she felt the weight of every glance, every pause in the room.
Finally, Shaurya’s mother excused herself, leaving Tyra and Shaurya alone. The silence between them was palpable, punctuated only by the faint rustle of leaves outside the window.
“I know this isn’t easy,” Shaurya said at last, his voice low.
Tyra looked up, startled. “What isn’t?”
“This,” he replied, gesturing vaguely. “Two strangers sitting in a room, deciding whether they can build a life together. It feels… unnatural.”
Tyra smiled faintly, a hint of relief washing over her. “Unnatural is one word for it.”
Shaurya’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, before he sobered again. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep. But I can promise honesty. Stability is important to me—for Veer and for myself. If those are things you value, then perhaps…” He trailed off, his gaze steady but unreadable.
Tyra studied him for a long moment. His guardedness reminded her of a fortress—imposing, impenetrable. Yet, behind his measured words, she sensed a quiet earnestness.
“I do,” she said softly. “I’ve always wanted to create a home, a space where everyone feels safe and loved. It’s just… it’s something I’ve never quite known how to find.”
Shaurya nodded, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. “Then we’ll take it one step at a time.”
It wasn’t a declaration of love, nor a sweeping promise of happiness. But in that moment, it was enough.
As Arya and Tyra walked out of the Malhotra home, Tyra lingered on the threshold for a moment, her gaze drifting to a sunlit corner of the living room. She could almost picture her easel there, the light catching on unfinished sketches.
Her heart felt tentative, like the hills around her—cloaked in mystery yet brimming with quiet possibilities.
