Chapter 2 — Wedding and Moving In
Third Person
The soft strains of a shehnai wove through the crisp mountain air, mingling with the faint rustle of deodar trees surrounding the Malhotra family home. The golden afternoon sun poured across the terraced gardens, illuminating the marigolds and bougainvillea in a riot of warm hues. Tyra stood at the edge of the veranda, her breath hitching as her eyes scanned the intimate gathering before her.
The wedding was modest, as Arya had promised. Just close family and a few friends, their smiles warm and voices hushed in soft exchanges. Yet, for Tyra, it felt monumental, as though the earth beneath her feet was shifting with each passing moment. Each step closer to the altar carried the weight of a lifetime of longing and fear—a fear that she would always be an outsider, never truly belonging.
She adjusted the pleats of her coral-pink saree, its intricate embroidery shimmering subtly in the sunlight. Arya had helped her choose this saree, promising it would be “just perfect.” The delicate interplay of tradition and modernity in its design mirrored her own emotions—caught between the weight of her past and the uncertain expanse of her future.
Her hands trembled as her fingers brushed against the soft silk. A flash of memory surfaced—her mother’s sharp voice scolding her for uneven pleats before a family wedding years ago. She could still hear the reprimand, bitter and cold, as vivid as the texture of the saree she’d clumsily folded back then. The thought pierced her, but she forced herself to focus on the present. This was different. It had to be. Arya had said so.
Shaurya stood near the altar, his tall frame silhouetted against the striking backdrop of the valley. His cream sherwani, simple yet elegant, spoke of understated refinement. His expression remained composed, but Tyra noticed the subtle tightness in his jaw as his eyes swept over the guests—observant, assessing, distant. Beside him, Veer clutched his stuffed tiger, the beloved toy’s frayed tail peeking out from his small hands.
The boy was dressed to match his father, a miniature sherwani making him look like a tiny prince. Yet his shy gaze lingered on the ground, his movements hesitant as he shuffled closer to Shaurya. Tyra’s heart clenched at the sight. He seemed so small, navigating a world far too big for him. In many ways, she felt the same.
“Ready?” Arya’s voice was a soft murmur beside her.
Tyra turned to find her sister-in-law beaming, her dupatta catching the sunlight in golden streaks. Arya’s presence was as steadying as it was reassuring.
“I think so,” Tyra whispered, though her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her saree.
“You’ll do beautifully,” Arya said, squeezing her hand before giving her an encouraging nudge forward. “Just remember to breathe. And Tyra?”
Tyra hesitated, meeting Arya’s gaze.
“You’re not just stepping into their family,” Arya continued, her voice quieter but firmer. “You’re bringing something new to it. Don’t forget that.”
Something new. Tyra let the words settle in her chest as she took a shaky inhale and stepped toward the altar. The guests’ murmured blessings blurred into a faint hum around her, like the distant rustle of leaves.
Shaurya’s gaze lifted as she approached, and for a moment, their eyes met. His dark eyes, so unreadable at first glance, held a flicker of something—was it reassurance? Understanding? Or was she simply projecting her own hopes onto him? Whatever it was, it calmed her fraying nerves, if only slightly.
The ceremony began, the priest’s rhythmic chants weaving through the air, a solemn melody binding them all together. Tyra stood beside Shaurya, the weight of tradition pressing heavily on her shoulders. Her mind flickered to Arya’s words days before: “It’s not about perfection; it’s about stepping into something new and making it yours.” But could she? The fear of repeating patterns of rejection and loneliness gnawed at her edges.
As the priest motioned for the garland exchange, Tyra hesitated. The jasmine blooms were soft against her fingers, their sweet fragrance overwhelming. She glanced at Shaurya, and for a fleeting moment, his gaze softened. His hand brushed lightly against Veer’s shoulder, steadying the boy as he shifted nervously. Then Shaurya inclined his head slightly, a quiet gesture of encouragement.
Her breath steadied. With trembling hands, she stepped closer and slipped the garland over his head. The corner of her saree brushed against his arm, and the brief contact sent an unexpected warmth through her.
When it was Shaurya’s turn, his movements were deliberate but unhurried. As he placed the garland over her head, his fingers momentarily lingered near her shoulder—not touching, not imposing, but present.
The priest recited the final blessings, and quiet applause rippled through the gathering. Tyra drew in a deep breath, her gaze shifting instinctively to Veer. The boy stood slightly behind Shaurya, his wide eyes darting between her and his father. She smiled at him—tentative, hopeful—but he quickly buried his face against Shaurya’s side, clutching the tiger tighter. Still, before he turned away, Tyra thought she caught the faintest flicker of curiosity in his gaze.
As the ceremony ended, Arya slipped beside Tyra, her face glowing with pride. “You did it,” she whispered, her voice brimming with quiet excitement.
“I did,” Tyra murmured, though the enormity of the moment still felt surreal.
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The subdued celebration that followed was held on the veranda, now adorned with strings of fairy lights that cast a soft glow over the gathering. The faint aroma of saffron and cardamom drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the cool evening breeze. Guests chatted warmly, their laughter punctuating the quiet hum of the hills around them.
Tyra found herself seated next to Shaurya’s mother, who was arranging plates with the practiced ease of someone used to managing such occasions.
“Here, beta,” the older woman said, placing a bowl of kheer in front of Tyra. “You must eat something. It’s a long day, and you’ll need your strength.”
“Thank you,” Tyra replied, her tone polite but subdued.
Shaurya’s mother studied her for a moment, her eyes not unkind but assessing. “It’s a big change, moving into a new family. I remember when I first came to this house years ago. Everything felt… unfamiliar,” she said, her voice softening with reflection. “But with time, it became home. You’ll find your rhythm, too.”
Her words, though meant to comfort, carried the weight of expectation. Tyra nodded, offering a faint smile. “I hope so,” she said, her voice steady despite the knots in her chest.
From across the veranda, Tyra caught a glimpse of Shaurya. He was speaking to a relative, his posture as composed as ever, but his gaze flicked briefly toward her. Their eyes met for the barest moment, and though he didn’t smile, there was something in his expression—a quiet acknowledgment, perhaps—that made her heart ache with unspoken possibilities.
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Later that night, the house began to settle into stillness. Tyra stood in her new room, its warm wooden furniture and neatly folded quilts offering a sense of quiet comfort. The window framed a view of the moonlit valley, the hills bathed in silvery light.
Her suitcase remained unopened in the corner. She wandered to the window, letting her fingers trace the cool glass as she stared into the distance. The soft glow of the moon reminded her of the garland exchange earlier, the fragile, fleeting moment of connection she thought she’d felt with Shaurya.
The creak of the door behind her broke her reverie. She turned to see Veer standing hesitantly in the doorway, his stuffed tiger clutched tightly to his chest.
“Veer,” she said softly, lowering herself to his eye level. “Hi.”
The boy didn’t reply at first, his wide eyes scanning the room before settling on her.
“Do you need something?” she asked gently, careful to keep her tone light.
After a pause, he stepped forward and held out the tiger. “Tiger needs fixing,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Tyra’s heart squeezed at the sight of his small hands and the tremor in his voice. “Oh no, what happened?” she asked, taking the toy with careful hands.
“One of his seams,” Veer whispered, pointing to the loose thread near the tail.
Tyra examined it closely. “Hmm, I can fix this,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Would you like to sit with me while I do?”
He nodded, climbing onto the edge of the bed as she retrieved her sewing kit. The silence between them was thick but not uncomfortable. She worked quickly, her fingers moving deftly to stitch the seam back together.
“Do you think it’s okay now?” Veer asked hesitantly as she held up the mended tiger.
“I think Tiger’s good as new,” she replied warmly.
A small, cautious smile spread across his face as he reached for the toy. “Thank you,” he murmured, clutching it to his chest.
“You’re welcome,” she said softly, watching as he lingered for a moment before slipping off the bed and padding toward the door.
“Goodnight, Veer,” she called gently.
He paused in the doorway, turning back to glance at her. “Goodnight,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, before disappearing down the hall.
Tyra sat back, a quiet warmth spreading through her as she replayed the interaction. It was small, tentative, but it felt like the beginning of something.
As she lay down that night, the moonlight streaming through the curtains, she allowed herself a fragile thread of hope. Perhaps, she thought, beginnings didn’t need to be perfect to be meaningful. Perhaps they only needed to be real.
