His Replaced Bride

The courtyard is unusually quiet as I step out of the house where I've spent my entire life. The air is heavy with a mix of distant chatter and the rustling of sarees as the few people present busy themselves with formalities.

My eyes scan the gathering for someone—anyone—who might come to say goodbye. My father is speaking with some distant relatives, his back turned to me as if I don't exist. Himanshi, as always, is at the center of attention, laughing at some joke with her friends, completely indifferent to the fact that I'm leaving this house forever.

I clutch the end of my dupatta tightly, willing myself not to cry. You knew this would happen, Jeea. You knew.

I take a slow step toward the car, my heart sinking with every inch of distance I put between myself and the threshold. The place I once called home feels colder now, emptier.

There's not a single person who comes to hug me as I walk towards the awaiting car where my new husband awaits.

Then I hear a soft voice behind me. "Jeea, wait."

I turn to see Razia Aunty hurrying toward me. She's wearing a simple cotton saree, her gray hair pulled back in a loose bun. Her eyes are warm, as they always have been, and in her hands is a small box wrapped in tissue paper.

"Razia Aunty," I whisper, my voice trembling.

She places the box in my hands, her gaze soft but full of meaning. "Open it, child," she says.

I peel back the tissue paper carefully, revealing a set of bright red chudas—the traditional bridal bangles I'd always dreamed of wearing. The deep red color shines against the soft golden detailing, and for the first time today, tears spill freely down my cheeks.

"They're beautiful," I whisper, holding them close. "But why—"

"I know you wanted to be a traditional bride," she interrupts gently, her own eyes glistening. "You've always talked about it, ever since you were a little girl. And I couldn't let you leave without this one small piece of your dream."

I look up at her, overwhelmed by the gesture. "Thank you," I say, my voice cracking.

Razia Aunty cups my face with her hands, her touch warm and motherly. "Don't thank me, beta. You deserve so much more than what this house ever gave you." She's the only mother figure I've known, only person who has shown me kindness in this home where I was an invader.

She pulls me into a hug, her arms wrapping around me tightly, as if she's trying to make me forget all the hurt and pain I've felt in this house and shield me from what lies ahead.

"You're stronger than you think," she whispers into my hair. "And no matter what happens, remember that you are worthy of love and happiness. Don't let anyone make you feel otherwise."

I nod against her shoulder, unable to speak.

When we pull apart, she wipes away my tears with the edge of her saree. "Now, wear these chudas with pride," she says. I promise her I will.

She steps back, giving me a reassuring smile. But before I can say anything, another voice cuts through the moment.

"Jeea," the house help, an older woman named Kokila, says softly. She's standing near the car, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Take care of yourself, bitiya. We'll miss you."

I nod, offering her a weak smile. "I'll miss you too, Kokila Aunty," I say, my voice trembling again.

Razia Aunty pats my hand one last time before stepping back. "Go, child. Your new life awaits."

With a deep breath, I turn toward the car, the weight of my chudas grounding me as I take slow, deliberate steps. I don't look back. I can't.

But as the car pulls away, I look up at my husband beside me, busy typing furiously on his phone. He doesn't acknowledge me or the comment he made earlier. Its as if I don't exist. Luckily for me, I'm used to it.