Rain fell in delicate whispers over Kolkata, turning the city into a poem no one had finished writing.
Rickshaws glided like ghosts through the puddled streets.
Fairy lights flickered outside cafés where half-drunk cups of cha cooled slowly on chip...
A/N: Kemon Acho? Happy Jamai Sasthi to all the dear Jamais' and son-in-laws!! Today's part is Jamai Sasthi Special🌷❤ Make sure to comment your fav parts of today✨🌼
Happy Reading To All My Dear Readers!!❤❤ __________
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The morning was soft. Not the lazy kind of soft. Not the drowsy kind either.
It was fluffy-clouds-in-the-blue-Bengali-sky kind of soft. Scent-of-fresh-flowers-and-Agarbatti kind of soft. The kind where the birds seem to hum old Rabindra Sangeet and the sunlight peeks through the curtains like it knows some family gossip.
Because today was not just a regular Tuesday. It was Jamai Shashthi.
The royal event of saasumas. The Met Gala of Bengali households. The unofficial competition of: “Whose jamai is more handsome, more successful, more sanskaari?”
And guess who was the star of the season? Aryan freaking Singha.
The ex-fiancé of the elder daughter. The accidental husband of the younger one. The heartbreaker, heartbroken, and now lowkey healing heart-throb of the story.
Meanwhile… somewhere in a beautiful sunlit apartment, our Ishu was staring at herself in the mirror.
Ishita was still in her pajamas.
Not the cute aesthetic co-ord kind. The oversized t-shirt that said "Not Today, Satan" kind. And yeah, bunny slippers. Floppy ones. One of the ears was half-torn thanks to an unfortunate washing machine incident.
She stood in the middle of her room like a defeated Netflix heroine during a makeover montage—except there was no background music, no glam squad, no Cardiobabes.
Just her. A chaotic brain. And a wardrobe that looked like it had been robbed by a tornado wearing heels.
"WHAT. THE. FUCK. DO. I. WEAR?" She whisper-yelled at the hangers.
Her eyes jumped from saree to saree to saree. Too bright. Too dull. Too bridal. Too didi-ish. Too “choto meye trying too hard.”
“Ughhhhhh,” she groaned and flopped onto her bed dramatically like she was auditioning for a Bengali daily soap.
She grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. "Why is this like a fashion war against traumaaaa??!"
Then sat up.
"Okay, Ishita. Chill. Deep breaths. Inhale like you're sniffing biryani. Exhale like you're blowing on hot chai." She nodded to herself in the mirror. "You’re a Roy. You’ve got your mom’s cheekbones and your dad’s silent judgment. You can do this."
A pause. Another glance at the mirror. "...What if Aryan doesn’t like what I wear?"
