T A R A

The first thing I hear is my mother’s voice slicing through the quiet morning like an alarm specifically designed to destroy sleep.

"Ary kumbhkaran ki aulad! Kam se kam aaj toh uth ja jaldi. Teri behen ki shaadi hai… aur ab tak so rahi hai!"

("Ary, son of Kumbhakaran. At least wake up early today. It's your sister's wedding... and you are still sleeping!")

Her voice, laced with equal parts exasperation and affection, travelled from the kitchen, finding its way effortlessly into my sleepy sanctuary. I groaned, burying my face deeper into the pillow. A sliver of golden morning light peeked through the curtains, painting stripes across my duvet. It was only 9 a.m., but on a day like today, in a household like mine, it might as well have been noon.

But I had to wake up. Of course, I did. Today was the day my sister, Eraya di, was getting married. The day we had all been waiting for, counting down to with a flurry of shopping, decorations, and endless family debates over the minutest details.

With a Herculean effort, I pushed the cozy weight of sleep away and sat up, my body protesting the movement. I stretched my arms high above my head, a long, languid yawn escaping my lips as I tried to coax life back into my limbs. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes with the heels of my palms, the world slowly came into focus.

My gaze fell, as it always did first thing in the morning, on the small altar in the corner of my room. A gentle, serene idol of Lord Shiva sat there, a fresh marigold garland draped around his neck from yesterday's prayers. A sense of calm washed over me. Sliding off the bed, I padded barefoot to the altar, folding my hands together and closing my eyes.

'Shivji, thank you for this life,' I whispered inwardly, the words a familiar, comforting ritual. 'And please, let everything...go well today. Let everything be perfect for Di.'

A soft smile touched my lips as I finished my silent prayer, feeling centered and ready to face the beautiful chaos that was about to unfold.

I made my way downstairs, the cool marble floor a shock to my warm feet. The house was already buzzing with a subtle, anticipatory energy. I found my father sitting in his favorite armchair in the living room, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he meticulously scanned a long list in his diary—probably the final checklist for the wedding.

"Good morning, Papa," I said, my voice still husky with sleep.

He looked up, his stern face softening into a warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Good morning, beta. Did you sleep well?"

"Like a log," I admitted with a grin. "Where's Di? Shouldn't she be the center of all the pre-wedding madness?"

Papa chuckled.

"She went to the mandir first thing. Then, she headed straight to her NGO. Some last-minute work, she said, couldn't wait."

I nodded, a wave of admiration for my sister washing over me. Of course, Di went to her NGO. Even on her wedding day, her passion for her charity work couldn't be sidelined. A sudden, wistful thought crossed my mind. I don't know how she agreed to marry and move to another city. The idea of being away from this noisy, loving house, from Mummy's nagging and Papa's quiet strength, felt alien.

Then I smiled, the answer presenting itself instantly. Well, of course, it's because Vidhart Jiju is… well, Jiju. I remembered the way he looked at Di during their engagement ceremony—as if she had hung the moon and all the stars solely for him... like she’s the only woman his eyes were ever made to see. Anyone would melt under that kind of unwavering admiration.

My stomach rumbled, guiding my footsteps toward the kitchen, the true heart of our home. The air was thick with the comforting aroma of simmering chai and the sizzle of tadka. My mother, a whirlwind of efficiency in a vibrant silk sari, was pouring tea into a flask, undoubtedly for Papa.

She saw me and immediately shot me a classic Mummy-look—a raised eyebrow and a glare that held no real malice, only the deep-seated urge to get everyone moving.

"Chalo, Kumbhakaran ki aulad finally utt gyi aur hme apne darshan dediye." she declared, her tone dry.

I rolled my eyes, heading straight for the water filter to pour myself a glass.

"Mummy, bhagavaan ke lie, aaj subah mujhe beizzat karane ke chakkar mein, aapane apane pati ko do baar kumbhakaran kah diya. ek baar to theek hai, par do baar? ye to ek galat hai."

("Mummy, for heaven's sake, in your mission to insult me this morning, you've already called your husband Kumbhakaran twice. Once is fine, but twice? That's wrong.")

She paused, looking genuinely bewildered for a second before shaking her head, a stray grey strand escaping her perfectly styled bun.
"Pagal kahin ki... kuch bhi bolti rehti hai."

(You mad girl... you just say anything that comes to your mind.)

I made a face, sipping my water.

"I'm not saying anything wrong! You did call Papa Kumbhakaran twice now." I shrugged my shoulders, playing up my innocence.

A small, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips before she schooled her features back into their usual harried expression. "Achha, enough of your nonsense. Now go, get ready quickly! The guests will start arriving soon, and the people from the hotel will begin coming and going. We have no time to waste!"

I nodded, the excitement of the day finally truly hitting me. "On it, Mummy!"

Turning on my heel, I hurried back up to my room, the promise of my sister's perfect day fueling my every step. The real work was about to begin..

I close my door behind me, leaning against it for a moment.

The soft noise of wedding preparations filters through the walls.
Laughter. Voices. Clinking utensils. A home full of love.

I smile softly.

Then I breathe out slowly, whispering to myself.

"Okay Tara… let’s get ready for Di’s big day."

And with that, I move toward my wardrobe, ready to step into the chaos, joy, and beauty waiting outside.

Not knowing…
that this very day will also be the beginning of my own storm.
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The sun was climbing higher, casting a warm, golden glow over the bustling streets of Dehradun. Right now, I was standing outside my sister’s NGO, a familiar, modest building that housed so much of her heart and soul. A faint sigh escaped my lips. Impatience was a restless bird fluttering in my chest.

She’s taking forever, I thought, tapping my foot lightly against the pavement. Mummy had sent me on a rescue mission, her voice a mix of affection and exasperation when she’d called.

"Tara, go get your sister! It’s her wedding day, for heaven’s sake, not a regular workday!"

I cross my arms, exhaling slowly.

Twenty minutes.
I’ve waited twenty whole minutes.

But Finally, after what felt like an eternity of twenty minutes, the glass door pushed open, and Di emerged. The sight of her immediately soothed my impatience. Even in simple cotton clothes, with no makeup and her hair in a casual ponytail, her hand adorned with mehandi and her mehndi colour is too dark of course showing jiju love for her, well she looked radiant. Her face lit up with a beautiful, serene smile when she saw me.

My Di. A sudden, sharp pang of love and impending loss hit me square in the chest. I love her so much. The reality of the day crashed down on me anew. She was leaving. She would be in Jaipur, and I would be here, in Dehradun.

The familiar chaos of our home would feel emptier without her calming presence. But I pushed the melancholy away. It’s okay. At least Di got a great man. The thought was a balm. Vidhart Jiju was one of the good ones.

Otherwise, Di, with her fierce independence and dedication to her NGO, had never really wanted to get married.

"Tara, tu kyun aayi? Main aa hi rhi thi," she said, walking towards me.

("Tara, why did you come? I was about to leave.")

I gave her a look, half-amused, half-exasperated.

"Di, you’ve been here for almost four hours! If I hadn’t come, Vidhart Jiju would have had to come with his baraat to this very NGO to fetch his beautiful bride."

She laughed, a light, musical sound that made me smile. "Achha drama queen, chal," she conceded, swinging her leg over the back of my scooty and settling comfortably behind me.

(Okay drama queen, let's go.)

I kick-started the engine, and we merged into the gentle flow of midday traffic. The wind whipped loose strands of hair across my face.

"So," Di’s voice came from behind, raised slightly over the hum of the engine, "Kavish Bhai aagye kya?"

(" So, has Kavish Bhai arrived yet?")

"Not yet," I called back over my shoulder. "But I think he’ll be there by the time we reach home."

I felt her nod in response. Kavish Bhai. The thought of our cousin sent a little thrill of excitement through me. He was our mama's son, older than both of us, but he loved Di and me like his own sisters. He was our protector, our partner-in-crime, the one who never let anything happen to us. And, of course, I was his undisputed favorite. A wide, involuntary grin spread across my face. I am so excited to meet him.

I was lost in these happy thoughts, navigating the familiar route, when suddenly, a bike swerved in front of us from the opposite lane, forcing me to slam on the brakes.

The scooty jolted violently to a halt. Di let out a small yelp, her arms tightening around my waist as she barely managed to keep her balance. My heart hammered against my ribs, the initial shock quickly morphing into a hot surge of anger. I glared at the rider.

And my anger intensified tenfold when I saw his face.

Rajan. The chachunadar.

A guy from my college. And a first-class creep. I really, really didn’t like him. He had this slimy, persistent way about him that set my teeth on edge.

Di gracefully got off the scooty, her expression shifting from startled to concerned and stern. I dismounted as well, planting my feet firmly on the ground. Rajan, with a smug look that made my skin crawl, came uncomfortably close.

He removes his helmet with that unnecessary slow-motion attitude he thinks is attractive. Spoiler: it’s not.

"Tara," he said, his voice dripping with a fake, dramatic intensity. "I need to talk to you."

I crossed my arms over my chest, my voice flat and dripping with disinterest.

"I don’t want to talk to you. How many times do I have to say it for you to understand?"

Di was watching the exchange carefully, her brows furrowed. She knew him; she had even warned me once to stay away from him. But here he was again, like a bad penny.

Ignoring my dismissal and Di’s presence, his expression turned theatrically tragic. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. My breath hitched for a second, but then my eyes narrowed. He pressed the blunt tip against his own wrist, his gaze locked on me.

"Tara," he declared, like a bad actor in a worse play, "if you don’t accept my love, I will die right here."

Di looked horrified.

"Rajan, yeh kya pagalpan hai?!" she exclaimed, her voice sharp with authority.

("Rajan, what is this madness?")

"When Tara has clearly said she doesn’t like you, you have no right to pressure her! Or I’ll have you arrested for harassment!"

But Rajan wasn’t listening. He was one of those fools who believed you could win a girl over with threats and drama. You can’t reason with a stubborn donkey; it just won’t budge.

He kept his eyes fixed on me, pressing the knife harder against his skin.

"I want an answer, Tara."

"Tum kuch pagal wagal ho kya..." I snapped, my patience evaporating.

A grotesque, triumphant smile spread across his face.

"Yes, Tara. I am mad for you. If you don’t love me… I will die."

I looked from his desperate eyes to the knife. And that’s when I saw it—the cheap, fake sheen, the poorly molded seam along the side. It was a fake. A pathetic prop for his pathetic performance. A slow, dangerous smirk curled my lips.

In one swift, unexpected movement, my hand shot out. I grabbed his wrist, my fingers digging in, and twisted it, forcing the fake knife tighter against his own skin.

Di gasped. "Tara!" she cried out, alarmed.

I didn’t look at her, merely giving a slight, confident wink in her direction before turning my burning gaze back to Rajan, whose eyes were now wide with shock.

"Tho jaldi karo na, Maro jaldi..." I said, my voice deceptively soft, laced with mocking challenge. "...time pass kyu krr rhe ho."

("So hurry up, die quickly...why are you wasting time.")

Saying this, I made a sharp, dragging motion with his hand, mimicking a cutting action across his wrist.

Of course, nothing happened. The flimsy plastic didn’t even scratch him. I had known the moment I looked at it properly that it was a cheap toy. No one who actually intended to die would make such a show of it. People like him didn't die for love; they used the idea of it to manipulate.

I released his wrist with a shove of disgust and snatched the fake knife from his limp grasp. Holding it up between my thumb and forefinger as if it were something filthy, I threw it onto the road with a clatter.

"Did you really think you could pull this stupid drama and I would just say yes?" My voice was low and sharp, every word a lash.

"Tara Sharma tum jaise chuzoo ki dhamikyo se nhi darti, Smjhe."

("Tara Sharma isn’t scared of creeps like you, understand?")

"And you know what? Even if you were actually going to die, I still wouldn’t accept your so-called love. Understand?”

I took a step closer, my eyes blazing into his.

"You boys think you can scare a girl into saying yes? What a pathetic notion." I let the contempt drip from every syllable. "And if you ever, ever try to pull a stunt like this with me again, I won’t need a fake knife. I will genuinely hurt you. Got it? Abhi nikal yha se warna ek rhaptaa (slap) maarugi na rota phirega."

He stood there, utterly deflated, his face a mask of shame and humiliation. I didn’t wait for a response. I turned my back on him, a final, dismissive act. I got back on my scooty, Di quickly settling behind me, and I sped off, leaving him and his shattered ego in our dust.

After a moment of stunned silence, Di spoke, her voice a mixture of awe and worry. "Tara… you are completely insane. What if the knife had been real?"

I glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror, a defiant glint in my eyes.

"Di, I knew he wasn’t the dying type. No one dies for someone else these days. And guys like him… they never stick to one girl. Inko har jagha muh maarna hota hai..." I shook my head, a cynical edge to my voice.

"And You know, have you ever seen a guy, no matter how beautiful the girl in front of him is, who doesn’t look at any woman with a wrong, lustful eye? Very few men are like that."

Then, my expression softened as I thought of her fiancé. "But you are lucky. You got a gem. Vidhart Jiju is… a pure soul. Where do you even find such a gentleman these days?" I added, a playful, wistful note entering my voice.

"If Jiju had a brother, someone just like him… I would have married him in a heartbeat. Kaas jiju ka koi dost hi jiju jaisa. Par jiju jaisa koi ni hoskta."

Di’s worried expression melted away, and she burst out laughing, the sound ringing clear in the air. "Pagal kahin ki!"

(You mad girl!)

We both laughed, the tension of the encounter with Rajan dissolving into the wind as I steered the scooty homeward, the promise of my sister’s wedding and the sight of my favorite cousin washing away the last remnants of the morning’s unpleasantness.
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The wedding venue was a symphony of controlled chaos. The air thrummed with the melodies of classical singers, the fragrant scent of marigolds and jasmine, and the excited chatter of hundreds of guests. Up in the bridal suite, the atmosphere was even more charged. Di was a vision, being meticulously adorned like a queen, her happiness radiating in soft, nervous smiles.

I, on the other hand, was only halfway through my own transformation. The makeup artist had just slathered a thick, greenish-white paste all over my face, instructing me to let it dry for ten minutes before she could remove it and begin the actual makeup.

"It will make your skin glow," she'd promised.

That's when my phone buzzed. Kavish Bhai's name flashed on the screen, and my heart did a familiar, joyful leap. I snatched it up.

"I'm here, taru," his warm, familiar voice came through. "Come down once you're ready, okay? Than We'll meet."

"Ready? Who needs to be ready to see you?" I thought, the impulse overriding all logic. The patience to sit still for another second simply vanished. The promise of seeing my favorite person in the world after months was a siren's call I couldn't ignore.

In a moment of pure, unadulterated impulsivity, I forgot the mask hardening on my face. I forgot my state of dress. I just ran. I dashed out of the room, my flowing yellow lehenga swishing around my ankles, my bare feet slapping against the cool marble floors as I hurried towards the garden, a shortcut to the guest wing.

I just need to see him for a second. One hug, and I'll come right back!

My mind was single-track, focused only on Kavish Bhai. I didn't notice how the lehenga's voluminous fabric conspired against me. As I rushed across the manicured lawn, my foot caught in the hem of my own skirt. A gasp tore from my lips as I pitched forward, my arms flailing, the world tilting on its axis. The ground rushed up to meet me.

But the impact never came.

Instead, a strong, steady hand shot out and caught my wrist in a firm, almost bruising grip. The force of it yanked me backward, spinning me around in a dizzying half-circle. I stumbled, my balance lost, and my hands flew out instinctively, landing flat against something solid and warm. Through the thin fabric of a shirt, I felt a steady, rhythmic thudding—a heartbeat, strong and calm.

Okay, so someone just saved you, Tara. Breathe.

I looked up, my own heart hammering in my chest, to thank my savior.

A man.
A stranger.
But definitely not ordinary.

Tall.
Composed.
Dressed in black formals.
Sharp jaw.

And I found myself staring into the deepest, blackest eyes I had ever seen. They were like pools of midnight, intense and captivating. But they were also… hollow. As if they held secrets and sorrows too heavy to name. For a fleeting second, I was mesmerized.

The scene shattered with a sharp, pained gasp.

"Ahhhhh!"

It came from him. He released my wrist as if my skin had burned him, his handsome face contorting in… was that shock? Horror?

I stumbled back a step, confused and a little offended.

"What the hell? Why are you shouting?" I asked, my voice muffled slightly by the drying mask. "Haven't you ever seen a beautiful girl before?" The words were out before I could stop them, a defensive reflex.

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if in physical pain. Without a word, he fumbled for his phone in his pocket, switched on the camera, and thrust the screen towards me, his own eyes still firmly closed.

I looked at my reflection.

And I almost screamed myself. "Ahhhhhh"

Staring back at me was a ghost. A cracked, white-faced specter with two wide, startled gray eyes peering out from a sea of flaking greenish-white paste. My hair was a messy bun, and in the dim garden lights, I looked like something straight out of a third grade horror film.

Oh. My. God.

"Oh, this... this is just a face mask," I stammered, my cheeks burning with humiliation beneath the clay.

"Why are you shouting?"

His eyes remained shut. "If you wander around at night looking like that," he said, his voice a low, strained baritone, "anyone would get scared."

Well, he has a point, a mortified part of my brain conceded. Thank god he saw me first. If I'd crashed into the middle of the guests like this, my social life would be over. Mera tho popat ho jata.

"Hmm, sorry," I mumbled, feeling utterly foolish. "And... thank you. For saving me."

He just gave a curt nod, his eyes still screwed shut.

My brows knitted together in confusion. Why wouldn't he open them?

"Umm… why aren’t you opening your eyes now?"

"Actually," he began, his voice tight with a strange form of courtesy, "… I can’t look at you like this. First go and… fix yourself. Then I’ll open my eyes."

I look terrifying, I get it, but what's the big deal? It's just a mask! Itna darpok koi kaise ho skta hai?

But then, in the next moment, he shrugged off his tailored black blazer. Eyes still firmly closed, he held it out in my general direction.

"Ummm... please," he said, the word laced with an urgent, respectful plea. "Cover yourself."

Puzzled, I finally looked down at myself.

And my blood ran cold.

In my frantic rush, I had completely forgotten. I was only wearing my intricately embroidered blouse and the yellow lehenga. My dupatta was lying forgotten on the chair in the makeup room. My entire midriff, my waist, the curve of my stomach—all were exposed to the cool night air. The neckline of my blouse was deep, putting my cleavage on full display. And the back… it was completely backless, the bare skin of my spine open for anyone to see. With my hair in a high bun, there was nothing to hide, nothing to shield me.

I had been running around the venue almost half-naked.

A wave of scorching heat washed over me, a mixture of sheer timidity and profound shame. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and stupid.

Without another second's hesitation, I snatched the blazer from his hand. The fine, expensive fabric felt cool against my burning skin. I hurriedly wrapped it around my front, clutching the edges together like a lifeline.

"Th-thank you," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. "I... I actually didn't realize. I had some urgent work, that's why I was running like that..."

He simply nodded, his face averted, his eyes still closed. "It's okay. No problem. And don't worry, just relax."

Then, with a grace that was almost surreal, he turned and walked away, navigating the garden path blindly until he disappeared around a hedge, never once looking back.

And I was left standing there, clutching his blazer tightly around me, the scent of his sandalwood and amber cologne enveloping me like a safe, mysterious cloak.

A soft, disbelieving chuckle escaped my lips.

I just met a gentleman. A true, old-school, chivalrous gentleman. The kind you read about in books but never actually see in today's world.

This man…
This man wasn’t normal.

He didn’t stare.
He didn’t smirk.
He didn’t take advantage of the situation.

He didn’t treat me like an object.
Or a moment to enjoy.

He saw my condition—
And instead of taking advantage,
He protected my dignity.

He hadn't looked. Even when he had every opportunity, even when the scene was practically handed to him on a silver platter, he had shut his eyes. He hadn't gawked, he hadn't leered. He could have just walked away without saying a word, leaving me exposed, but he didn't. He gave me his coat, his own protection, without a second thought. And even after I was covered, he still refused to look, honoring my dignity until the very end.

Someone like him… doesn’t exist nowadays.
Someone who chooses respect over curiosity.
Control over temptation.

A slow, wondering smile spread across my face, cracking the dry mask.

Who is he?

The thought was immediate, followed by a silent, desperate prayer. 'Shivji, please don't let him be married.'

A wistful sigh escaped me. 'I deserve a gentleman like that too.'

I shook my head at my own runaway thoughts, a faint pout on my lips. Clutching the edges of the blazer securely, I turned and ran back towards my room, this time with more care, my heart fluttering with a strange, new, and entirely captivating confusion.

My heart beating a little differently now.

As if it had just met a possibility.

A beginning.

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