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At the Thakur household, tension filled the air. Reva and Vikrant sat in the family lounge, their voices sharp and laced with outrage.

Reva was the first to speak, her tone dripping with disdain. "Papa, how could you fix Siddharth's marriage without even asking us? Do you even realize what you're doing? You're tying him to a paralyzed, useless girl! What benefit will this bring to our son?"

Vikrant joined in, his face stern. "This is not a match, it's a burden. Siddharth has a bright future ahead of him. He can marry into wealth, influence, someone who will add to his life, not weigh it down. We cannot accept this marriage."

Vishwanath, who had been silent until now, rose from his chair slowly but firmly. His voice, though calm, carried the authority of a lifetime.

"Who are you," he asked, his eyes burning with quiet fire, "to accept or reject this marriage? This is not your decision to make. Siddharth himself has agreed. He gave me his word, and his word is stronger than any argument you can bring."

Reva gasped. "You tricked him with your emotions! You forced him!"

Vishwanath's jaw tightened. "I did not force him. I asked him — and he said yes. Because unlike you, he still knows what honor and humanity mean."

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words echoing.

Then Vishwanath's voice softened, though his authority did not waver. "The marriage is fixed. It will take place next week. And as his parents, you will be there — not because you approve, but because you are his mother and father. And she, that 'useless girl' as you call her, will soon be your daughter-in-law. Treat her with the respect she deserves."

Reva clenched her fists, her lips trembling with frustration. Vikrant looked away, defeated but still bitter. They had no choice — Vishwanath's word in the Thakur family was law.

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Morning at the Adhihotra House

The morning sun broke gently over the Adhihotra home, spilling golden light across the verandah. Birds chirped loudly, as though they too were invited to witness the day. Inside, the house was bustling with activity. Women hurried in and out of the rooms, carrying trays of bangles, sindoor, sweets, and sarees. The fragrance of sandalwood and incense filled every corner, mingling with the scent of marigold garlands that hung from the windows.

In her room, Gatha sat quietly, her face calm but her heart thudding faster than usual. She had hardly slept the night before. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw flashes of what today might bring — the mandap, the fire, Siddharth's face, the whispers of relatives.

But she was determined not to let fear rule her. Today was not just about marriage — it was about dignity, about stepping into a new chapter with grace.

Geeta was by her side, carefully combing Gatha's long black hair, which gleamed after being oiled and washed the previous evening. "Today, my princess will shine brighter than the sun," she said softly, her eyes moist with pride.

Gatha gave a shy smile, though her voice was small. "Dadi, don't say such things. My hands are already trembling."

"Let them tremble," Geeta replied, tying the braid and slipping tiny jasmine buds into it. "They'll tremble with happiness, not fear."

Meanwhile, Ekansh moved in and out of the room, giving instructions, ensuring that everything was ready. His back ached, but his energy did not falter. He stopped every few minutes just to glance at his granddaughter, his eyes heavy with emotions.

When the lehenga finally arrived, it seemed like the room itself grew brighter. It was a magnificent red, with golden embroidery that shimmered in the morning light. The weight of the lehenga was heavy, yet it carried the weight of tradition, pride, and blessings. Geeta and the women dressed Gatha carefully, layer by layer — the lehenga, the dupatta draped gracefully over her head, delicate jewelry around her neck and wrists, anklets that jingled faintly though she could not walk.

Finally, Geeta applied a small bindi to her forehead and painted her lips with a soft peach-nude shade. She stepped back and clasped her hands. Tears filled her eyes. "You look like your mother," she whispered.

At that, Gatha's own eyes shimmered. She didn't reply, but in her heart, she prayed her parents were watching.

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Morning at the Thakur House

Across the city, the Thakur household was also alive with noise. Relatives had been pouring in since dawn, filling the house with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of jewelry. Servants rushed about, carrying trays of snacks and glasses of juice to keep the guests busy.

In his room, Siddharth stood in front of the mirror. For perhaps the hundredth time, he adjusted his sherwani. It was ivory white with subtle golden embroidery — elegant yet understated, much like him. He ran his hand through his neatly styled hair, straightened his turban, then frowned at his reflection.

He was not nervous about the rituals. He was nervous about the responsibility. He knew today would bring whispers, taunts, maybe even open insults. But he also knew he had to stand firm.

Vishwanath entered quietly, his walking stick tapping softly against the floor. He looked at his grandson, his chest swelling with pride. "You look like a king," he said warmly.

Siddharth smiled faintly. "Kings aren't supposed to look nervous."

Vishwanath chuckled, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Only cowards don't feel nervous. The brave do — but they walk ahead anyway."

Meanwhile, Reva and Vikrant moved among the guests, greeting them, but their smiles were strained. Reva's whispers did not stop. "He's ruining his life... such a bright future, gone..." she told her sisters-in-law, who nodded with pity. But she masked her bitterness when Vishwanath's eyes turned toward her.

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The Wedding Venue

The venue was a sprawling garden, decorated like a festival of dreams. The mandap stood in the center, draped in red and gold, its four pillars wrapped with jasmine and roses. Above it, strings of fairy lights twinkled like stars waiting for dusk. The havan kund sat ready in the middle, surrounded by copper plates of rice, coconuts, and ghee.

Rows of chairs were lined up neatly, covered in white silk with golden bows. Women in shimmering sarees, men in embroidered kurtas, and children running about in lehengas and tiny sherwanis filled the place with color. Musicians sat in a corner, tuning their tablas and shehnais. The air smelled of incense, flowers, and the faint sweetness of ghee halwa being prepared in the kitchen.

When the moment came, Ekansh himself lifted his granddaughter. His old bones ached, but his love made him strong. Carrying her gently in his arms, he walked through the aisle toward the mandap.

The crowd gasped. Some whispered in awe, others in ridicule. But Ekansh did not waver. Step by step, he carried her forward, placing her beside Siddharth on the mandap seat.

Gatha's eyes lowered shyly. Her lehenga shimmered under the lights, her bangles clinked softly, her dupatta framed her face like a painting. She looked every bit a bride, but in her heart, she was fighting the sting of cruel words.

The crowd, however, was restless.

"Poor boy... why is he tolerating such a burden?" one man muttered.
"This marriage is only for her property," another sneered.
"She can't even walk... what kind of wedding is this?"

Reva did nothing to stop them. Instead, she added fuel. "My son has done her a favor. He sacrificed his future for this. But what can we do? Dadu's decision is final."

Her words cut deep into Gatha's heart. She looked at her grandparents. Their faces were tense, humiliated, but silent.

The priest began the chants, his deep voice echoing across the mandap. The shehnai players joined in, filling the air with music. Offerings were placed into the fire, mantras recited, blessings showered. Gatha sat quietly, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. Siddharth glanced at her now and then, his jaw set, his eyes burning with a quiet promise.

Finally came the moment for the seven pheras.

The crowd leaned in, whispering louder now. "Forget about seven pheras," someone scoffed. "She can't even walk with him!"

The words fell like poison. Gatha's tears overflowed. She lowered her face, ashamed, humiliated, broken.

But Siddharth rose. His face hardened, his chest heaving. Without a word, he bent down, slid his arms under his bride, and lifted her.

Gasps filled the air. Even the music faltered.

Her lehenga was heavy, her jewelry glistened, but Siddharth held her firmly. Step by step, he circled the fire. The drums picked up, matching his footsteps.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Each round silenced the whispers. Each step burned away the taunts. By the final phera, the only sound left was the crackling of fire and the rhythmic beat of Siddharth's heart against Gatha's ear.

She clung to him, her tears soaking his sherwani. But they were no longer tears of humiliation. They were tears of awe, of relief, of hope.

As he placed her gently back on the seat, the priest declared the marriage complete. The crowd was silent, humbled, ashamed.

Vishwanath's eyes filled with tears of pride. Ekansh and Geeta held each other's hands tightly, their hearts bursting with gratitude.

Reva, for the first time, was speechless. Her bitterness had no words against the sight of her son's quiet defiance.

And Gatha... she looked at Siddharth not as a stranger, not even as a husband yet, but as the first person who had carried her not because she was weak, but because she was his strength.

The flames of the wedding fire flickered higher, as though the universe itself bore witness.

This was not the story of a burden.
This was the story of a bond.