The last mantra fades into the evening air, and the fire in the havan kund settles into a quiet orange. The priest ties the final knot of the thread and offers blessings, his voice softening as the shehnai moves from celebration to a slower, gentler tune. The crowd thins around the mandap, and the bustle eases into careful steps and hushed conversations. Someone passes a tray of sweets; someone else collects flower petals from the carpet. The day has been long, but the moments just after the wedding always feel the longest.

Geeta sits close to her granddaughter, keeping a steady hand on Gatha's wrist as though touching her is a way to memorize everything—skin, warmth, pulse. Ekansh stands behind them, straight in the shoulders, though his eyes are wet and his breath is deeper than usual. He has carried her many times in his life—across rooms, across thresholds, across crowded halls—and each time felt both the weight and the privilege. Today is the first time he wishes the path would stretch on forever, so he would never have to put her down.