The golden hour bathed the haveli in a warm glow. A gentle breeze stirred the marigolds strung across the courtyard, their scent mingling with the faint aroma of sandalwood. The air was thick with unspoken anticipation.

Anjali stood at the jharokha, her slender fingers nervously twisting the end of her dupatta. Her eyes, wide with innocence, scanned the courtyard below where guests laughed and talked over steaming cups of chai. But her gaze wasn’t searching for anyone in particular—it was avoiding one in particular.

Raghuvender Chaudhary.

The name floated through the haveli like a whisper. He was 26. Sarpanch of another village. Reserved. Sharp-eyed. Cold, they said. But dignified. His father and mother had arrived with him—not with pomp, but quiet purpose. They carried silver boxes, sweets, and the weight of tradition.

Bade Sahab, her father, welcomed them with respect and warmth, asking no questions about Raghuvender’s work. He already knew—the man was born to lead. His decision was instant, based on instinct and honor.

Inside, her mother Savitri adjusted Anjali’s dupatta and whispered,

"Nazar utar lo bhagwaan se… meri Anjali ka rishta fix ho gaya."

(“Let me ward off the evil eye… my Anjali’s match is finalized.”)

Outside, Vikrant—her eldest brother—spoke with Raghuvender in the courtyard. A protective presence. Watchful. Testing, perhaps. But calm.

Anjali hadn’t dared to look at Raghuvender.

But he had.

Just once.

A glimpse—of her at the curtain, head bowed slightly, eyes lowered, gold bangles glinting in the fading sun.

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Raghuvender’s POV

He didn’t believe in destiny.

He didn’t believe in softness. Or love.

But when he saw her—standing quietly, untouched by the world, grace woven into her presence—something shifted. Something broke.

And in that moment, a silent wish formed. One he didn’t understand, one he would never say aloud.

But perhaps… she would feel it anyway.

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