Author's pov

The Hooda Haveli was quietly buzzing with anticipation. Brass glasses shone on the white cloth-covered table, the scent of sandalwood hung in the air, and the baithak had been arranged with fresh flowers and clean cushions.

Today was not just another visit.

Thakur Hariram Chaudhary, his wife Thakurain Shanta Devi, and their son Raghuvender Singh Chaudhary had come with a proposal—for Anjali Hooda.

At the entrance, Bade Sahab welcomed them with folded hands and a calm smile. He didn’t need to ask what Raghuvender did—he already knew. The Chaudharys were well-known, and Raghuvender was the current sarpanch of their village.

“Aaiye, andar aaiye… apna hi ghar samjhiye.”

(Please come in… consider this your own home.)

Savitri, Anjali’s mother, stood just inside the hallway, draped in a soft beige saree with a rose-pink border. Her smile was warm, eyes kind, and aura composed.

“Bahut samay baad aap log aaye… poore ghar mein raunak ho gayi.”

(It’s been a long time since you visited… the whole house has lit up with joy.)

Shanta Devi hugged Savitri gently. “Aaj ek khaas wajah se aaye hain, behenji.”

(We’ve come for a special reason today, sister.)

Samaira stepped forward with a plate of sweets and water, her grace unmistakable.

Meanwhile, Anjali waited inside her room, heart pounding.

Savitri entered gently and cupped her daughter’s face.

“Darne ki zarurat nahi, Anju. Aaj sirf log milne aaye hain… faisla tumhare mann se hoga.”

(No need to be scared, Anju. They’re just here to meet you… the decision will be from your heart.)

Anjali nodded softly. “Ji, maa.”

Back in the sitting area, Shanta Devi admired the photos on the walls and family heritage.

“Savitri ji, beti ko bulayein toh sahi… dekhein toh zara us heere ko.”

(Savitri ji, do call your daughter… let us see this precious gem.)

At that, Samaira went to get her. A few minutes later, Anjali Hooda walked in — draped in a pastel green saree with a light gold border, her long braid brushed with jasmine strands, eyes lowered, cheeks pink.

She offered water and sweets with trembling hands, her posture respectful, her silence full of grace.

Raghuvender looked up.

And didn’t look away.

As she moved from one guest to another, his gaze remained fixed on her—quietly watchful, something unreadable in his eyes.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t arrogance.

It was a quiet captivation. A rare stillness in a man known for being reserved and cold.

He watched the way her bangles clinked softly, how she avoided his eyes, how her lashes fluttered nervously.

Savitri noticed his gaze and her heart stirred with silent relief.

Hariram Chaudhary smiled, watching his son’s unusually focused expression.

“Beti bahut sanskari hai, Savitri ji. Hamare ghar ki bahu banegi toh ghar hi roshan hoga.”

(Your daughter is full of values, Savitri ji. She will brighten our home as our daughter-in-law.)

Shanta Devi opened a velvet box and held it out to Anjali.

“Yeh hamari taraf se shagun hai, pehno beta.”

(This is a blessing from our side, dear, wear it.)

Inside was a beautiful kundan necklace, traditional and elegant. Anjali blushed, accepting it with a soft “Dhanyavaad.” (Thank you)

Vikrant, who had remained silent, finally called out,

“Raghuvender , thoda bahar chalenge?”

(Raghuvender , shall we step outside for a moment?)

The two men walked out beneath the neem tree. A soft breeze rustled the leaves.

Vikrant didn’t speak at first. He just observed — the set of Raghuvender’s jaw, the calm in his posture, the stillness in his eyes.

This man was supposed to take away his sister. His Anjali. The one who clung to his arm during storms, who waited for his return every night.

He finally spoke, voice steady but sharp.

“Anjali bahut seedhi hai… naazuk bhi. Zindagi mein kabhi haath uthaya toh…”

(Anjali is very simple… delicate too. If you ever raise your hand on her…)

Raghuvender cut in gently, yet firmly. “Toh haath tod dijiye, Hooda sahab.”

(Then break my hand, Hooda sahab.)

Their eyes met — one testing, the other fearless. Then, a small nod from Vikrant.

“Main sirf us bhai ki nazar se dekh raha hoon, jo chhoti behan ko kisi aur ke hawale kar raha hai pehli baar.”

(I’m only looking at you through the eyes of a brother, who is handing over his younger sister for the first time.)

Raghuvender nodded. “Aur main us aadmi ki jagah khada hoon jo us ladki ko patni banaane aaya hai… lekin izzat dene ke liye, dard nahi.”

(And I stand as the man who’s come to make her his wife… but to give her respect, not pain.)

A pause. A silent pact between two men who didn’t believe in lengthy words, only in unspoken promises.

Back inside, the guests prepared to leave. Shanta Devi placed a red dupatta over Anjali’s head before leaving.

“Bahut jald shubh muhurat nikalwa kar rishta pakka karte hain.”

(We’ll get an auspicious date soon and make this alliance official.)

As the Chaudharys left, Samaira rushed to Anjali’s room and found her standing before the mirror, fingers brushing over the necklace.

She grinned mischievously.

“Toh Raghuvender ji sirf tumhe hi dekh rahe the… poore samay!”

(So Mr. Raghuvender only had eyes for you… the whole time!)

Anjali blushed furiously. “Bhabhi!”

Samaira laughed, pulling her into a side hug.

Samaira kissed her temple softly.

“Nayi zindagi shuru ho rahi hai, Anjali. Lekin yaad rakhna… yeh ghar kabhi paraya nahi hoga.”

(A new life is beginning, Anjali. But remember… this home will never be a stranger to you.)

Anjali blinked back the tears already welling in her eyes.