The mandap glowed in golden light. Strings of marigolds framed the space, diyas flickered steadily, and the fragrance of sandalwood smoke curled in the air. The priest’s chants echoed, deep and rhythmic, blending with the faint clinking of bangles and hushed whispers of devotion.

The women sat together, each with their thaal before them, filled with flowers, sindoor, and offerings. Misthi sat beside Sumitra, looking ethereal in her red saree, her cheeks still pink from the teasing. Ekaksh stood a little behind her, his sharp eyes scanning the room as though protecting her even in prayer.

The priest announced, “Now the wives and husbands will perform the aarti, praying for their strong bonds and long lives."

One by one, the ladies stood, circling the thaal before their husbands, smiling shyly as the room filled with the soft hum of devotion.

When it was Misthi’s turn, she rose gracefully. Holding the thaal in trembling hands, she turned towards Ekaksh. For a moment, the world dimmed around her. Her eyes locked onto his, and she forgot the crowd, the chants, even her own breath.