Dis-Arranged Marriage - Part 2
The wedding rituals began in full swing soon after Ratan reached back. The whole courtyard was glowing with light and laughter. The band outside was playing a loud, cheerful tune, and the relatives from both sides were happily gossiping, unaware that the groom had almost eloped with the bride a few minutes ago.
Ratan tried to keep a straight face as he walked back into the mandap. His mother caught sight of him and frowned. “Where were you, beta? Everyone was looking for you. You don’t even care about your own marriage?”
“Just outside, Ma… headache,” Ratan replied softly, pressing his temple to make it more believable. His mother clicked her tongue and moved on, too busy to scold him further.
At that same time, on the other side of the house, Lajwanti sat quietly in her room while her sisters fussed over her dupatta and jewelry again. Only, this time she wasn’t fidgety or restless. There was a calmness in her face — a strange, unexpected calm — as if the storm had passed. Her elder sister, Kusum, noticed it and smiled teasingly, “Arrey wah, our rebel princess looks so quiet now! Kya hua, dulhanji? Finally realised shaadi se bhaagna itna easy nahi hota?”
Lajwanti smiled faintly. “Bas di… kuch soch rahi thi.”
“What?”
“Wahi… ki maybe, he’s not that bad.”
Her sister’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Who? Ratan?”
Lajwanti nodded slowly. She didn’t say anything more, but her heart was still replaying every moment of that little episode — the way he had handled everything so calmly, the way he had taken charge, his gentle but firm voice when he said ‘let me handle this’. He had not panicked, nor argued much. For the first time she saw in him a quiet strength — the kind that didn’t show off but made itself known when needed.
Her sisters thought she was tired and didn’t ask further. Soon the womenfolk came in a flurry to call the bride. The baraat had been waiting.
---
The mandap was decorated beautifully, marigolds hanging in thick strands, and the air was full of the smell of ghee, sandalwood, and incense. Ratan sat under the canopy, the priest chanting mantras in a loud rhythmic tone. He stole a glance at the steps where Lajwanti was entering.
For a moment, everything went silent for him. The chatter, the bells, the priest’s voice — all faded. Lajwanti walked slowly, her face partly covered with the dupatta, her eyes lowered. But when she came closer and took her seat beside him, she looked up briefly. Their eyes met for the first time properly.
Just for a second, but long enough.
Ratan’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles. Lajwanti looked away quickly, but her heart skipped a beat. Why did he have to smile like that now? she thought irritably. He should have done that earlier — maybe I wouldn’t have gone half mad.
The rituals went on. The garlands were exchanged. The fire burned steadily between them, crackling softly. When it came to the saat phere, Lajwanti walked ahead in the first round as per custom. As they moved together around the sacred fire, Ratan whispered softly behind her, his voice barely audible —
“So you didn’t run away.”
Lajwanti turned her head slightly and murmured back, “You brought me back, remember?”
He smiled again, and she couldn’t help but hide hers.
By the time the ceremony ended, it was past midnight. The air had turned cool, the excitement was slowly dying down, and people had begun collecting their things to leave. Ratan’s father was glowing with pride. “Sab kuch badiya se ho gaya,” he told everyone repeatedly. “Our bahu is very sanskari — never even looked up during the whole rituals!”
Lajwanti, overhearing that, nearly laughed aloud. If only they knew, she thought.
---
Later that night, when the guests had left and the rituals were over, Lajwanti was brought to Ratan’s house — her new home. The entrance was decorated with flowers and rangoli. Her mother-in-law performed the traditional aarti and welcomed her in.
As she stepped inside, Lajwanti felt a strange mix of nervousness and warmth. It was a big house, exactly as her parents had said — spacious, neatly maintained, with that faint smell of old wood and incense.
After a while, when the crowd had dispersed, Lajwanti was shown to the bedroom — her new room. Her heart began to pound again. The women had teased her endlessly during the bidaai, and now she was suddenly aware that she was alone in this room, waiting.
A few minutes later, Ratan entered, still in his sherwani. He closed the door softly behind him.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Ratan, trying to ease the awkwardness, smiled and said, “So… we finally got married, after all that drama.”
Lajwanti looked down, her bangles tinkling softly as she fidgeted. “Hmm.”
He pulled a chair and sat across from her, keeping a polite distance. “I’m sorry if I scared you earlier… in your room. I didn’t mean to enter like that.”
Lajwanti looked up. “No… it’s okay.”
There was silence again, but this time it wasn’t uncomfortable.
“You know,” Ratan continued, “you were right. I should’ve met you before the marriage. I was just… nervous, I guess. Not used to all this.”
Lajwanti smiled faintly. “So was I.”
He chuckled softly. “You didn’t look nervous. You almost kidnapped me.”
That made her laugh — a clear, sudden laugh that filled the quiet room. “And you almost ran away with me!”
They both laughed now, breaking the last bit of ice between them.
Then, as the laughter faded, Ratan looked at her, more seriously this time. “I don’t know what kind of husband I’ll make, Lajwanti. But I promise, you’ll never have to feel trapped. I’ll never stop you from being who you are.”
Something in his tone touched her. There was honesty in those words — not the kind that sought to impress, but the kind that reassured.
She looked at him quietly for a while and then said softly, “Maybe this isn’t such a disarranged marriage after all.”
Ratan smiled. “Maybe not.”
Outside, the temple bell rang faintly in the distance. The house was finally silent. Inside the softly lit room, two strangers who had almost run away from each other sat smiling — not realizing that their real journey together had just begun.
The morning after the wedding arrived quietly. The town outside was slowly waking up, but inside the big house, the festive air still lingered — the faint smell of incense, marigolds drooping on the doorway, half-empty sweet boxes stacked in corners, and the sound of utensils clinking softly from the kitchen.
Lajwanti woke up to the sound of women talking somewhere in the courtyard. For a few seconds she didn’t remember where she was. Then she saw the strange room, the heavy silk quilt over her, the bangles still clinking faintly on her wrists — and she remembered.
She sat up quickly, brushing her hair back. The early morning sun had just begun peeking through the cream-coloured curtains. There was a small dressing table on the side, with her jewelry box and the red wedding chunri neatly folded on top. She looked around nervously. Ratan wasn’t there.
A faint panic fluttered in her chest — but it wasn’t fear, exactly. More like a quiet self-consciousness. Where is he? Did he already go to the shop? she wondered. Or maybe he’s afraid of facing me in the daylight.
Her lips curved in a small, unbidden smile.
Just then, a soft knock on the door startled her. Before she could respond, a familiar, warm voice spoke from outside — “Can I come in?”
It was Ratan.
“Uh… yes,” she said quickly, pulling her dupatta a bit more over her shoulder.
Ratan entered, holding a small tray in his hand. Two steaming cups of tea, and a small bowl of sugar. He looked freshly bathed, in a simple white kurta-pajama. His sherwani had been replaced by a clean, homely neatness.
“Good morning,” he said, smiling gently. “I thought you might like some tea. Ma will call you soon for the post-wedding rituals, but I thought you might want a few minutes of peace before the storm begins.”
Lajwanti couldn’t help but smile. “You made this?”
Ratan nodded proudly. “Of course. Don’t underestimate me. I can make tea, coffee, and even Maggi noodles — my entire skill set.”
That made her laugh softly. “Not bad for a businessman.”
He placed the tray on the side table and poured a cup for her. “I thought you’d prefer less sugar, but… I wasn’t sure.”
“You thought right,” she said, taking the cup carefully. Their fingers brushed lightly against each other — a small, quiet moment that both noticed but neither spoke of.
There was a comfortable silence as they sipped their tea.
Then Ratan said quietly, “I told my father last night that you’re very strong-minded. He smiled and said, ‘That’s good. My son needs someone to make him talk more.’”
Lajwanti laughed softly again. “Your father is quite right.”
“He usually is,” Ratan said with mock seriousness. Then, looking at her gently, he added, “By the way, thank you… for coming back yesterday. I didn’t know what to expect.”
Lajwanti looked at her cup, her tone softening. “Neither did I. But when you said, ‘let me handle this,’ I thought maybe… maybe I could trust you.”
Ratan looked at her for a moment — quietly, thoughtfully — then said, “That means a lot.”
There was another knock on the door. This time it was his mother’s voice, brisk and cheerful. “Ratan beta, call Lajwanti downstairs. The panditji is here for the ‘kitchen rasam.’”
Ratan replied, “Yes, Ma! She’ll come in five minutes.”
He turned to Lajwanti and grinned. “So, ready to make your first sweet in our house?”
She widened her eyes in mock horror. “What? Already? I just got here last night!”
“That’s how it works here,” Ratan said with an amused shrug. “But don’t worry. Ma’s too soft-hearted to scold you. And I’ll be around — your official assistant chef.”
Lajwanti smiled. “I’ll need one.”
---
Downstairs, the kitchen was buzzing with activity. Ratan’s mother and aunt were giving instructions while relatives sat chatting in the verandah. When Lajwanti entered, everyone looked up, smiling warmly. Someone giggled and said, “Our new bahu looks like a film heroine!”
Her cheeks flushed pink, but she managed a shy smile.
Ratan’s mother led her to the stove. “Beta, as per tradition, you’ll make something sweet today — halwa or kheer, anything you like.”
Lajwanti looked a little lost. “I can make kheer,” she said uncertainly.
Ratan, standing nearby, said softly, “You can. I’ll help you stir.”
And he did. While the aunt gave directions, Ratan quietly fetched milk, sugar, and dry fruits. The women exchanged amused glances. One whispered, “Arrey, look at our Ratan helping in the kitchen! Shaadi ne toh badal diya ladke ko!”
Ratan heard that and smiled shyly but said nothing. Lajwanti, meanwhile, was stirring the kheer, and for the first time in days, she felt light — not pressured, not angry, not trapped. Just… light.
When the kheer was ready, everyone tasted it, and Ratan’s mother declared happily, “Perfect! Just like our shop’s kheer.”
Ratan added quietly, “Better, I think.”
Lajwanti looked at him with a tiny smile that said thank you without words.
---
Later that afternoon, when most relatives had left, Lajwanti found herself standing on the balcony outside their room. The winter sun was mild, and children were flying kites on nearby rooftops. Ratan joined her silently, leaning on the railing beside her.
“It feels strange,” she said, watching the sky. “Yesterday I wanted to run away. Today, I don’t feel like going anywhere.”
Ratan looked at her sideways. “That’s progress.”
She laughed. “Maybe it is.”
Then, after a pause, she said softly, “Do you think we’ll ever… you know… get to know each other properly?”
Ratan smiled. “We already started last night, didn’t we?”
Lajwanti turned to him — and this time, she didn’t look away.
---
Days turned into weeks, and the grand memory of the wedding slowly melted into the everyday rhythm of life. The marigold garlands had long dried and been taken down, the house had quietened again, and Ratan had gone back to his shop.
For Lajwanti, the first few mornings in her new home were a strange blend of unease and discovery. Every corner of the big house seemed to whisper something new — the quiet courtyard with its old mango tree, the smell of incense from the small prayer room, the creak of the wooden swing where Ratan’s aunt spent her afternoons gossiping with neighbours.
She was learning everyone’s habits, their little temperaments. Her mother-in-law was firm but kind, the aunt endlessly talkative yet harmless, and Ratan — well, Ratan remained a quiet mystery.
---
Every morning, he left early for the sweet shop. Lajwanti would see him from the balcony, locking his scooter, wearing his neatly pressed shirt and tucking a small handkerchief in his pocket. He never forgot to look up and wave before leaving — a small gesture, but one she soon found herself waiting for.
In the evenings, when he returned, they would sit in the verandah for tea. At first, their conversations were cautious — about the shop, the neighbours, the rising price of milk, even politics. But slowly, as the days slipped by, the words became easier, lighter, warmer.
One evening, as they sat sipping tea, Ratan said, “You know, I told Father about that new outlet I wanted to open near the Court area.”
“And?” Lajwanti asked, leaning forward a little.
“He said he’ll think about it. That means he’ll take six months,” Ratan said dryly.
Lajwanti laughed. “You’re too patient. If I were you, I’d just go ahead and start it myself.”
Ratan looked at her, half amused, half surprised. “You’d make a dangerous business partner.”
She raised her chin playfully. “At least things would move faster.”
That evening, as she walked back into the house, she realized she had enjoyed talking to him. Not because of what he said, but because she could finally see the man behind the soft-spoken exterior — practical, gentle, but with quiet ambition in his eyes.
---
A few days later, gossip began to make its slow rounds in the neighbourhood. Small-town life had its own rhythm — one where even a new bride’s laughter from a balcony could become dinner-time conversation.
Ratan’s aunt came running one afternoon, whispering dramatically to his mother, “Did you hear what Meenakshi told me? Our Lajwanti was seen talking to the milkman’s son at the gate yesterday!”
His mother frowned. “Arrey, she must have just asked about the milk. Don’t make stories.”
But the aunt wouldn’t stop. “These modern girls, bhabhi… always laughing, talking freely. You see, city education makes them too open.”
Lajwanti, who was standing at the doorway, heard every word. Her face flushed with anger, but she said nothing.
That evening, when Ratan returned home, she was unusually quiet. He noticed it instantly. “What happened?” he asked gently.
“Nothing,” she said, trying to sound normal.
He waited, then said softly, “Something happened. Tell me.”
She hesitated for a long time before blurting out, “Your aunt was saying things about me — that I talk too much, that I’m not… traditional enough. Just because I asked the milkman about the bill.”
Ratan smiled faintly, but there was firmness in his voice. “Ignore her. She’s like that with everyone. Don’t take it seriously.”
“But people talk, Ratan. And you’ll have to hear it.”
He looked at her, eyes steady. “Let them talk. I know who you are. That’s enough for me.”
For a moment, Lajwanti didn’t know what to say. She had expected him to laugh it off or tell her not to worry — not this quiet, confident reassurance. It felt… grounding.
She looked away, blinking fast. “You’re not what I thought you were,” she said softly.
“Neither are you,” he said with a small smile. “And that’s a good thing.”
---
As winter deepened, so did their comfort with each other. Lajwanti had begun going to the shop sometimes, helping at the counter or experimenting with new packaging ideas. The first day she suggested changing the colour of the sweet boxes, the workers had laughed. “Madamji thinks this is a fashion boutique,” one of them had joked.
But Ratan had backed her instantly. “Try it,” he said. “If the customers like it, we’ll change the whole batch.”
They did like it. The new boxes were brighter, simpler, easier to stack. Business even picked up slightly. And when Ratan’s father praised her idea one evening, Lajwanti caught Ratan’s quick sideways smile — proud but humble, as if saying see, I told you so.
---
One evening, after closing the shop, they were returning home on his scooter. The air was cool, the streets nearly empty. Lajwanti held on lightly from behind, her dupatta fluttering.
“You know,” she said over the wind, “I used to think marriage means losing freedom. But it doesn’t feel like that.”
Ratan didn’t turn, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “Then what does it feel like?”
She thought for a moment. “Like finding a space where you can still be yourself — but not alone.”
Ratan slowed the scooter near a quiet stretch of road, where the streetlamps cast long golden shadows. “That’s exactly what I wanted it to be,” he said softly.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — of things unsaid, of new trust, of the slow, cautious warmth that comes not from sudden romance, but from understanding.
When they reached home, Ratan parked the scooter and looked up at her before she got down. “Lajwanti?”
“Yes?”
He hesitated, then said with quiet humour, “If this was your test drive, I hope the vehicle is performing okay.”
Lajwanti burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the cold night air. “You pass, Mr Ratan.”
(To be continued….)
