Shivanya was still staring at herself in the mirror when the bedroom door opened and three people walked in. She quickly turned her head toward the doorway.
It was her maasi-maa — the same woman who had scolded her a while ago and ordered her to get ready.
To the world, she was Shivanya’s mother’s sister. But after Shivanya’s real mother passed away when she was only a month old, this woman had married her father.
She looked decent, fair-skinned, though shorter in height. One of her eyes had a minor defect, because of which she never received any suitable marriage proposals. But when the infant Shivanya was left motherless, the family decided she needed a woman to raise her, and so her father married his sister-in-law.
A year later, they had a daughter—almost Shivanya’s age, just months younger.
The girl standing next to her maasi-maa looked around the same age as Shivanya. She was stunning in a pastel pink lehenga, deep red lipstick, dark kohl outlining her bright eyes, bangles stacked on one wrist, and her dupatta draped stylishly over one shoulder.
She was gorgeous.
She was also Shivanya’s stepsister. Step-sister or aunt’s daughter — what difference did it make? She wasn’t truly family.
Beside her stood another girl, wearing a green lehenga. This was their aunt’s daughter — also around their age, but technically a year younger.
Both girls had fairer skin than Shivanya, something the family never forgot to mention.
“What’s that on your cheek?” the stepsister asked, stepping closer.
Instinctively, Shivanya touched her cheek. The sting returned with the memory — her maasi-maa’s slap. The mark was still visible.
“You didn’t cover this?” her maasi-maa asked sharply.
“No…” Shivanya replied in a low, tired voice.
“Listen, Shivanya,” the woman began again, “if you go downstairs with this sad face and that mark, everyone will think we forced you into this marriage. You’re only thinking about yourself. You want to study, right? Your in-laws will make sure you do. They’re very rich. They’ll pay for whatever course you want. Don’t be selfish. Think about how lucky you are! Such a wealthy, influential family — and they didn’t ask for a single rupee. They even bought your entire wedding outfit and jewelry. They booked the hall themselves.
Do you really think your father earns enough to pay for a wedding like this? Or your studies?
You are not the only child — you have a sister too. Her education, her marriage… do you forget all that? And your father’s medicines… so much expense.
Now put a smile on your face. Your in-laws are good people. They will surely let you study.”
Her words hit Shivanya hard.
Because they weren’t entirely wrong.
Her father worked as a peon in a company. They also had a small grocery shop where her grandmother or maasi would sit sometimes. She had studied in a government school. Her younger sister was still studying. And higher courses required a lot of money — something her father simply didn’t have.
A part of her heart believed her maasi-maa.
But another part trembled with fear.
What if her in-laws didn’t let her study?
What if her dream of becoming a fashion designer ended tonight?
“Manisha, fix her cheek,” her maasi-maa ordered her daughter.
Manisha obeyed instantly. She applied cream, powder, foundation — anything she could find — trying to hide the mark. It softened a little… but didn’t disappear.
“Maa, it’s still visible! What do we do? Also, who slapped you?” Manisha asked, turning to Shivanya.
“Mind your business,” her mother snapped. “The real problem is the mark. If it's visible, people will start asking questions. What do we do now?”
The three of them stood thinking, frowning, trying to come up with a solution.
Just then, another woman walked into the room, interrupting their worried whispers.
“What are you girls doing? Why is it taking so long to bring her downstairs?” she asked irritably.
“Ma, there’s a problem!” said the girl in the green lehenga.
“What problem?”
“Shivanya’s cheek… the mark,” she said, leaving the rest unsaid.
The woman looked at Shivanya’s face.
“This mark?”
“We can ask about that later, Seema,” Shivanya’s maasi-maa cut in. “First, tell us what to do.”
“What’s the problem? Cover her with the dupatta. Let her keep a ghunghat,” Seema said casually.
“And if someone asks to see her face?” the maasi-maa asked worriedly.
“Oh, Suman bhabhi! Stop overthinking. If anyone insists, we’ll say it’s our family tradition — the bride’s face isn’t shown before the farewell rituals.”
Suman considered it… and found it a perfect solution.
“Give me the dupatta. I’ll drape it properly,” Seema said, stepping forward.
She took the heavy red bridal veil and placed it carefully over Shivanya’s head. As she lowered it into a ghunghat, she leaned close and whispered something softly into Shivanya’s ear…
…and whatever those words were, Shivanya’s eyes brimmed with tears once again....
