Chapter 2: Wedding Night and Unspoken Fears

On my wedding night with Arjun,

The pandit’s words still rang in my ears—saat pheras, promises of togetherness, the scent of jasmine and marigold all over me. My lehenga weighed a ton, and my heart was lighter than air. Yet when the room was finally empty, silence pressed in on us like a heavy monsoon sky.

I downed more than half a bottle of Old Monk in one go, trying to summon some courage.

Old Monk was Ma’s secret for winter coughs, not for courage, but tonight, I needed it more than chai. The sharp, smoky liquid burned my throat, settling a nervous warmth in my belly. My bangles clinked as I lifted the glass, my hands shaking.

The alcohol soon rushed to my head, making my cheeks flush an unnatural red.

Arjun noticed, of course. He was always observant. “Careful,” he murmured, and for a moment, his voice held something almost like concern. My cheeks burned brighter, partly from the rum, partly from the anticipation.

Arjun’s long, slender fingers supported the back of my neck, his gentle kisses trailing down my skin.

He smelled faintly of sandalwood soap and aftershave. His touch was tender, but his eyes remained distant. I closed my eyes, letting myself believe, just for tonight, that we were truly husband and wife.

"You’ve been drinking. Are you sure, Priya? Tell me if you want me to stop, haan."

What would Ma say if she saw me now—nervous, tipsy, waiting for a man who still felt like a stranger? My heart skipped a beat. I nodded, not trusting my voice.

I managed a soft, low "Mm..." from my throat.

Inside, a storm of emotions raged. I wanted to reach out, to pull him close, to make him see me—not just as the girl his family chose, but as Priya, the woman who loved him.

But inside, I couldn't help thinking:

Even at a time like this, Arjun is still so cold and restrained.

It was as if he was following a script—gentle, precise, but never letting his guard down. I yearned for something raw, unplanned, like in the old Bollywood movies Ma used to watch.

Well, that’s to be expected. After all, our engagement was just a marriage alliance.

I reminded myself that love was never part of the bargain. This was an arrangement, like a business deal between two families.

But soon, I had no mind for further thought.

The alcohol and his touch blurred the lines of reality. I forgot my worries, my insecurities, everything except the warmth of his skin.

My red silk lehenga was half removed.

The embroidery scratched my arms, and the cool air hit my bare skin. I shivered, partly from the cold, partly from nerves.

The moment my skin touched the air, I shivered involuntarily.

Arjun paused, concern flickering in his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked. I nodded, hugging myself for a second before he drew me closer.

Arjun, meanwhile, had only unbuttoned two buttons of his shirt.

I noticed the way his collarbone stood out, the light dusting of hair on his chest. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled up in that careless way he had—like he was half-in, half-out of the moment.

His tie hung loosely around his neck, exposing his tanned skin and the faint outline of his firm chest muscles, rising and falling with each breath.

I had never seen him so close, so vulnerable. My breath hitched, a nervous giggle threatening to escape. But he was all seriousness, his gaze unwavering.

I stared until my mouth went dry and my tongue felt parched.

I wanted to reach out, trace the shape of his jaw, memorize the feel of him under my fingertips. Instead, I swallowed hard, trying to steady myself.

"Arjun..."

My voice was barely a whisper, almost lost amid the faint sound of distant crackers from another wedding in the neighbourhood. My heart felt like a tabla, beating erratically.

He chuckled softly, as if to comfort me.

The sound was warm, familiar, like the first bite of jalebi on a winter morning. For a moment, I forgot all my worries.

"Priya, don’t be nervous."

He said it with a small smile, brushing a stray strand of hair from my forehead. I felt strangely reassured, even as my hands trembled.

Arjun pinned me gently to the edge of the wedding bed with one hand.

The carved headboard, draped with marigold garlands, pressed into my back. His grip was firm but not forceful, holding me in place, anchoring me.

He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning close, his head bowed—almost as if he was searching for something lost. Then, without warning, he kissed the red mole on my skin.

The touch was electric. I gasped, surprised at the intimacy of the gesture. My fingers tangled in his hair, desperate for connection.

His deep, husky voice, laced with warm breath, brushed past my ear.

He murmured my name, and I felt every syllable like a prayer. My skin tingled, goosebumps racing down my arms.

"If you feel uncomfortable, you can ask me to stop at any time."

For a second, the world shrank to just the two of us, the air thick with longing and uncertainty. Somewhere outside, a distant dholak thumped, and the faint aroma of agarbatti from the pooja room lingered in the air. His words made my heart flutter—was he always this considerate, or was it just tonight?

Suddenly, I gripped his messy black hair tightly.

It was a reflex, desperate and needy. His hair was soft, and he didn’t pull away. Instead, he looked up at me, eyes searching.

How do I describe the feeling of marrying Arjun?

It was like looking up and suddenly seeing the Himalayas lit by the sunrise—surprising and unreal.

There was awe, disbelief, and a kind of fragile joy. It felt too good to be true, as if one wrong step could send everything tumbling down.

But I wanted to hold on to Arjun tightly.

I closed my eyes and let myself believe—just for tonight—that he was mine. The ache in my heart was bittersweet, like a raga played at dusk.

As for what happened after that—

Maybe it was the alcohol, but my memory is fuzzy.

I remembered flashes—his whispered words, the feel of his hands, the way he held me when I trembled. The rest dissolved into a blur of sensation and longing.

All I remember is that when I got up the next morning, my legs were so weak I nearly fell.

My legs threatened mutiny. If Amma saw me like this, she’d think I’d run a marathon, not… this. I tried to stand, only to collapse back onto the bed. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and something else—something intimately ours. Somewhere outside, a distant dholak thumped, and the faint aroma of agarbatti from the pooja room lingered in the air. My cheeks burned as I remembered snatches of the night.

And also—

Arjun earnestly discussed with me the frequency of using ultra-thin Durex.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hair still damp from his shower, and looked at me seriously. “We should talk about expectations,” he began, as if we were discussing household expenses.

"...Five times a week?"

I blinked, thinking I’d misheard him. Five? Was he serious?

My drifting mind returned just in time to catch his last words.

I grabbed the sheet, clutching it to my chest, unable to hide my embarrassment.

My eyes widened instantly.

“Five times?” I repeated, voice shaky. Who did he think I was, some filmi heroine?

Arjun glanced at me, then changed his answer without missing a beat:

He cleared his throat, his expression unreadable. “Then, two times a week,” he said, as if negotiating a contract.