The first morning as a bride began before sunrise.
Rashi woke to unfamiliar walls, a heavier silence, and the weight of jewellery she had forgotten to remove. For a moment, she did not know where she was.
Then she felt the mangalsutra against her neck.
Wife.
Sunny still slept beside her, one arm over his eyes like a careless boy who had nothing to worry about.
She watched him quietly.
This was the same face she had loved in rain-soaked college corridors. The same smile that had promised forever.
She smiled to herself and rose softly.
Outside the room, reality had already woken.
His mother was in the kitchen. An aunt arranged vessels loudly. Someone discussed breakfast. Another voice asked whether the new bride knew how to make proper coffee and tea.
Rashi straightened her saree and stepped into the world that was now expected to be hers.
The first weeks passed in ceremony and adjustment.
Relatives visited daily.
“Show us the bride.”
“Does she cook?”
“Is she shy?”
“When will we hear good news?”
Every smile carried judgement hidden under sweetness.
Rashi did her best.
She learned where rice was stored.
How his mother liked the dal.
Which towel belonged to whom.
When his father preferred tea.
How to move through the house without seeming in the way.
Sunny, meanwhile, returned to work quickly.
He still cared for her.
He brought sweets one evening because she liked them.
He asked if she was tired.
He smiled at her across dinner when others weren’t looking.
At night, they laughed softly in their room.
“This house has too many rules,” she whispered once.
He chuckled. “You noticed only now?”
But slowly, the shine of wedding days faded.
Rashi discovered that Sunny hated disorder. He wanted clothes folded a certain way, meals at exact times, towels hung properly, lights switched off immediately.
She was more relaxed, slower, gentler.
He liked quick decisions.
She thought before speaking.
He wanted silence when angry.
She wanted conversation when hurt.
These were small things.
Too small to name.
Too small to fight about.
Yet small stones fill a shoe until walking becomes painful.
One afternoon, his mother corrected her sharply in front of relatives because the chapatis were not round enough.
Rashi felt humiliated but said nothing.
That night, she told Sunny quietly.
He sighed.
“Why take everything seriously? She talks like that to everyone.”
“It hurt me.”
“You need to adjust, Rashi. This is family life.”
The words were not cruel.
But they were the first time he stood somewhere she could not reach.
Days turned into routine.
Morning chores.
Cooking.
Cleaning.
Serving tea.
Waiting for Sunny.
Trying to belong.
She missed her parents but hid it.
When she visited home once, her mother asked softly,
“Are you happy?”
Rashi smiled too quickly.
“Yes.”
Because some daughters protect their parents by lying.
One Sunday evening, Sunny came home irritated from work. Accounts had gone wrong. His father had scolded him.
Rashi greeted him cheerfully.
He barely responded.
At dinner she asked, “Will you eat more rice?”
“I said no.”
The sharpness in his tone stunned her.
Later he apologized.
“Bad day,” he muttered.
She forgave easily.
Love often excuses the first wound.
That night, lying beside him, Rashi stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly.
Marriage was not unhappy.
Not yet.
But somewhere between shared laughter and daily duties, she sensed a door quietly closing.
And another opening into truths neither of them had prepared for.