The morning air was filled with the fragrance of fresh marigolds and sandalwood. The hotel courtyard had been beautifully decorated with rangoli and orange-yellow flowers, giving it a warm festive glow for Ganesh puja as its important before the start of any auspicious function praying to god that the function is done without any problems inviting the god . Priests chanted mantras while the sound of the shehnai added to the sacred atmosphere.

Aanya looked ethereal in her orange saree, her bangles tinkling softly as she folded her hands for the puja. Beside her, Raghav looked every bit the groom in his white kurta, his little daughter Akira perched happily on his lap in her tiny orange frock, matching her soon-to-be stepmother.

It was Raghav’s sister’s thoughtful planning—even from afar. Though she couldn’t attend due to her pregnancy, she had been constantly in touch with the wedding managers, making sure every ritual had a personal touch.

Guests had already started arriving, filling the courtyard with cheerful chatter. Some whispered about how radiant the couple looked together, while others admired Akira, who seemed to steal the show with her innocent laughter. The photographer circled around them, capturing every little detail—the way Raghav gently held Aanya’s pallu away from the fire, how Aanya stroked Akira’s hair when she got cranky, and how effortlessly the three of them looked like a family already.

When the priest asked Aanya to feed a piece of prasad to Akira, the little girl giggled and clapped her tiny hands. Raghav’s eyes softened, his gaze shifting between his daughter and Aanya. For the first time in years, his guarded heart felt complete.

After the puja ended, elders blessed the couple while Akira dozed off in Raghav’s arms. Aanya couldn’t help but notice how natural he looked holding his daughter—protective, tender, and strong. Something in her heart stirred, a silent whisper that maybe, just maybe, this bond they were creating was going to be more beautiful than she had ever imagined.

in evening the courtyard of the hotel glowed with festive charm. Strings of marigolds hung in perfect symmetry, while golden fairy lights twinkled against the bright daylight, giving the mehendi function an almost magical aura. Women in vibrant lehengas, chattering children, and the fragrance of fresh henna filled the air. The rhythmic beats of dhol made the atmosphere come alive.

The mehendi function began with laughter, music, and the fragrance of fresh henna filling the hall. Women sat in groups, their palms already decorated with intricate designs. Aanya entered the hall, dressed in a graceful green kurti, her hair tied in a loose braid that gave her a soft, festive glow.

Raghav walked beside her in a simple yet elegant green kurta, matching unintentionally, but perfectly. Little Akira, in her tiny green pajamas, sat cozily in his arms, her round eyes curiously scanning all the colors and clapping at the music.

Aanya smiled, adjusting Akira’s little hair .

When the mehendi artist settled with her cones, Aanya surprised everyone by saying, “First a little flower for Akira, on her hand.”

The artist chuckled warmly. “For such a tiny one, just a dot will be enough.”

“No,” Aanya insisted sweetly, holding out Akira’s little palm. “Make a flower. She should also feel she’s part of all this.”

Akira babbled happily as the artist carefully drew a small floral design on her tiny hand. Everyone nearby went “aww” seeing her excitement. Aanya kissed Akira’s hand softly before extending her own for mehendi.

Raghav’s mother stood a little away, her eyes moist but filled with joy. She whispered to herself, “This girl… she’s truly becoming a mother to Akira.”

But not everyone shared the same happiness. A few women sitting in a corner leaned in, their whispers sharp enough to cut.

“Her first husband left her, and still she’s here, flaunting herself like nothing happened.”

“This is her second marriage. She agreed only because Raghav is rich.”

“She doesn’t love that child… all this mehendi and flower-making is just to show off.”

Raghav’s ears caught their words instantly. His jaw tightened, his hands clenched, and for a second, his steps moved toward them, rage simmering in his eyes. But before he could speak, his mother lightly placed her hand on his arm.

“Don’t, Raghav,” she said softly but firmly. “People who cannot see others happy will always talk. There’s no point in creating a scene in front of everyone.”

He looked at her, torn between anger and restraint. His gaze shifted back to Aanya, who was laughing with Akira, her hands slowly filling with henna, completely unaware of the cruel words being thrown her way.

And at that moment, something inside him softened. He realized that her happiness with Akira was far more important than any gossip.

The next day was the haldi ceremony. It was held separately for Raghav and Aanya, but Akira was restless. She kept searching for Aanya, getting cranky in Raghav’s arms. Finally, seeing his daughter’s uneasiness, Raghav decided to take her to the bride’s side.

The moment he reached the courtyard where Aanya’s haldi was happening, his jaw tightened. His blood boiled at what he heard. A few of Aanya’s distant relatives were whispering venom in plain sight—taunting her about her broken marriage, blaming her for not “adjusting” the first time, calling her selfish. One even remarked that she must have agreed to marry Raghav only because of his money and status.

As soon as they noticed Raghav standing there, silence fell like a stone. Aanya’s face burned with humiliation. She lowered her gaze, trying to hide her tears, wiping them discreetly with trembling fingers.

But Akira saw them. From her tiny hand, she reached out, trying to wipe away the wetness on Aanya’s cheek. That simple, innocent gesture broke Aanya’s heart even more.

Raghav gently placed Akira in Aanya’s arms and then turned to face the room. His voice was cold, commanding, and edged with fury.

“Let me make one thing very clear,” he said, his eyes sweeping over the gathering. “Aanya is not the first woman in this world to walk out of a marriage that wasn’t right for her—and she certainly won’t be the last. She did what was right. That takes strength, not weakness.”

No one dared to speak.

“And as for this nonsense about money,” Raghav’s tone hardened, “whether she married me for it or not is none of your concern. What matters is that she is my wife, and I will not tolerate even a shred of disrespect toward her. Not now, not ever.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, suffocating the relatives into silence. Aanya clutched Akira a little tighter, overwhelmed—not by love, but by the unexpected shield of respect he had given her in that moment.

That evening was the sangeet. Unlike the grand, glittering functions most people expected from the Malhotras, Raghav and Aanya had kept it deliberately simple. Both of them knew too many lights, too much noise, and too many people would only make Akira restless. This marriage wasn’t about show — it was about family.

The banquet hall of the hotel had been rearranged into a warm, intimate space. Soft yellow lights, colorful drapes, and a few flower arrangements gave it a festive but homely feel. Cushioned seating was spread across the floor, making it look like a baithak rather than a stiff ceremony.

A group of Rajasthani folk artists had been invited. The moment their instruments started, the air filled with the soulful rhythm of dholak, sarangi, and sweet folk songs. Some ladies clapped along, a few stood up to dance in circles, their anklets jingling to the beat.

Aanya sat beside Raghav, little Akira in her lap. The tiny one was completely fascinated — her eyes wide, her hands moving up and down as if trying to mimic the clapping. At one point, she squealed in delight when one of the dancers bent down to twirl in front of her.

Raghav looked at Akira with a soft smile, then at Aanya. She wasn’t dancing, wasn’t the center of attention — and yet, the way she swayed lightly with Akira in her arms, tapping her feet, she seemed more a part of the music than anyone else.

It was a simple sangeet. No loud DJ, no rehearsed performances. Just songs, laughter, and family gathered close. And perhaps, in its simplicity, it became more beautiful than a thousand lavish shows.