The grand wedding pavilion was a spectacle of opulence, its marigold garlands cascading like rivers of fire and the air perfumed with incense. The crowd murmured as Debasree, draped in a red bridal saree, stepped onto the flower-strewn aisle. Each step felt like a parade of humiliation. The heavy jewelry, the intricate henna on her delicate hands, and the faint waft of jasmine in her hair screamed femininity—an identity she had not chosen but was now forced to embrace.
As she walked toward the mandap, whispers rippled through the audience.
"So, this is the 'man' everyone was talking about? Doesn't even look like one anymore," someone snickered.
"No wonder his first wife left him. Poor thing couldn't even perform," another chimed in, laughter barely muffled.
Debasree's cheeks burned under the scrutiny. Her eyes darted to Rohit, who stood tall and confident, exuding the virility that contrasted sharply with her frail form. His sherwani shimmered in the firelight, and his smirk was faintly visible as he adjusted his turban, reveling in the dominance this marriage symbolized.
As the priest chanted mantras, Rohit's mother, Shobha Devi, leaned toward a guest. "Finally, our family gets a bride who can fulfill her duties. That one," she gestured discreetly toward Debasree, "was never a husband to begin with." The crowd chuckled softly.
The saat phere began. With every circumambulation around the sacred fire, Debasree felt the weight of her transformation. Each step was accompanied by sly remarks:
"Such a docile bride. She’ll do everything Rohit says."
"I hear she was waxed head to toe for this day. Even her eyebrows are perfect!"
"Imagine the wedding night!"
Rohit’s friends, seated near the front, exchanged knowing glances. One nudged the other and whispered, "He’s got her wrapped around his finger already. She’ll learn what it means to serve a real man tonight."
When the ceremony concluded, Rohit tied the mangalsutra around her neck with a deliberate slowness, pulling her closer as if to remind her—and everyone present—of her new place. He smeared the sindoor into the parting of her hair with a firm hand, almost possessive, as cameras clicked and guests erupted into applause.
Debasree lowered her gaze, unable to meet the eyes of those who stared at her with either pity or derision. The weight of her new identity pressed down on her chest, her breath catching in the cacophony of celebration.
As the couple rose for blessings, an elderly woman cackled, "Rohit will make a proper wife out of her. She’ll learn soon enough what a real marriage means."
Debasree, trapped in the glittering cage of rituals and expectations, could only hope the ground would swallow her whole.
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