I wake suddenly.
Not from an alarm. It’s midnight. I turn on the lights and see 5:55—the angel number? At this time? Why did I wake up so suddenly?

I go to the washroom and come back, but I still don’t want to sleep. I don’t know why, but something feels off at this hour. I walk towards the balcony, open the door, and step outside. I see the street road. I go to university daily from this way. Everything is silent.

Too silent.

I sit on the chair, cool wind brushing against my silk night suit. I open my phone, checking notifications first. Mails from university, announcements of new assignments. Then I see a WhatsApp message.

My bua’s daughter Meera:
“We are coming tomorrow to your house.”

She isn’t coming alone—means bua is coming too. But why? They don’t live in Rajasthan. That means they’re coming from Delhi. No function tomorrow, no birthday, no anniversary… then why?

Anyways, I’m happy. We talk about dramas and serials together.

Early morning, around 6:50, I go downstairs to the kitchen. I talk to myself,
“Ab jaldi uth hi gayi hoon to thoda kaam kar leti hoon.”

I see maa already in the kitchen.
“Good morning, mumma,” I tell her.

She’s busy making nasta—maybe because bua is coming.
“Good morning, beta,” she says.

“Why all this?” I ask.

“Maine kal kaha to tha,” she says.

“Kab?”

“Are jab tu college ja rahi thi… kal tujhe ladke wale dekhne aa rahe hain.”

“Fir theek hai,” I say—before my mind processes what she just said.

“Wait—WHAT?” I gasp.

“Are ishu, dheere… tere papa so rahe honge,” maa says.

“But maa, why ladke wale? I thought you were joking last day,” I look at her, disappointed.

“Main koi mazak nahi kar rahi thi, beta. Ye sach hai.”

“Bahut bade khandan se hain. Poore Rajasthan mein unka naam aur izzat hai,” she says while making kachori.

“But mumma, I don’t want to. My studies are incomplete, and I want to do masters,” I say.
I don’t know why, but panic and anxiety hit me together.

“Beta, padhai chalti rahegi. Itna achha rishta baar-baar nahi milta.”

“But maa—”

She cuts me off.
“Sirf dekhne aa rahe hain. Vidaai nahi hai aaj jo rone jaisa muh bana liya hai.”

“Sirf dekhne aayenge,” she repeats.
“Baaki marzi teri hogi—pasand aaye ya na aaye.”

I walk towards my room. She adds,
“Aaj saree pehenna… achhi lagegi.”

I go inside and close the door. Why so sudden? I’m just 21. I thought she was joking. But I can’t deny it. If I don’t behave properly today, whoever they are will think my parents didn’t give me manners.

I don’t turn away from situations. I face them. I’ll tell them I want to study—after marriage too.

After two hours, I’m wearing a saree. I don’t have many colors, so I choose maroon, like always. Bindi. Bangles. I go downstairs. Meera and bua are already there.

“Hi, ishu,” Meera says, hugging me.

“Hi,” I reply.
“Namaste, bua,” I touch her feet.

“Ekdam sundar lag rahi ho, beta,” she says.

Around 9 a.m., baba says,
“Wo log aa gaye hain.”

“What? Itni subah?” I whisper.

“Beta, wo time ke pakke hain,” baba replies.

I move towards the kitchen, anxiety crawling up my spine. I drink lemon juice and stand there like a statue.

My bua welcomes them,
“Aaiye, aaiye Rathore ji. Swagat hai aapka.”

Still, I don’t understand.

Too many people—maybe ten or twelve. Mom and dad greet them. Everyone settles in the drawing room. Maa calls me,
“Ishu beta, sabke liye chai le aana.”

I pick the tray full of tea cups and walk towards the drawing room.

And then I see them.

My mind goes blank.

Because they are no one else but the Rathore—
no.
THE Rathore family.

The same family I met just a day ago at Shreya’s wedding.

I see the Collector.

My face turns pale.

Same eyes.
Same dark eyebrows.
Same heavy lashes.

He sits across the sofa, wearing a black suit.

I freeze. All eyes turn to me. I don’t dare move forward. Maa comes, takes the tray from my hands.

“Ye hai hamari beti… Ishika.”

“Jao beta, sabke pair chhuo,” she nods.

I walk forward. Dadi ji sits first. I bend to touch her feet.
“Sukhi reh, chori. Ghani sundar lage hai aaj bhi tu,” she blesses me.

I move to a middle-aged woman, her face still covered in ghunghat.
“Are beta, bas bas,” she says.

I touch everyone’s feet—except him.

I stand there like a statue.

Dadi ji tells my father,
“Thari chori mane do din pehle shaadi mein dekhi thi.”

“Tabse mare ko pasand aa gayi… mare pote ke liye.”

“Wo sarkari afsar hai. Collector.”

“Mare khandan mein paison ki kami bhi na… izzat ki bhi na.”

Maa serves sweets and snacks.

“Maasa ko ladki pasand hai to hame bhi,” says the man beside dadi ji—probably his father.

I look at Vihaan.

He’s staring straight at me.

And I’m scared—because it feels like he can read minds.

“Agar aapko koi pareshani na ho,” the woman in ghunghat says,
“to ladka-ladki baat kar lein.”

“Are haan, bahar garden mein,” bua says.

“Beta, jao,” his mother tells him.

He stands.

And suddenly, I feel very small.

Even my house feels small compared to his height.

He walks towards me. I almost bump into him. He nods, asking me to go first.

I walk outside.

He follows—just like that day.

We stop near a banyan tree.

“Ishika ji,” he says.
His voice is calm. Too calm.

“J-ji,” I hesitate.

“Kya karti hain aap?”

“Ji… tech student. Last year.”

“Tech,” he says slowly. “Achhi field hai.”

“Aage kya plans hain?”
His tone feels like a question asked with a blade hidden behind it.

“I want to do masters… then a job,” I say.

He stares at me. Sunlight glistens in his eyes.
“Achha khayal hai,” he says—but his eyes say something else.

“Aap kya karte hain?” I ask quickly.

“I’m IAS. Collector, Jaipur,” he says.

“My work is to handle an entire city—construction approvals, politics, power.”

Then he looks at me.
“Aapka kya khayal hai… is sab ke baare mein?”

“Jo dadi sa ko manzoor… wahi hame manzoor,” he replies.

“To shaadi ke baad job karne denge?” I ask.

“Hame koi problem nahi,” he says coldly.
“Lekin agar dadi sa ko hui… to hame hogi.”

“What’s your age?” he asks.

“21. Aur aapki?”

“I’m 28.”

My breath catches.

“Mujhe time chahiye,” I whisper.

“Diya,” he says.
One word. Like a verdict.

“Hame rishta manzoor hai,” he adds.

I don’t look at him after that.

Then he leans slightly closer and says, low and dangerous,
“Aankhen churane wala insaan hamesha sharm se nahi… kabhi-kabhi dar se bhi aankhen churata hai.”

“And jab kisi ki aankhen itni khubsurat hon… aur wo unhe chupane lage—”
He stops.

Doesn’t complete it.

Heat spreads through my body.

I feel naked—like he just read everything inside my head.

Did he realize I’m scared of his eyes?
Did he see what I feel when he looks at me like that?

One thing is clear.

He’s interested.

And even if I deny this proposal—
he can make me agree.

I leave her in silence and go inside the house.

I’m surprised… or shocked.
I haven’t decided yet.

Dadi sa really wants her as Rathore’s bahu?

I can’t believe that at the first meeting, dadi sa chose her. As far as I know, no one wins dadi sa’s heart in a single day—especially not in the very first meeting. And here we are, sitting in her house, talking about rishta.

I didn’t even think I would see her again. That’s why I didn’t give her bracelet back—the one that got stuck in my sleeve. In panic, she didn’t even check that the bracelet wasn’t in her hand.

I sit like before.

“Baat kri, chora?” dadi sa asks.

“Ji, dadi sa. Hamne baat kar li.”

“Ke baat kri?” she asks again.

“Jaruri thi… wahi baat kri,” I answer.

“Thik hai, chora. Byah thare ko karna hai, to tujhe jo sahi laga… wo,” she says.

“Iska matlab thare ko chori pasand hai?” she questions.

My mother and father don’t ask anything. They know—dadi sa’s choice is never wrong.

“Aapko pasand hai?” I ask her.

“Haan, mane to pasand hai.”

“Fir aapko jawab pata hai,” I say calmly.

She smiles.
“Mithai khilao saare. Hamari taraf se haan hai.”

Her mother says happily,
“Hamari Ishu kismat wali hai… jisko aap jaisa parivar milne ja raha hai.”

Her father looks relieved too.
“Rukmani Devi ji, aapka bahut dhanyavaad.”

Then my father speaks,
“Maa sa, ek baar ladki ki raay bhi le leni chahiye.”

“Wo abhi umar mein chhoti hai, aur padhai bhi kar rahi hai.”

She walks in from the garden.

I wonder what she thought about my words.

She looks at my father and says,
“Meri padhai main nahi chhodungi.”

Her mother tries to stop her, but she speaks again,
“Maine decide kiya hai—graduation ke baad masters karungi.”

“Je ka hove hai, chori?” dadi sa asks immediately.

My father speaks this time,
“Hame koi etraaz nahi hai. Tum padhna chaho to.”

“Waise bhi hamare ghar mein padhi-likhi bahu nahi hai… hum tumse shuruaat karna chahenge.”

He looks at dadi sa.
“Maa sa, riti-rivaz apni jagah hai. Lekin zamana badal raha hai. Agar wo padhna chahti hai, to hum mana nahi kar sakte.”

And at that moment, I know—

This is not going to end easily.

Dadi sa will do anything…
but she will never let a Rathore bahu step outside Rathore haveli.

“Haan to thik hai,” she says.
“Mane chori pasand hai… mare pote ke liye.”

“Mujhe time chahiye,” she says.

And with those words, she steps back into the game.

“Waqt?” dadi sa asks sharply.
“Kis liye, chori?”

“Mujhe… sochne ke liye waqt chahiye,” she says.
“Sab bahut jaldi-jaldi ho raha hai.”

Her mother cuts in,
“Hamari bhi haan hi hai. Lekin uski exams sir par hain… thodi tension mein hai.”

“Koi jaldi nahi hai,” my father says, looking at dadi sa.
“Aap apna jawab baad mein de sakti hain.”

They exchange glances.

We stand.

“Hame jaane ki anumati dijiye,” my father says to her father.

They shake hands.

“Hum aapki haisiyat ke nahi hain. Agar humse koi bhool hui ho to maaf kijiye,” her father says.

“Are nahi,” my father replies,
“Aapne dil se swagat kiya. Hume khushi hui yahan aakar.”

As we leave, dadi sa walks towards Ishika.

“Thari nazar utaar loon main.”

She pulls Ishika’s saree pallu over her head.

“Gunghat mein to badi sayani lage hai tu.”

We step outside.

I don’t know why—but Ishika’s eyes look different now.

I walk closer to her and say quietly, carefully,
“Aap par koi zabardasti nahi hai.”

“Lekin jo faisla aap lengi… wahi sahi mana jayega.”

“Aap soch kar… wahi jawab dijiye jo aapko theek lage.”

She whispers,
“J-ji.”

I leave.

With only one thought in my mind—

I never thought I’d meet her again today.
But I met her.
Talked to her.

And dadi sa has already placed my name beside hers.

I don’t know what her answer will be.

Yes… or no.

But I know one thing—

Her answer will come in yes.

It has to.