Rani's Bridal Dream

Rani loved watching movies where brides sparkled in red dresses, their eyes lined with thick kajal, and their hands decorated with mehndi. She often played dress-up at home, wearing her mom’s old earrings and a nose ring she secretly borrowed. But she dreamed of truly becoming a bride, with heavy makeup, jewelry, and a lehenga that swished when she walked.

One summer, during college break, Rani told her family she was going on a trip with friends. Instead, she packed her bags and went to her bhabi’s house. Bhabi lived alone because her husband worked overseas. Rani had once been caught wearing kajal at home, and Bhabi had laughed, saying, “You’re such a little girl!” But Rani knew Bhabi could help her.

“Please, Bhabi,” Rani begged. “I want to feel like a real bride, even for a day.”

At first, Bhabi shook her head. “It’s not so simple,” she said. But Rani kept asking, her eyes wide with hope. Finally, Bhabi sighed. “Okay, but we’ll do it my way.”

The next morning, Bhabi took Rani to a market. They bought a bright red lehenga with gold embroidery, a matching blouse, and a dupatta that shimmered like a star. Rani’s heart fluttered as she tried on bangles that jingled when she moved, a necklace that reached her waist, and earrings that dangled past her shoulders. Bhabi even let her pick a tiny gold nose ring.

That evening, Bhabi brought out a long, wavy black wig. “This will be your hair now,” she said, smiling. The wig cascaded down her arm like a waterfall. Rani had always dreamed of running her fingers through long hair, of braiding it, of feeling it sway as she walked.

Bhabi placed the wig gently on Rani’s head. “Feel it,” she urged. Rani touched the soft strands, her fingers brushing through waves that reached her waist. “It’s so smooth!” she whispered.

“First, we’ll learn to care for it,” Bhabi said. She showed Rani a special wig brush. “Brush it softly, like this.” Rani watched as Bhabi combed the wig, the bristles gliding without tugging. “Never wash it with hot water—it’ll ruin the curls.”

The next morning, Bhabi brought hair accessories: silk ribbons, golden clips, and a set of hairpins. “Today, we’ll try braids,” she said.

Rani sat still as Bhabi divided her wig into three sections. “Hold the wig with one hand while braiding,” she instructed. The strands twisted into a thick plait that hung down Rani’s back. Bhabi fastened it with a red ribbon. “Now, twirl!” she said. Rani spun in her lehenga, the braid swishing like a tail.

On the third day, Bhabi decided to let Rani’s wig down. “Today, we’ll make you look like a bride from a fairy tale,” she said, her eyes twinkling. She carefully unbraided the wig, letting the waves cascade over Rani’s shoulders. Then, she brought out a hot iron and began curling the ends, each strand curling into a soft spiral.

“Hold still,” Bhabi murmured, her fingers gentle as she shaped the curls. When she finished, Rani’s hair fell in loose waves around her face, the tips shimmering like honey. Bhabi then took a handful of sparkling hairpins and clipped them into the curls, their silver tips catching the light.

“Now, the saree,” Bhabi said, pulling out a silk saree the color of a sunset. It was orange with a border of gold thread, and the pallu (the end of the saree) with peacocks. Rani gasped as Bhabi draped the soft fabric over her shoulders, the silk sliding like water against her skin.

To complete the look, Bhabi brought a garland of marigold flowers, their petals bright and fragrant. She looped the garland around Rani’s neck, the flowers resting against the silk blouse. Then, she took smaller marigold blooms and tucked them into Rani’s wig, weaving them through the curls.

Rani stood in front of the mirror, her breath catching. The orange saree matched the marigolds in her hair, and the gold border shimmered like a dream. Her curls cascaded down her back, dotted with yellow petals. She touched the hairpins, their cool metal contrasting with the warmth of the silk.

“Twirl,” Bhabi urged. Rani spun slowly, the saree flaring around her, the marigolds swaying in her hair. The bangles on her wrists jingled, and the jasmine in her wig released a soft scent.

“You look like a princess from a storybook,” Bhabi whispered.

Rani smiled, her heart full. For this moment, she was more than just a girl in a saree—she was a bride

The next day, Bhabi called a makeup artist named Aisha. When Aisha arrived, she gasped. “You’re so pretty! Let’s make you look like a princess.”

Aisha began with Rani’s eyes. She traced thick kajal around Rani’s eyelids, making them bold and dramatic. Then she added eyeliner, winging it at the corners. “This makes your eyes sparkle,” she said, smiling. Next came maroon lipstick, so rich it matched the lehenga.

While Aisha worked, Bhabi painted Rani’s hands and feet with mehndi. The designs were flowers and peacocks, just like in weddings. Rani wiggled her toes, watching the patterns dry.

When it was done, Bhabi handed Rani a mirror. Rani gasped. She saw a bride—red lips, dark eyes, mehndi on her hands, and jewelry that glinted with every move. Her wig cascaded in waves, adorned with jasmine flowers. “I look like a girl,” she whispered, tears in her eyes.

That evening, Bhabi blindfolded Rani and led her downstairs. When the blindfold came off, Rani saw her best friend, Priya, standing there with a camera.

“You look stunning!” Priya squealed. She took photos of Rani twirling in her lehenga, laughing as bangles clinked.

Later, they ate sweets and watched a wedding video. Rani fingered her wig, the strands soft against her palm. She knew this was pretend, but for tonight, she was a bride with the longest, most beautiful hair.

As she slept, Rani clutched her wig to her chest. She dreamed of walking down an aisle, her hair trailing behind her, the world watching in awe.