The night air clung to my skin like a damp shawl as I stepped into my dimly lit room, the scent of jasmine still clinging to my fingertips from Anika’s wedding. My heart ached with a longing I couldn’t name. I’d spent the entire evening watching her—a vision in ivory silk, her laughter like wind chimes, her every movement a dance. Her saree had shimmered under the lantern light, its pallu trailing like a river of moonlight. I’d envied her the way one envies a star: bright, unattainable, eternal.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. My own face stared back—plain, unremarkable, framed by a boyish haircut. My shirt hung loosely on my frame, a stark contrast to the elegance I’d witnessed. Why can’t I be her? I thought, tugging at the collar. Why can’t I wear silk and jewels and feel the weight of a mangalsutra?
As I undressed, the room grew colder. A shiver ran down my spine. I climbed into bed, pulling the covers tight. Outside, the night sky was a canvas of stars. I closed my eyes, whispering a wish into the silence: Let me be her, just for one night.
When I opened my eyes, the world had changed. I lay in a bed, its sheets as soft as clouds. The air hummed with the scent of mogra flowers and sandalwood. A gasp escaped my lips as I sat up. My hands—now slender and smooth—rested on my lap. My reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable.
I was dressed in a white silk saree, its fabric woven with threads of gold. The pallu cascaded over my shoulder, embroidered with peacocks and lotus flowers. My blouse was a blush-pink hue, its sleeves sheer and adorned with pearls. My waist was cinched with a gold belt, its centerpiece a sapphire that glinted like a star.
A makeup artist knelt before me, her touch gentle. She dabbed rose-pink blush onto my cheeks, her brush soft as a feather. Her kohl pencil traced my eyelids, darkening them to almond-shaped slits. My lips were painted a glossy crimson, their sheen catching the light. “You’re a natural beauty,” she murmured, adjusting a maang tikka on my forehead. Its teardrop gem rested between my brows, cool against my skin.
My hair was braided into a thick plait, woven with jasmine flowers and gold pins. The artist secured a netted hairpiece over my bun, its crystals sparkling like dewdrops. “Ready, my dear?” she asked, handing me a mirror.
I stared at the stranger in the glass—a bride, radiant and regal. My heart hammered in my chest. This was Anika’s face, her body, her life. Yet somehow, it felt like mine.
The wedding hall was a palace of light. Golden lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the guests. The air buzzed with chatter and the clinking of glasses. I floated down the aisle, my saree swishing like a river. The guests gasped, their eyes wide with awe. “She looks like a goddess!” someone whispered.
Anika’s mother, in a crimson saree, took my hand. “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined,” she said, her voice trembling. “Your grandmother would be proud.”
At the altar, the groom awaited—a tall man in a navy-blue sherwani, his turban adorned with a diamond brooch. His eyes met mine, and a smile spread across his face. “You’re breathtaking,” he said, taking my hand.
The priest began the ceremony, chanting ancient verses. My heart raced as we circled the fire, each step a promise. When the groom placed a mangalsutra around my neck, its gold chain felt warm against my skin. “You’re mine now,” he whispered, his breath hot on my ear.
The First Night
Our room was a sanctuary of rose petals and candlelight. The groom—now my husband—pulled me into an embrace. His hands were steady, his touch electric. “You’re even more stunning up close,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
I blushed, lowering my gaze. But when he kissed me, it was like a spark igniting a flame. His lips were soft, his kiss urgent. I kissed him back, my hands tangling in his hair. The world melted away, leaving only us.
Later, as we lay entwined, he traced the patterns on my saree. “Let’s keep this on,” he teased, his fingers grazing my thigh. I giggled, pulling the silk around us like a cocoon. The night air carried the scent of mogra flowers, and outside, the stars shimmered like diamonds.
Dawn arrived with a gentle light. I sat up, the saree pooling around me like a cloud. The room felt unfamiliar—too bright, too ordinary. My husband stirred beside me, his voice a murmur. “Don’t leave me,” he said, reaching for my hand.
But as I looked into the mirror, the magic began to fade. My reflection blurred, then shifted. The saree turned to cotton, the jewels to plastic. My hair fell loose, the jasmine flowers vanishing like smoke. I gasped, clutching my chest. The dream was over.
I found myself back in my own room, the sun streaming through the window. My plain shirt hung on my frame, the mirror reflecting my old face. A tear slid down my cheek. For a moment, I’d been everything I’d ever wanted. Now, I was just me again.
Years later, I still think of that night—the silk, the stars, the man who’d called me his bride. I keep a jasmine flower in a locket, its scent a reminder of magic. Sometimes, on quiet evenings, I slip into a white saree and dance alone, imagining the weight of a mangalsutra.
Anika and I remain friends, though she knows nothing of my secret. When she asks why I smile at the moon, I say, “It reminds me of a dream.”
And in my heart, I know: Some dreams are meant to be kept alive, even after they fade.
nice STORY DARLING