I. Cousin’s Wedding Night
Neha’s wedding was the biggest event Jaipur had seen in years. Her cousin Vikram, twenty-two, flew in from London — tall, British-accented, and unfairly handsome. Everyone noticed how Neha’s eyes followed him during the mehndi, how her laughter rang louder when he was near.
They’d grown up together until he moved abroad at fifteen. Now the childhood crush had matured into something dangerous.
During joota chupai, Neha stole Vikram’s shoes and ran laughing to the terrace. He chased her through corridors of marigold and fairy lights. When he caught her against the parapet, breathing hard, neither moved away.
“You’re getting married tomorrow,” he whispered.
“Then give me something to remember,” she answered, and kissed him under the desert moon.
Midnight. The guests were drunk on bhang and bhaangra. Vikram slipped into the bridal suite where Neha waited in her heavy lehenga, alone for the first time that day. She didn’t speak — just pulled him down onto the silk bedspread and let him peel away twenty metres of crimson fabric like unwrapping the most expensive gift of his life.
They had exactly ninety minutes before the baraat would arrive. Ninety minutes of desperate, whispered Hindi and broken English, of her nails down his back, of him learning every inch of the body he wasn’t supposed to touch. When he finally slid inside her, she bit his shoulder to stay quiet, tears and kohl mixing on her cheeks.
They came together just as the dhol started outside — the groom’s party arriving. Neha fixed her makeup with shaking hands while Vikram slipped out the back, shoes still missing, heart forever stolen.
Years later, at every family wedding, Neha wears the same quiet smile when Vikram dances too close. Nobody knows why her mangalsutra feels heavier on those nights, or why she still keeps one stolen jutti hidden in her jewellery box.