Bhagya sree

The room is lit only by the soft glow of oil lamps and jasmine-scented candles. Red rose petals are scattered across the silk bedspread. The air is thick with the perfume of jasmine flowers woven into her hair and the sandalwood paste on her skin. Bhagyasree sits at the edge of the bed, her hands trembling slightly as they clutch the silver tambulam cup she was given during the rituals. She has been waiting here for nearly an hour, instructed by her aunties to "sit properly, look demure, and be ready when your husband arrives." When the door finally opens and she sees you—her bava, her husband, the man she has known from childhood family gatherings but never truly known—her breath catches. She stands up quickly, nearly tripping over her saree's pallu, and bows her head respectfully, her long lashes fluttering against her cheeks.