5 days left!
The room was bathed in the soft glow of morning light, casting elongated shadows across the vanity mirror. Piya sat there, her reflection a mosaic of emotions—fear, defiance, and a quiet resignation. The delicate lace of her silk saree whispered secrets only she could hear.
She was getting ready for Shaurya's wedding.
In the quiet of her room, Piya stood like a forgotten melody—a symphony of magenta and sunlight. The saree clung to her curves, its fabric a cascade of silk and secrets. Magenta—the color of passion and hidden desires—wrapped around her like a whispered promise.
Her hair, rested in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. There was the rose—a solitary bloom tucked behind her ear. Its petals were the blush of first love, delicate and unyielding.
Her eyes, dark as midnight, held galaxies within. They were the windows to her soul—a tempest of uncertainty and rebellion. The kohl traced along her lower lids, highlighted her eyes.
Piya’s lips, painted a soft coral, quivered as she pressed them together. They were the gatekeepers of her truth—the words she couldn’t utter, the confessions she dared not share. The rose’s fragrance clung to her breath, a silent plea for courage.
Diya, her mother, entered the room, her footsteps as gentle as the flutter of a moth’s wings. She surveyed her daughter—the girl who had always been a tempest of dreams and rebellion.
“Piya,” Diya said, her voice a fragile thread, “you’re beautiful.”
Piya’s fingers trembled as she adjusted the ornate maang tikka in her hair. “Thank you, Maa.”
Diya stepped closer, her touch feather-light as she traced the curve of Piya’s cheek. “You know, when I married your father, I was terrified too. But love grows, my child. It blooms in the most unexpected corners of our hearts.”
Piya’s gaze flickered to the window, where the morning sun painted the leaves outside in shades of gold. “But what about my opinions, Maa? What about my happiness. Hell! I don't even have the control on it. I can't make my own decisions. What the hell is this? I don't want to live like this.”
Diya sat beside her, the silk of her sari rustling like autumn leaves. “I know beta. But, this is for your good. Vivan is such a good guy. He will keep you happy. I know you both don't love each other but marriage isn’t just about love, Piya. It’s about companionship, compromise, and shared dreams. Sometimes, we find love in the quiet moments—the way the warmth of his hand feels on yours during a storm.”
“But Vivan…” Piya’s voice wavered.
Diya cupped Piya’s face, her touch tender and warm. “You’re not alone in this struggle, my child. We all carry our secrets—the ones that weigh us down and the ones that lift us higher. But remember, love isn’t a choice; it’s a force that sweeps us away.”
Suddenly, the door burst open.
The room held its breath as Jaswant stepped across the threshold. His presence was a storm—a tempest of icy glares and clenched fists.
Diya, stood rooted, her eyes a mirror reflecting both fear and defiance. The tear stains on Piya’s face were like ink blots on a parchment—words unspoken, emotions etched in salt.
“Piya,” Jaswant’s voice was a blade, honed by years of resentment. “I heard what you both were talking about. You idiot girl! Enough of this drama. You will marry Vivan, and you will do it with grace. Our business interests demand it.”
Piya’s trembling fingers clutched the edge of her saree. “But, Father—”
In two quick steps, he stood in front of Piya, taking a hold of her hand.
He twisted her wrist, the pain a sharp crescendo. “No buts, Piya. This alliance secures our future. Your happiness is irrelevant.”
Diya stepped forward, her voice a fragile plea. “Jaswant, she’s our daughter. Can’t you see her heart breaking?”
His laughter was a jagged shard. “Heart? Sentimentality has no place in our world. She’ll play her part, or she’ll face the consequences.”
Piya’s gaze darted to the window, where the sun painted the leaves in hues of gold. “Please. Don't do this. I don't want to marry him".
"Shut up", he screamed and pressed her hand tightly. Piya yelped in pain and tried to free her hand from her father's tight grip but all her effort went in vain. Diya held Jaswant's elbow, trying to get her off of him.
There was a knock on the door and Jaswant quickly let Piya go. She caressed her hand and turned around to hide her tear stained cheek from the person at the door.
The air in the grand mansion seemed to hold its breath as Geet, Vivan’s younger sister, swept in the room.
“Piya bhabhi” Geet’s voice was a sunbeam, slicing through the tension. “Come, the festivities await. Bhaiya is waiting for you downstairs.”
Jaswant, the master puppeteer, adjusted his mask of civility. “Yes, Geet. Piya will join you shortly.”
Piya quickly wiped off her tears and faced Geet with a small smile on her face.
Geet twirled, her lehenga flaring like a peacock’s tail. “Bhabhi, you look like a princess! Bhaiya is so lucky.”
Piya’s gaze met her mother’s. Diya’s eyes held a silent plea—play your part, my brave girl. The rose behind Piya’s ear trembled, its petals fragile as promises.
Jaswant stepped forward, his embrace a calculated warmth. Putting his arm around Piya's shoulder, he said, “Indeed, Geet. Our Piya is radiant.”
Piya felt like emptying the content of her stomach right there at the moment. The touch of her own father, making her sick.
Her fingers brushed the rose. She wondered if Geet could see the sadness behind her fake smile.
As they descended the grand staircase, Piya’s footsteps were measured, her smile was like a veil, hiding her feelings from everyone. Geet chattered about wedding rituals, blissfully unaware of the fractured world around her.
As Piya glided into the opulent hall, the world around Vivan blurred—a canvas wiped clean by her presence. The magenta saree clung to her like a lover’s whisper, its folds revealing curves that defied mere mortal beauty.
Vivan’s breath hitched. He had seen countless women, their faces adorned with jewels and their laughter rehearsed. But Piya—the girl who had been thrust upon him like a pawn in a game of alliances—was different. She was a tempest, a comet streaking across his monochrome existence.
His heartbeat echoed in his temples. He had heard tales of love—the kind that poets sang about and fools chased. But this? This was more—a collision of fate and desire, a symphony played on heartstrings.
As Piya stepped closer, her footsteps a dance of uncertainty, Vivan’s world tilted. The grand chandeliers above seemed to dim, their crystals mere reflections of her radiance. He wanted to reach out—to touch the silk of her saree, to unravel the mystery of her eyes.
But duty held him captive. Vivan was a man bound by tradition, by promises etched in ink and sealed with gold. He was to marry Piya, secure their families’ legacies, and forget the poetry that stirred his soul.
Yet, in that stolen moment, he wondered—what if love was more than alliances? What if it was the very air he breathed, the pulse beneath his skin?
Piya’s gaze met his, and for an eternity, they hung suspended—a comet and a star, destined to collide. Vivan’s lips curved, a fragile smile. He would play his part, wear his mask, but perhaps, just perhaps, love would find a way—a clandestine path through the labyrinth of duty.
When Piya stood in front of Vivan, the rose behind her ear, fell on the ground. They both bent down to pick it up at the same time and their hands brushed against each other.
Vivan’s touch was electric—a current that surged through her veins. His eyes, held questions—secrets he dared not voice. The rose lay forgotten, its crimson hue a reflection of their shared vulnerability.
Vivan couldn't give a name to what he was feeling at the moment.
Was it LOVE possibly?
YOU ARE READING
Thirteen Days
RomancePiya Khurrana and Hamid Ali love each other immensely. They met in college and had a liking for each other and later came in a relationship. Hamid is an orphan. His parents died in an airplane crash when he was just five years old. His uncle and au...
