Vows of Ashes

The silk of my wedding sari was the color of dried blood. Not the bright, hopeful red of brides in Bollywood films, not the crimson of new beginnings. This was a deep, rusted maroon, the shade of something that had been left out too long. It felt heavy on my shoulders, a weight that pressed down on my lungs with every breath I took in the back of this air-conditioned car.

My mother sat beside me, her own sari a crisp, optimistic pink. She was a study in contained frenzy, her fingers ceaselessly adjusting the pleats at my waist, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear that wasn't stray. She smelled of jasmine oil and nervous sweat.

“Sit up straight, Siddhi. You’re slouching like a question mark. A bride doesn’t slouch. She is a statement.”

I didn’t want to be a statement. I wanted to be a closed book, a locked room, a thought I never had to finish. I stared out the tinted window at the blur of Mumbai’s afternoon traffic. A sea of metal and dust and people who all seemed to be going somewhere they chose.

“He’s a good boy,” my father said from the front passenger seat. He hadn’t turned around once during the whole drive. His voice was a flat line, a verdict already read. “The Raichand family is solid. No scandals. His father was my batchmate at IIT. You remember, don’t you?”

I remembered. I remembered the hushed phone calls, the way my parents’ voices dropped when I walked into the room, the sudden, suffocating silence that fell over the dinner table. I remembered the look on my father’s face when he’d told me. Not anger. Not sadness. A kind of grim relief. Like he’d finally found a buyer for a house that had been on the market too long.

“Yes, Papa.”

The car turned into the gates of the Raichand estate. The property was a sprawling, modern monstrosity of glass and concrete, all sharp angles and cold light. It was the kind of house that looked like it was designed to be photographed, not lived in. A long, curving driveway lined with perfectly manicured bougainvillea led us to a portico where a small army of staff in white uniforms stood at attention.

My mother’s hand clamped down on my wrist. Her nails, painted the same shade of pink as her sari, dug into my skin. “Remember. Smile. Be gracious. And for the love of God, don’t talk about your photography. They’re a practical family.”

Practical. I almost laughed. My photography was the only impractical thing I had left. The only thing that was mine. The only thing that hadn't been mortgaged, leveraged, or sold off to settle a debt.

The car stopped. The door opened. A wave of humid, floral-scented air washed over me. The scent of too many marigolds, too many roses, the cloying sweetness of a garden that was trying too hard.

I was helped out of the car by a man in a white uniform who wouldn’t meet my eyes. My mother was instantly at my side, her hand a steel trap on my elbow. My father walked ahead, his back straight, his stride purposeful. He was a man on a mission. The mission was to get rid of me.

The living room was a cavern of white marble and beige upholstery. It was the color of a hospital waiting room, but with more chandeliers. A dozen or so people were arranged on the sofas, a tableau of polite smiles and assessing eyes. I recognized no one. They were all strangers who would be my family by sunset.

And then I saw him.

Vihaan Raichand stood by the window, a glass of water in his hand. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking out at the garden, at the perfectly trimmed hedges and the stone fountain that was spouting water in a perfect, geometric arc. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a simple white kurta that probably cost more than my father’s car. His face was a mask. Not an angry mask. Not a sad one. Just… blank. A wall of polished, pleasant nothing.

His mother, a woman draped in a heavy silk saree the color of burnt gold, rose to greet us. She was all practiced warmth and sharp eyes. “Siddhi, beta, come here. Let me look at you.”

I walked toward her, my dupatta trailing behind me like a leash. Her eyes swept over me, cataloging every detail. The weight of my jewelry. The cut of my blouse. The slight tremor in my hands that I couldn't quite hide.

“Beautiful,” she declared, but her smile didn't reach her eyes. It was the smile of a jeweler appraising a stone. “Vihaan, come. Meet your bride.”

He turned. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met mine. There was no spark. No flicker of interest. No warmth. Just a flat, dispassionate acknowledgment. Like he was looking at a piece of furniture that had been delivered.

He walked over, his movements fluid, controlled. He stopped in front of me. He was taller than I’d imagined. Close up, I could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the set of his jaw that was a little too tight.

“Siddhi,” he said. His voice was low, smooth, a voice that was used to being obeyed. It held no emotion. Just the word, dropped like a stone into still water.

“Vihaan,” I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt.

His mother laughed, a tinkling, practiced sound. “So formal! You’re going to be married in two hours. Come, sit. Let’s have some chai.”

The next hour was a blur of small talk and sideways glances. My parents and his parents discussed logistics. The caterer, the priest, the guest list. It was a business merger, not a wedding. They talked about the honeymoon like it was a corporate retreat. “We’ve booked the suite at the Oberoi in Udaipur. Very private. Very relaxing.”

Relaxing. The word was absurd. I was marrying a stranger. I was being traded to cover my father’s debts. There was nothing relaxing about it.

Vihaan didn’t speak. He sat in a chair across from me, his legs crossed, his hands resting on his knees. He watched the conversation like he was watching a movie he’d seen before. Occasionally, his mother would look at him and he would nod, a single, curt movement.

I tried to read him. Was he angry? Resigned? Was he being forced into this as much as I was? Or was he a willing participant, a man who saw a wife as another asset to acquire?

I couldn’t tell. His face gave nothing away. It was a perfect, impenetrable wall.

At one point, his younger sister, a girl of about sixteen with a sharp, curious face, came and sat next to me. “I’m Aanya,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Are you nervous?”

“Terrified,” I whispered back.

She grinned. It was the first genuine smile I’d seen in that house. “Good. Me too. For you, I mean. Vihaan bhaiya is… quiet.”

“I noticed.”

“He’s not mean,” she said quickly. “He’s just… far away. He’s been like that since…”

“Aanya.” Vihaan’s voice cut through the room. It was soft, but it carried a blade. “Don’t bother the guests.”

Aanya flinched, then gave me a quick, apologetic look before scurrying away.

I felt a flicker of something. Not anger. Curiosity. Since when? Since what? There was a crack in his armor. A small one, but it was there.

The priest arrived. The rituals began. I was led to a makeshift mandap in the garden, the flowers wilting in the late afternoon heat. The fire was lit. The chants began. I moved through the motions like a puppet. I sat when I was told to sit. I stood when I was told to stand. I took Vihaan’s hand when it was offered.

His hand was warm, dry, and utterly still. He held mine like it was an object he’d been handed. There was no squeeze, no reassurance, no connection. Just the necessary contact to complete the ritual.

I looked at his face as the priest chanted the final mantras. The flames of the fire cast flickering shadows across his features. For a single, fleeting moment, I saw something in his eyes. Not warmth. Not affection. A kind of grim, resigned acceptance. The look of a man who was also trapped.

Then it was gone. The mask was back. The wall was rebuilt.

The garlands were exchanged. The sindoor was applied. The mangalsutra was tied around my neck, a thin strand of black and gold beads that felt like a collar. I was Mrs. Vihaan Raichand.

The guests clapped. My mother cried. My father shook hands with Vihaan’s father, their grips firm and satisfied. The deal was done.

The reception was a blur of faces and handshakes and hollow congratulations. I smiled until my cheeks ached. I nodded until my neck was stiff. I was passed from relative to relative like a tray of hors d'oeuvres.

Vihaan stayed by my side, a silent, imposing presence. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t speak to me. He just stood there, a few inches away, a wall of expensive fabric and cold silence. When a particularly drunk uncle made a crude joke about the wedding night, Vihaan’s hand shot out and clamped down on the man’s wrist.

“Careful, Chacha,” he said, his voice low and even. “You’ve had too much to drink. Let me call the driver to take you home.”

The uncle’s face went pale. He stammered an apology and retreated. Vihaan released his wrist and wiped his hand on his kurta, a gesture of casual disgust.

It was the first interesting thing he’d done all day.

Hours later, the last guest left. The staff began clearing the tables, their movements efficient and silent. My parents came to say goodbye. My mother hugged me, her body trembling with suppressed sobs. “Be a good wife,” she whispered in my ear. “Make us proud.”

My father shook my hand. A firm, businesslike handshake. “You’re a Raichand now. Remember that.”

And then they were gone. The car pulled away, its taillights disappearing down the long driveway. I stood in the doorway, the silk of my wedding sari feeling heavier than ever.

“You must be tired.”

I turned. Vihaan was standing behind me. He had changed out of his kurta into a simple white shirt and dark trousers. He looked more relaxed, but no more approachable.

“Exhausted,” I said.

“Follow me.”

He turned and walked down a long, wide hallway. I followed, my heels clicking on the marble floor. We passed room after room. A library. A home theater. A gym. The house was a labyrinth of luxury, all of it cold and impersonal.

He stopped at a door at the end of the hall. He pushed it open. It was a bedroom. A large, king-sized bed dominated the room. The sheets were white and crisp. The furniture was dark wood and minimalist. There was a single, framed print on the wall. A black and white photograph of a lone tree on a barren hill.

“This is your room,” he said.

I blinked. “My room?”

“Yes.” He stepped inside and walked to a dresser. He opened a drawer, pulled out a set of keys, and tossed them onto the bed. “Those are for the main door, the gate, and this room. The house staff are not to be in this wing after ten. If you need anything, call the kitchen. They’ll bring it up.”

I stared at him. He was giving me a briefing. Like I was a new employee.

“Where is your room?” I asked.

He pointed to the wall to his left. “Next door. The connecting door is locked from my side. It will remain locked.”

I felt a strange mix of relief and insult. He wasn’t going to touch me. He was making that abundantly clear. But the way he said it, the cold, clinical finality of it, stung.

“And our marriage?” I asked. “What exactly is this?”

He turned to face me fully. For the first time that day, his eyes held something other than blank neutrality. It was a flicker of impatience.

“It’s a contract,” he said. “My family needed a daughter-in-law. Your family needed financial stability. The terms have been met. You will live here. You will attend the required social functions. You will play the role of Mrs. Vihaan Raichand when it is required. In return, you will want for nothing. You will have a monthly allowance, a credit card, full access to the house and grounds. You can pursue your… hobbies.”

He said the word “hobbies” like it was a mildly distasteful habit.

“And what do you get?” I asked.

He was silent for a moment. “Peace,” he said finally. “I get to be left alone.”

He walked toward the door. He paused in the doorway, his hand on the frame.

“One more thing,” he said, without turning around. “The door to the terrace is bolted from the outside. Don’t try to open it.”

And then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him.

I stood in the middle of the room, the keys cold in my palm. The air was still, sterile, smelling of lemon polish and new linen. I looked at the locked connecting door. I looked at the bolted terrace door.

I was a prisoner. A well-fed, well-dressed, impeccably housed prisoner.

I walked to the window and looked out. The garden was dark, the fountain silent. The city lights glittered in the distance, a world I was no longer a part of.

I heard a sound. A soft, rhythmic thumping. It was coming from the wall. From his room.

I pressed my ear to the cold plaster. It was a heartbeat. No. It was a fist. He was punching the wall. Over and over. A steady, controlled rhythm of violence.

I stood there, listening to my husband beat his fists against the wall on the other side of a locked door. And I realized, with a cold, sinking certainty, that the monster I had married was not the one I had to fear.

It was the one he was fighting.