"Vekh ke teri tasveer
Dil nahi lagda
Teri yaad aandi ae
Chain nahi lagda"
~ Tujhe Yaad Na Meri Ayee – B Praak

Bua had told me about it—had told me months ago, quietly, one evening in California. How in a traditional Punjabi wedding, the maternal uncle brings the chooda: red and white bangles, the bride's first set. How the bride is not supposed to see them until they are placed on her wrists. How the women gather.

I had not expected to want it so much.

We gathered in the inner room at eight in the morning—smaller than the haldi, more intimate. Bua and Devika Aunty. Aadya and Dadi. Ziva and Mahika Aunty. Aashika and Ritika, because they had become family enough.

The chooda was wrapped in a red cloth.

I sat with my eyes closed, hands in my lap, while Bua unwrapped it.

I could hear it before I could see it: the soft sound of the bangles settling against each other, like a particular kind of music.

"Keep your eyes closed," Bua said.

"They're closed."

"They were open for a second."

"They were not—"

"Kashvi."

I closed my eyes fully.

The room was very quiet.

And then Bua's hands lifted my left wrist, and the first bangle slid on.

The sound it made—the small, clear chime of it settling against my skin—was not a large sound. But it was the kind of sound that changes the quality of a room.

One by one. Bua's hands, steady.

Twenty-one bangles. Red and white. Each one placed with the specific care of someone handling something sacred.

The room was so quiet I could hear everyone in it breathing.

"Okay," Bua said. Her voice was not entirely steady. "Open your eyes."

I looked at my wrists.

Red and white. The traditional colours of Punjabi chooda, bright against my skin, catching the morning light coming through the window.

They chimed when I moved my hands.

That small sound.

I looked at Bua.

Her eyes were full. Not spilling over—she was holding it—but full.

"Dadi would have—" I started.

"I know," she said. "She would have been here. She would have placed them herself." She took my hands. "But she made me, and I'm here. So, in some way, she is too."

I couldn't speak.

I squeezed her hands instead.

And then Devika aunty knelt down and wrapped her own hands around both of mine—Bua's hands and my hands and her hands all together.

The two of them.

The women who had loved me into this moment.

The room was very still.

And then Ziva made a sound that broke the stillness perfectly: "I'm not crying. I just have turmeric in my eye from yesterday."

And everyone laughed, and the room became warm and chaotic and full again.

~

My phone started buzzing at eight forty-five.

I was in the middle of trying to get dressed without assistance, which was going moderately well, and I looked at the screen.

Aadya.

Not a call. A photo.

I stopped what I was doing.

The photo was Kashvi's wrists. The chooda—red and white bangles, bright against her skin, one hand slightly raised. She hadn't known the photo was being taken. She was looking at her Bua.

The next photo arrived before I could fully process the first.

Kashvi laughing at something. The bangles in motion, catching light. Her face—open and unguarded and incandescent.

Then the group chat notification.

Aadya: she doesn't know I'm sending these. you're welcome. 📷

Vihaan: BROTHER. BRO. AADYANT. ARE YOU OKAY.

Ivaan: Bhai say something we need proof of life

Aadya: He's fine he's just having a moment

Ivaan: That is not reassuring

Vihaan: Kashvi looks absolutely unreal.

Rishvik: Agreed (that is all I will say)

I was not fine.

I was sitting on the edge of a bed in the groom's room staring at photographs of the person I was going to marry tomorrow and feeling something so complete and so full that I didn't have a name for it.

Another photo arrived.

This one Aadya had clearly taken carefully, properly: Kashvi with her hands in Kritika Aunty's and Maa's together, head slightly bowed, the chooda visible. The morning light from the window. The red cloth on the floor behind them.

I stared at it for a long time.

Me: tell her I love her.

Aadya: not doing that. that is a boundary. you can tell her yourself tomorrow.

Vihaan: bhai that response was ROMANTIC—

Ivaan: Aadyant bhai are you CRY—

Me: no

Ivaan: SHORE SHORE🙄

Aadya: I'm sending one more and then I have to go back in there 📷

The last photo.

Kashvi standing at the window, alone for a moment, looking at her own wrists. The bangles chiming in the light. The fort just visible through the glass behind her.

Her expression.

The expression of someone looking at their own life and recognizing it as theirs. Completely, freely, without condition.

I put my phone down.

Breathed.

Few more hours.

I had waited eighteen years to want something this much.

Few more hours were nothing.

~

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