Author 's pov :
The courtyard of the ancestral haveli was glowing with golden fairy lights, strings of marigold flowers swaying softly in the evening breeze. Laughter mixed with the beats of the dhol, while women in bright lehengas and men in crisp kurtas moved about, carrying trays of sweets, arranging garlands, and fussing over last-minute details.
Viraj’s grandmother, Rekha Devi, sat regally on the carved wooden jhoola at the edge of the courtyard. Draped in a deep maroon Banarasi saree with an antique gold border, her silver hair was neatly tied in a bun, and her forehead bore a small but striking red bindi. Despite her age, her eyes were sharp — always observing, always measuring the people around her. She had seen countless weddings, countless families, but tonight her attention was caught by someone in particular.
Among the whirl of colors and noise, a girl stood out — not because she tried to, but because she carried a natural ease that drew everyone’s eyes. She wasn’t sitting prim and proper like some others; instead, she was everywhere. One moment, she was giggling with the kids, her laughter ringing like temple bells. The next, she was dancing gracefully with the bridesmaids, her soft pink lehenga twirling under the fairy lights, the sequins catching the glow like scattered stars. And when an elder struggled with a heavy thaal, she rushed without hesitation, adjusting her dupatta and lending a helping hand, her bangles chiming softly as she moved.
Her face glowed without layers of makeup — just kohl-lined eyes full of mischief, a dusting of rose on her cheeks, and lips curved in an easy smile. Strands of her dark, wavy hair slipped free from her braid as she worked, and instead of fussing, she simply tucked them back, too busy laughing to care.
Savitri Devi’s heart stirred with recognition. She watched as the girl teased the children, calmed a fussy aunt, and then broke into another peal of laughter when someone spilled juice on her dupatta. There was warmth in her nature, fire in her spirit, and light in her smile.
For the first time in years, Savitri Devi’s face lit up like a child’s. she whispered to herself, her wrinkled hands clutching the edge of her saree pallu, “this one… this one can handle my Viraj.”
The band played louder as the baraat prepared to arrive, and the entire courtyard buzzed with excitement. Rekha Devi, however, had only one thought on her mind. She adjusted her gold bangles, her eyes still following the girl in the pink lehenga. Finally, she couldn’t sit still anymore. With the quickness of someone far younger than her years, she rose from the jhoola, her saree rustling as she walked straight to the bride’s mother.
“Shalini!” Rekha Devi called out warmly, her voice carrying over the music. “You’ve made this wedding glow like Diwali itself. But tell me—” she leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes twinkling, “who is that chanchal si ladki? The one who’s running around like the bride herself.”
Shalini laughed, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. “Oh, that’s Aayushi. My daughter's friend. Bas, she’s like this—never sitting still, always helping everyone. She’s the jaan of this function.”
Rekha Devi clasped her hands together, her smile widening. “Aayushi,” she repeated the name with delight, as if it were a sweet melting on her tongue. “Wah, bilkul uske jaise hi naam—full of life.”
Before Shalini could say more, Savitri Devi was already gliding toward the girl, her steps light, her saree pallu bouncing against her arm.
Aayushi’s POV:
She had just finished convincing a group of children to stop pulling the flower strings when she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. Turning around, Aayushi found herself face-to-face with an elderly woman whose smile was so warm it instantly put her at ease.
“Beta,” the woman said, her voice lilting like a playful melody, “tumne to pure function mein jaan daal di hai! I’ve been watching you since long—you laugh, you dance, you help!”
Aayushi’s cheeks flushed pinker than her lehenga. She smiled shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Namaste dadi ji?” she guessed, noticing the lady’s regal presence.
Savitri Devi chuckled, touching Aayushi’s cheek lightly. “Haan, Hmesha khush rho. Waise, tumhara naam kya hai, Bchi?”
“Aayushi,” she replied softly.
The grandmother’s eyes lit up. “Aayushi! Kitna khoobsurat naam hai… Tum jaisi ladki, hr jgh ko roshni se bhar deti hai.”
Aayushi laughed gently, a little embarrassed by the attention. “Aap toh bas yunhi taarif kar rahi hain.”
“Nahi, beta,” Rekha Devi said firmly, her gaze affectionate yet sharp, as though she could see right through her. “Mujhse logo ko pehchaan-ne mein kabhi galti nahin hoti.”
And as Aayushi bowed her head with a modest smile, she wondered why the grandmother’s words carried such weight—as though she wasn’t just making conversation, but had already decided something important in her heart.
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