PASHMINA AND SHUBMAN'S MARRIAGE

Pashmina, draped in a breathtaking red lehenga, walked forward with grace. The ring on her left finger gleamed—just like the love she carried for the man waiting ahead.

Shubman stood confidently, his ivory sherwani embroidered with fine gold threads catching the light just right. Draped over his shoulder was a deep red palla, its rich hue perfectly complementing Pashmina's lehenga. His turban, a bold crimson with hints of gold, matched the warmth of her attire, while a delicate sarpech nestled at the front added a regal touch. The layered pearl and ruby mala around his neck mirrored the intricate work on her jewelry, a silent testament to the harmony between them. Even the hilt of his kirpan gleamed with hints of red and gold, completing a look that was both striking and deeply rooted in tradition.

Pashmina's eyes drifted to their two-year-old monkey, fast asleep in his Dadi's arms, his tiny chest rising and falling with each peaceful breath. The whirlwind of celebrations had clearly worn him out, yet even in sleep, his little hand twitched, as if still dancing to the endless beats of the dhol. She watched a moment longer, her heart tugging at the sight of his fingers curled into Dadi's dupatta. Even in sleep, their little troublemaker refused to rest. A quiet laugh escaped her as she shook her head before finally turning toward Shubman.

Pashmina exhaled, her fingers brushing over the embroidered edge of her dupatta as she took a step forward. The distance between them wasn't much, but with each step, the sounds of the world around her—shabads, whispered blessings, the faint rustle of silk and jewelry—softened into something distant, almost weightless.

Shubman didn't move, didn't extend a hand, just watched her the way he always did—like he already knew she'd come to him.

So she did.

Without hesitation, her hand found the crook of his arm, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric. His warmth was immediate, grounding, like the most familiar thing in a world that had always been shifting. He didn't say anything, just let his smirk tilt at the corner, a silent ho gaya? lingering in his expression.

Pashmina huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head at him. But she didn't let go. And neither did he.

Together, they stepped forward.

The echoes of shabad kirtan filled the Darbar Sahib, each word carrying prayers that had been sung for generations. The warm glow of divas flickered against the polished marble, their light dancing over the Guru Granth Sahib, draped in rich silk. The scent of marigolds and sandalwood lingered in the air as Pashmina and Shubman bowed their heads, foreheads pressing to the cool floor. In that moment, nothing else existed—just their prayers and the path ahead.

As they stood, the Granthi began reciting the first Laavan. Pashmina glanced at Shubman briefly before stepping forward, leading the first round. The weight of her lehenga shifted with each step, the tiny bells on her paayal barely making a sound. Their families sat with folded hands, watching in silence as they walked, their bond strengthening with every turn.

The second round—strength. The third—faith. The fourth—oneness. The deep red fabric of Shubman's palla brushed against her bangles, a fleeting touch, but one that held more than words ever could. He never let it slip.

As they sat again before the Guru Granth Sahib, the raagis sang softly, their voices weaving into the moment. Pashmina didn't need to look at Shubman to know what he was feeling—she could sense it, just as she always had.

The Granthi offered blessings, and warm saffron parshad was placed into their hands. A soft breeze passed through the Darbar Sahib, as if carrying Waheguru's presence. She looked at Shubman, and without a word, he broke the parshad and held out the first piece to her.

Not just a wedding. A promise

As the sacred hymns lingered in the air, a small, sleepy voice broke through the hush of the Darbar Sahib.

"Mumma?"

Pashmina turned instinctively, her gaze landing on Aryaman, now wide awake in his Dadi's lap. His curls were slightly damp with sweat, his tiny fists rubbing at his drowsy eyes. For a moment, he looked confused, his chubby face scrunched as he took in his surroundings—the marble floors, the soft glow of the divas, the rows of familiar faces watching him with fond amusement. Then, his gaze found her.

His frown deepened. "You left me?"

But Pashmina barely held back a grin at the sheer drama in his tiny voice—like he'd just uncovered the greatest betrayal in history.

She held out her hands, beckoning. "Never."

Aryaman wiggled in Dadi's arms, half-heartedly protesting as she tried to keep him still. But the toddler was determined. Within seconds, he was up on his wobbly feet, his little sherwani slightly askew as he marched toward his parents, bare feet padding against the cool marble.

Shubman crouched down just in time to catch him, scooping him up effortlessly. Aryaman clung to his father's shoulder, still sleepy, still cranky, but unwilling to let go. His tiny fingers found the embroidered edge of Pashmina's dupatta, tugging it toward himself as if that alone could bring her closer.

"You didn't wake me up," he mumbled into Shubman's neck, his voice muffled but unmistakably sulky.

Pashmina pressed a kiss to his soft curls. "You were too tired, baby."

Aryaman huffed, his chubby arms wrapping tightly around Shubman's neck. He was silent for a moment, his little body curled securely between them. Then, in a voice just loud enough for them to hear, he grumbled, "Not fair."

Shubman chuckled, rubbing slow circles on his son's back. "I know, monkey. But you're here now, aren't you?"

Aryaman peeked up at him, as if considering this, then gave a sleepy nod. "Hmm."

Pashmina smiled, tracing a gentle hand down his back. "Then that's all that matters."

Tears threatened to spill, but Pashmina blinked them back, determined to smile through them. The final moments had arrived—the vidaai was here, the moment she had known was coming but had never truly prepared for. Her arms tightened around her Paaji and Mum, her face momentarily buried in her mother's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of home.

"Enough, enough," her mother murmured, her voice thick with emotion as she smoothed Pashmina's hair. "If you cry too much, your makeup will be gone before you even leave."

Virat let out a gruff sigh, his strong arms wrapped around both of them. "You're still my little sister, huh?" His voice was teasing, but his grip on her betrayed everything he wasn't saying.

Pashmina pulled back, her lips wobbly but still curved into a smile. "Of course. You think just because I'm married, I'll stop calling you at odd hours to annoy you?"

Virat scoffed, adjusting his sherwani with a huff. "You better not."

A chuckle rippled through the group, breaking the heaviness for just a moment. But then, Mumma Kohli cupped her cheek again, her thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped past despite her best efforts.

"Take care of yourself," Mum whispered. "And take care of them, too."

Pashmina swallowed hard, nodding as she held her mother's hand against her cheek for a moment longer. "Always," she promised, her voice steady despite the lump in her throat.

Pashmina turned next to her Bhabhi, who was already holding out her arms, eyes shining with emotion. "Take care of yourself, okay?" Anushka murmured, squeezing her tight.

"You too," Pashmina whispered back, feeling the warmth of her embrace settle something deep within her.

Before she could step away, two little figures barreled into her legs, wrapping their tiny arms around her.  "Bua, don't go!" her nephew whined, while his sister nodded furiously in agreement.

Pashmina wiped her damp cheeks, shaking her head with a teasing smile. "I've been living with Shubman for a year, you know."

Her niece crossed her arms, unimpressed. "But now it's real."

Her nephew nodded. "Now you have to stay there forever."

Pashmina gasped dramatically. "Forever? Oh no, what if I want to come back for Mumma's aloo parathas?"

Mumma Kohli sniffed, wiping at her eyes. "Then you come back, no questions asked."

Bhabhi chuckled, squeezing Pashmina's hand. "And take a tiffin full when you leave."

Shubman, who had been waiting patiently, smirked. "Or I can just send her back every weekend. Keep things balanced."

Paaji raised an eyebrow. "Send? You think we won't just take her?"

Aryaman, nestled in Shubman's arms, finally decided to chime in, his voice sleepy but sure. "Mumma comes home whenever she wants."

Pashmina grinned, ruffling his curls. "See? The boss has spoken."

A chuckle rippled through the group, the warmth of their laughter easing the weight of the moment. But when her mother cupped her cheek once more, the teasing softened, replaced by something quieter, deeper.

Mumma Kohli's palm rested against Pashmina's cheek, a touch that felt like both a blessing and a reminder—of childhood lullabies, whispered reassurances, and a love that had never wavered. It lingered there, warm and steady, a touch unchanged by time. Pashmina leaned into it for a moment, memorizing the feeling, a quiet, unspoken promise that she would always carry home with her.

"Be happy," Mumma whispered, her voice soft but firm, filled with every blessing she couldn't put into words.

Pashmina nodded, wrapping her arms around her mother one last time before stepping back, her fingers still reluctant to let go. But before distance could settle in, Shubman's fingers brushed against hers, curling around them like they had always belonged there.

She turned to him, finding the same quiet certainty in his gaze. He didn't pull or rush—just waited.

Pashmina let out a slow breath, her lips curving into a smile. And with their hands clasped, they moved forward—not leaving behind, but carrying with them every piece of love that had brought them here.

Because home wasn't just a place. It was the people who held on, even as they set you free.