Ira

The moment I walked into the living room, I knew something was cooking. Daadi and Chachi were sitting on the sofa, photo albums open, some new biodatas in their hands, looking at me with that shaadi karlo beta face.

Seriously? After a 14-hour workday, this was the last thing I wanted.

“Beta, zara in ladkon ko dekh le,” Daadi started hopefully.

I sighed. “Daadi, please, abhi nahi.”

Chachi pushed forward another picture, all bright smiles. “Achhe ghar ke hain. Dekh toh le, humare family friends bhi hain.”

“Main interested nahi hoon, Chachi,” I said calmly, dropping my bag on the chair. “Main khush hoon.”

Daadi’s voice got sharper. “Shaadi ab nahi karegi toh kab karegi, Ira? Umar nikal jayegi.”

A tired laugh escaped me. “Daadi, jab mann hoga, main bata dungi. Pakka.”

---

Later that night, Maa came to my room with a glass of warm milk, her expression a mix of worry and love.

“Beta…” she began softly.

I looked up, expecting this conversation.

She sat beside me. “Dekho, mujhe pata hai tumhare past mein kuch tha. Tum kabhi nahi batati details, bas itna pata hai ki dil toot gaya tha. Agar koi hai abhi, toh bata do.”

I took a slow breath, trying to sound steadier than I felt. “Maa, kabhi kabhi hum chahkar bhi moveon nehi par pate kisi aur ke sath kiyuki , dil manne ko tyyar hi nehi hota. Jab mann hoga shaadi ka, I’ll tell you first.”

She nodded, sadness flickering in her eyes. “Bas khush rehna, beta.”

After a pause, she added, “Aur sun — next week chachaji ke bete ki shaadi hai Kolkata mein. Sabko jaana padega. Aath saal ho gaye tumhe mile hue, sab miss karte hain.”

My eyes widened. Eight years? It had really been that long.

After my 12th, I’d packed my bags at nineteen, shifting to Delhi for college. Three years of graduation, two years of higher studies, and even while studying, I’d started building the foundation of my own company. The long nights, the endless rejections, and then slowly, success. Two years ago, I bought my own house in Delhi and moved my family with me. Delhi had changed me — given me independence, given me ambition.

But I couldn’t deny a small part of me still missed Kolkata — the old lanes, the smell of gondhoraj lebu (fragrant lemon), childhood laughter.

Maa’s voice broke my thoughts. “Aur bride ka ek saga bhai bhi hai, shyad varun nam hai uska , usko bhi mil lena, bohot acha ladka hai.”

“Maa!” I groaned. “Please, no matchmaking waha bhi.”

She laughed, ruffling my hair. “Dekhte hain.”

---

Rayansh

On the other side of Delhi, Reyansh was winding up his dinner when his mother walked in with a warm smile.

“Reyansh beta,” she called, using his childhood nickname, “ek shaadi ka invite aaya hai. Kolkata jaana padega.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Kolkata?”

“Ha beta,” his mom explained, “meri bachpan ki dost ki beti ki shaadi hai. You remember Mansi na? You tied rakhi to her once, she is like your chhoti behen. Wohhi Mansi.”

A grin spread across his face. “Mansi is getting married? Seriously? That’s great!”

He had always been protective of Mansi, almost like a real brother. The thought of seeing her as a bride made him emotional in a way he hadn’t expected.

His mother continued, “Poora family invited hai, hum sab jayenge.”

Reyansh nodded immediately. “Of course, Maa. I'll also get to meet Varun there after so long . I wouldn’t miss it.”

As he leaned back, his mind went back for a second to how his own life had shaped up. Originally from Hyderabad, a Telugu family rooted in traditional values, he had shifted to Delhi at seventeen for further studies. Those Delhi years had turned him into the businessman he was today. Eventually, he bought his own house, moved his parents with him — Delhi was home now.

He loved his family deeply. And weddings, especially of someone like Mansi, meant he would be there — no matter what.

---

Ira

I began packing my suitcase the next night, a little nervous. Eight years… sab kitne badal gaye honge.

I didn’t know then that one unexpected guest would turn my world upside down at that wedding.