Three Years Later
Ashweriya's POV
The morning sun cast long shadows across the rooftop terrace, painting everything in warm amber light. I sat cross-legged on the pristine white sheet, my red lehenga pooled around me like spilled wine, watching the marigold arch sway gently in the October breeze. The scent of jasmine and rose petals filled the air, mingling with the distant sounds of the city waking up below.
Haldi ceremony. If Carter were here right now, he'd probably say it sounded like some magical potion from one of his fantasy novels. And looking at my arms, already glowing with the golden turmeric paste, I couldn't entirely disagree.
My mother knelt beside me, her sari the color of deep turquoise, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Her fingers, stained yellow from the haldi, moved with practiced grace as she gently massaged the paste into my arms and face. Each touch felt like a blessing, like she was painting me with love itself.
"Beta," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, "today you become someone's home."
The words settled in my chest, warm and heavy. Home. For so long, I'd been a wanderer in my own life, painting my solitude on canvas after canvas, finding peace only in the silence of my art studio. But Carter had changed that. He'd seen me when I thought I was invisible.
Olivia approached hesitantly, her fingers stained gold, looking both nervous and excited. She'd been practicing this moment for weeks, watching YouTube videos and asking my mother endless questions about the traditions. "Like this?" she asked, mimicking my mother's gentle circular motions.
My mother smiled, nodding approvingly.
I couldn't help but laugh, remembering how Olivia had initially reacted when I'd explained the haldi ceremony to her. She'd been fascinated and slightly overwhelmed, the way she always was when confronted with traditions so different from her own upbringing. But she'd thrown herself into learning, the same way she did everything—with her whole heart.
Carter sat about ten feet away, watching the proceedings with a mixture of awe and what I could only describe as mild terror. He was trying to look casual, but I could see the way his hands fidgeted with the edge of his kurta, the way his eyes kept darting between me and the elaborate preparations happening around us.
Sebastian leaned over and whispered something in his ear that made Carter laugh, not the nervous chuckle he'd been giving everyone all morning. Whatever Sebastian had said seemed to relax him, and I felt my own shoulders loosen in response.
The terrace had been transformed overnight into something magical. Marigold garlands draped every available surface, their bright orange and yellow petals creating a canopy of color above us. The morning light caught the gold threads in my lehenga, making them shimmer like captured sunlight. My aunties bustled around with plates of sweets and steel glasses of chai, their voices creating a warm hum of excitement and anticipation.
As my mother continued applying the haldi, I found my mind drifting to that day six months ago, when everything changed. The day Carter had taken my breath away with his quiet, devastating proposal.
Flashback Start
Six Months Ago — The Art Gallery
The space was quiet. Still.
When I opened the door to the private gallery, I thought I'd be walking into a regular exhibit. Instead, I walked into myself.
Every single canvas was mine.
Paintings I had made in silence, in grief, in bursts of passion and color. He'd found them all. Framed them. Lit them with soft yellow lights. And on the floor... candles.
Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
Carter stood at the center, wearing a navy shirt and soft eyes. His palms sweated even though he tried to keep them cool.
"Carter, what is this?" I whispered, my voice barely audible over the thundering of my heart.
He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "This is you, Aishwariya. Every stroke, every color, every moment of pain and joy you've ever painted. This is your soul on these walls."
I turned slowly, taking in the careful way he'd arranged my work. Pieces I'd painted in my darkest hours hung beside explosions of hope and color. My entire artistic journey was displayed like a love letter to who I was.
"How did you find them all?" I asked, my fingers trailing along the frame of a painting I'd thought was lost forever.
"I've been collecting them for two years," he said softly. "Every piece you gave away, every canvas you thought wasn't good enough, every painting you hid because you thought no one would understand. I found them all because I see you, Aishwariya. I see every beautiful, broken, brilliant part of you."
My breath caught as he moved to stand directly in front of me, his hands reaching out to cup my face.
"You paint because you have to," he continued, his thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "Because there's so much beauty and pain inside you that it has to go somewhere. And I fell in love with that, with the way you see the world in colors most people can't even imagine."
"Carter..."
He stepped back and slowly lowered himself to one knee, pulling out a small velvet box. The vintage blue sapphire ring caught the candlelight like a captured piece of sky.
"Aishwariya Patel," he said, his voice steady despite the emotion swimming in his eyes, "I don't have flowery speeches or grand gestures that could match the beauty you create every day. But I have this truth: you are my masterpiece. Not because you're perfect, but because you're perfectly you."
I covered my mouth with my hands, unable to speak.
"I want to spend the rest of my life being your canvas," he continued, his voice growing stronger with each word. "I want to be the space where you can paint all your dreams, your fears, your wildest imaginings. I want to wake up every morning and see the world through your artist's eyes."
He opened the box, and the ring sparkled like starlight against the dark velvet.
"Will you marry me? Will you let me be your partner in creating the most beautiful life we can imagine?"
The gallery fell silent except for the gentle flickering of candles and the distant hum of the city outside. My paintings surrounded us like witnesses to this moment, every piece of art I'd ever created seeming to whisper 'yes yes yes'
As he slipped the ring onto my finger, I felt something shift inside me—not just love, but recognition. This was what it meant to be truly seen, truly known, truly chosen.
He stood slowly, pulling me up with him, his hands never leaving mine. For a moment, we just stood there among the candles and my paintings, looking at each other like we were seeing the future written in each other's eyes.
"Come here," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.
I stepped closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough to count the flecks of gold in his eyes. He cupped my face in his hands with infinite tenderness, his thumbs tracing the paths where my tears had fallen.
"I love you," he said, the words a promise and a prayer all at once.
"I love you, too," I whispered back, and then his lips found mine.
The kiss was soft at first, gentle and reverent, like he was kissing something sacred. But then I melted into him, my arms winding around his neck, and the kiss deepened into something that spoke of all the nights he'd held me through the darkness, all the mornings he'd brought me coffee and hope in equal measure. It tasted like forever and felt like coming home.
Around us, the candles flickered and danced, casting our shadows on the walls where my entire life's work bore witness to this moment of perfect, overwhelming love.
Flashback Ends
"Aishwariya," my mother's voice pulled me back to the present. "Stop daydreaming and hold still."
I smiled sheepishly, realizing I'd been lost in my memories while she tried to apply haldi to my cheeks. "Sorry, Mama."
She studied my face with the keen attention of someone who'd known me since before I knew myself. "Nervous?"
"A little," I admitted, though nervous didn't quite capture the swirling mix of emotions in my chest. Excited, terrified, grateful, overwhelmed—all of it tangled together like threads in a complex weaving.
"Good," she said, surprising me. "If you weren't nervous, I'd be worried. Love is supposed to be a little scary. It means you understand how precious it is."
The haldi ceremony continued around us, a symphony of laughter and gentle chaos. My cousins took turns blessing me with turmeric paste, each touch accompanied by whispered prayers and tearful smiles. Olivia threw herself into the tradition with characteristic enthusiasm, getting more haldi on herself than on me, which only made everyone laugh harder.
Even Sebastian, despite his initial bewilderment at the customs, seemed to be enjoying himself. He'd been appointed as Carter's unofficial cultural liaison, a role he'd accepted with surprising grace. I watched him help Carter navigate the various traditions with patient explanations and gentle humor.
As the morning wore on, the rooftop filled with more family and friends. The aunties bustled about with increasing urgency, checking and rechecking every detail. The smell of cooking food wafted up from the kitchen below—samosas and pakoras, chutneys and sweets, enough to feed a small army.
The transition from haldi to mehendi felt like moving from one dream into another. The afternoon light was softer now, filtered through the fabric canopy that had been stretched across part of the terrace. I sat in the center of it all, my hands extended while the mehendi artist worked her magic with the dark henna paste.
The scent was earthy and rich, grounding me in the moment even as my mind continued to drift. I watched the intricate patterns emerge on my palms—paisleys and flowers, geometric designs that seemed to tell their own story. The artist worked with quiet concentration, occasionally pausing to refill her cone or wipe her hands on a cloth.
My mother sat beside me, holding my free hand steady when needed. "You were always stubborn," she said softly, her voice carrying a lifetime of love and exasperation. "Even as a baby, you had your own ideas about everything."
I smiled, remembering the countless times she'd told me stories about my childhood obstinacy. How I'd refused to wear anything but my favorite purple dress for months, or how I'd insisted on arranging my toys in precise patterns that only made sense to me.
"And now look at you," she continued, her thumb tracing gentle circles on my wrist. "Someone saw that stubborn heart of yours and decided it was exactly what he needed."
Olivia had changed into a deep wine-colored lehenga that made her skin glow. She moved through the gathering with natural grace, despite her earlier nervousness about wearing traditional clothes. I watched her laugh with Sebastian, who looked both dazzling and slightly overwhelmed in his cream kurta. They made a beautiful picture together, both of them trying so hard to honor traditions that weren't their own.
Carter, meanwhile, was attempting to get a small henna design on his wrist, much to the artist's amused frustration.
"No moving," she instructed for the third time, shaking her head with practiced patience.
"This is symmetrical torture," he complained, but he was smiling as he said it.
I caught his eye across the space and felt that familiar flutter in my chest. Even now, after three years together, he could still make me feel like a teenager with her first crush. The way he looked at me—like I was something rare and wonderful—never failed to take my breath away.
"What are you thinking about?" my mother asked, following my gaze.
"Everything," I said honestly. "How did we get here. How lucky I am."
She squeezed my hand gently. "Luck had nothing to do with it, beta. You both chose each other, every single day. That's not luck—that's love."
The mehendi artist finished the design on my right hand and moved to my left. The patterns were incredibly intricate, each line deliberate and meaningful. In the traditional way, she'd hidden Carter's name somewhere in the design—a game he'd have to play later, searching through the swirls and curves to find the letters of his name.
As the evening progressed, the terrace filled with music and laughter. Someone had brought a tabla, and the rhythmic beating created a heartbeat for the celebration. My cousins sang traditional songs, their voices blending in harmonies I'd known since childhood.
I found myself thinking about time—how it could stretch and compress, how moments could feel both eternal and fleeting. This day had been months in the planning, but it felt like it was passing in a blur of sensation and emotion. The weight of my jewelry, the smell of henna and flowers, the sound of voices raised in celebration—all of it was layering together to create something I'd carry with me forever.
"The mehendi is darkening nicely," the artist observed, examining her work with professional satisfaction. "It will be very dark by tomorrow."
My mother beamed at this pronouncement, as if the darkness of my henna was a personal victory. In a way, I supposed it was. Every tradition, every ritual, was a way of weaving me into the fabric of something larger than myself. Not just a marriage, but a joining of families, of cultures, of two people who'd found their way to each other through all the chaos of the world.
Tomorrow would bring the wedding itself, with all its ceremony and significance. But today was about preparation, about gathering the people who mattered most and celebrating the journey that had brought us all here.
The wedding morning arrived with a symphony of organized chaos. I woke before dawn, not from any alarm but from the sheer energy of anticipation humming through the building. The sound of voices, of footsteps on stairs, of saris rustling and bangles chiming, created a music all its own.
My mother was already up, had probably been awake for hours, orchestrating the final preparations with the precision of a military general. She appeared in my doorway with a cup of chai and eyes that were bright with excitement and unshed tears.
"Today's the day, beta," she said, settling beside me on the bed.
I sat up, accepting the warm cup gratefully. The tea was perfectly spiced, exactly the way she'd been making it for me since I was old enough to drink chai. Some things, I thought, never change. And maybe that was the beauty of it—having these constants, these touchstones, even as everything else transformed around us.
The getting-ready process was an elaborate dance involving more women than I could count. Aunties I hadn't seen in years appeared with advice and jewelry, with stories about their own wedding days and predictions about mine. My cousins took turns helping me into the layers of clothing—the blouse with its intricate embroidery, the heavy lehenga skirt with its gold thread work, the dupatta that would frame my face like a work of art.
Olivia moved through it all with wide-eyed wonder, helping wherever she could but mostly just absorbing the beautiful chaos of it all. She'd appointed herself as my emotional support system, fetching water when I needed it, holding my hand during the particularly overwhelming moments, and making sure I actually ate something despite my nervous stomach.
"You're glowing," she said as the makeup artist put the finishing touches on my face. "I mean, actually glowing. Is that the haldi or just pure happiness?"
I laughed, catching my reflection in the mirror. I did look different, not just because of the elaborate makeup or the stunning outfit, but something deeper. There was a radiance there that I'd never seen before, a sense of completion that went beyond the external transformations.
My mother approached with the mangalsutra—the sacred necklace that Carter would place around my neck during the ceremony. It was her own, passed down from her mother, and her mother before that. The black and gold beads caught the light as she held them up, and I felt the weight of generations of love and commitment in that simple piece of jewelry.
"This carried me through forty years of marriage," she said, her voice soft with memory. "And now it will carry you."
The final touch was the maang tikka—the elaborate jewelry piece that would rest on my forehead, connected by delicate chains to my hair. As she secured it in place, I felt the transformation complete. I was no longer just Aishwariya—I was a bride, carrying the hopes and blessings of everyone who loved me.
The mandap had been erected on the main terrace, under the open sky, where the sun could bless our union. It was draped in gold and red fabric, with four pillars supporting a canopy that fluttered gently in the morning breeze. The sacred fire burned at the center, tended by the priest who would guide us through the ancient rituals.
As I made my way toward the ceremony, supported by my cousins and aunts, I could hear the music beginning—the traditional shehnai that announced the bride's arrival. The sound sent shivers down my spine, not from nervousness but from the sheer weight of the moment.
Carter was already seated in the mandap, and when he turned to look at me, I saw his breath catch. He was wearing an ivory sherwani with gold embroidery, and he looked like he'd stepped out of a fairy tale. But it was his expression that undid me—the way his eyes widened, the slow smile that spread across his face, the slight shake of his head as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
Sebastian sat beside him, resplendent in his matching ivory outfit, looking every bit the supportive best friend.
I took my place beside Carter, the weight of my lehenga settling around me like a crimson cloud. Our hands brushed as I sat down, and that simple touch sent electricity through my entire body. After all this time, he could still make my heart race with the simplest gesture.
The priest began the ceremony with prayers and blessings, his voice carrying across the gathered crowd. My relatives sat in neat rows, the women's saris creating a rainbow of colors against the backdrop of the city skyline. Carter's family and friends were interspersed among them, all of us united in this moment of celebration.
But it was the seven pheras—the seven sacred rounds around the fire—that truly made us husband and wife. With each circle, we would make a vow, a promise that would bind us together for this life and all the ones to come.
The priest explained each vow in both Sanskrit and English, ensuring that Carter understood the sacred nature of what we were promising.
First Phera - Nourishment As we walked around the fire for the first time, I felt the weight of the vow settling into my bones. "We promise to care for each other in hunger and health, to nourish each other's bodies and souls."
Carter's voice was steady as he whispered his response: "I'll never let you go hungry. In any way."
Second Phera - Strength The second round felt heavier somehow, more significant. "We promise to walk together through hard times, to be each other's strength when the world becomes too much."
I looked at him, seeing not just the man I was marrying but the partner who'd already proven he could weather any storm with me. "I'll never let you fall alone again."
Third Phera - Prosperity As we completed the third circle, the morning sun climbed higher, casting everything in golden light. "We promise to build a life rich in purpose, to support each other's dreams and ambitions."
Carter's smile was radiant. "You already made my life rich. I'm just catching up."
Fourth Phera - Family This round brought tears to my eyes as I thought about the families surrounding us, the love that had brought us to this moment. "We promise to cherish our families and create one of our own, to honor those who came before and nurture those who will come after."
I nodded, my voice thick with emotion. "And it will be full of strange, beautiful people like us."
Fifth Phera - Children The fifth round made Carter laugh, a sound of pure joy that carried across the terrace. "We promise to raise the future with grace and courage, to be worthy guides for the souls entrusted to our care."
"I'm not ready for babies," he said with characteristic honesty. "But dogs? Definitely dogs."
Sixth Phera - Health As we walked the sixth circle, I thought about all the ways we'd already cared for each other—through late nights and early mornings, through creative blocks and breakthrough moments. "We promise to stay beside each other in sickness and in health, to be each other's healing."
"I will be your quiet when the world is too loud," I whispered, meaning every word.
Seventh Phera - Love and Friendship The final round felt both momentous and inevitable. "We promise to remain best friends, lovers, and companions, forever and beyond."
Carter's voice was simple, direct, perfectly him: "You are my favorite person."
The moment when Carter tied the mangalsutra around my neck felt sacred in a way that transcended ritual. His hands were steady despite the emotion I could see in his eyes, and as the ancient necklace settled against my skin, I felt something fundamental shift inside me. I was no longer just myself—I was part of something larger, something that had been building between us for three years and would continue growing for the rest of our lives.
The sindoor ceremony followed—Carter taking the vermilion powder and gently applying it to the part in my hair. The red streak felt like a claiming, a public declaration that I belonged to someone and he belonged to me. It was a tradition that might have felt possessive in another context, but in this moment, surrounded by love and blessing, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
As the priest declared us husband and wife, the crowd erupted in celebration. Rose petals fell like rain around us, and the sound of conch shells and drums filled the air. I looked at Carter—my husband—and saw my own wonder reflected in his face.
"We did it," he said, leaning close so I could hear him over the celebration.
"We did it," I agreed, and then we were both laughing, giddy with the joy of it all.
The late evening found us on the same rooftop where we'd begun the celebrations, but now it was transformed once again. Gone were the elaborate decorations of the morning, replaced by simple fairy lights and floor cushions scattered around low tables. The city sparkled below us, a constellation of lights stretching to the horizon.
We didn't want a big reception, had never been the type for elaborate parties. Instead, we'd asked for this—intimate time with the people who mattered most, chai and simple food, and the quiet joy of having made it through to the other side of forever.
Olivia was curled up on one of the cushions, wearing a beautiful gown.. She looked content in a way I rarely saw her, usually so busy taking care of everyone else that she forgot to simply be.
"This was so full," she said, her voice soft with satisfaction. "Every moment felt sacred."
Sebastian nodded from his place beside her, looking surprisingly comfortable in his traditional clothes. "Even the silence felt meaningful."
Carter leaned into me, warm and solid and real. The weight of my jewelry had been reduced to just the essentials—the mangalsutra, my wedding bangles, the sindoor still bright in my hair. I felt both transformed and utterly myself, like I'd finally grown into the person I was always meant to be.
"Was it everything you wanted?" he asked, his voice quiet enough that only I could hear.
I looked out at the city skyline, at the sky full of stars above it, at the faces of the people who'd chosen to be part of our story. I thought about the journey that had brought us here—the art gallery proposal, the months of planning, the moments of doubt and certainty that had led to this perfect, imperfect day.
"Yes," I said, meaning it completely. "More than I knew how to ask for."
He pressed a kiss to my temple, and I closed my eyes, letting the moment settle into memory. When I opened them again, he was looking at me with that same expression he'd worn during our vows—like I was something miraculous he couldn't quite believe was his.
"Mrs. West," he whispered, testing out the sound of my new name.
"I like the sound of that," I whispered back, turning in his arms so I was facing him completely.
The fairy lights above us cast a soft glow across his face, highlighting the joy and love and wonder I saw there. Without words, he reached up to cup my face, his thumb tracing the line of my cheek with infinite tenderness.
"Hello, husband," I said softly.
"Hello, wife," he replied, and then he kissed me.
This kiss was different from the one in the gallery six months ago. That one had been about promises and possibilities, about stepping into an unknown future together. This one was about fulfillment, about vows kept and dreams realized. It was soft and deep and tasted like forever, like all the tomorrows we'd just promised each other.
Around us, our friends and family continued their quiet conversations, but it felt like we were in our own world—just the two of us and the stars and the endless possibility of the life we were about to build together.
When we finally broke apart, I rested my forehead against his, breathing in the moment.
Tomorrow, we'd be husband and wife in the ordinary world, with ordinary concerns and everyday challenges. But tonight, we were exactly where we were supposed to be—surrounded by love, blessed by tradition, and ready to begin the next chapter of our strange and beautiful story.
The fairy lights twinkled above us like earthbound stars, and in the distance, the city hummed its eternal song. I was home, not in a place, but in the space between heartbeats, in the quiet certainty of being known and chosen and loved.
It was more than enough. It was everything.