Author's POV
The day had begun like a sigh of gold over two houses that stood miles apart but carried the same fragrance in their courtyards—turmeric and anticipation. The sun rose slowly, wrapping both homes in the kind of warmth that promised laughter, nostalgia, and something deeper still—a quiet, insistent ache that love often leaves in waiting hearts. This golden hue was not just the colour of the Haldi paste; it was the colour of a promise being kept, of two separate lives preparing to merge into one luminous path. The world outside those two walls was muted, but inside, an electric current flowed, connecting Esha and Aakash across the distance, a shared tremor of readiness and profound, terrifying joy.
Esha's POV
The morning of the Haldi ceremony dawned like a canvas painted in vibrant, optimistic yellow. The house, usually a symphony of muted tones and elegant restraint, had exploded into a riot of marigolds, turmeric-stained fabrics, and laughter that bubbled up from every corner. The air itself felt thick with anticipation, carrying the sweet, earthy scent of the Haldi paste and the excited chatter of family. The soft rustle of yellow sarees and the rhythmic clicking of bangles filled the room before dawn had properly stretched its arms. Everyone was already bustling around, their chatter a bubbling melody of excitement, each face alight with the joy of a shared occasion.
I sat on a low, ornately carved stool in the specially decorated courtyard. I wore a simple white cotton saree outfit. Around me, a circle of beaming women chattered, giggled, and prepared their bowls of the golden paste. The energy was electric, a vibrant hum that settled deep in my bones, a counterpoint to the fierce, drumming rhythm of my own heart.
When the ceremony began, laughter erupted around me. As the creamy, cool paste first contacted my cheekbones and forehead, I felt an involuntary shiver of reverence travel down my spine. The sensation was profoundly grounding, yet intensely exciting—like being anointed for battle, or perhaps, for eternal peace. It felt like my past self was being gently peeled away, leaving the woman Aksh was about to marry. Everyone teased me relentlessly, smearing a generous dollop of Haldi on my cheek, their hands playful but their intentions deeply sincere. A smile formed on my lips, half annoyance at their mess, half the pure, uncontainable laughter of a bride on the brink.
I looked down at my hands, now entirely coated in the vibrant paste. It was cooling, a physical draw of the heat from my skin, but it couldn't cool the fierce, molten anticipation bubbling inside me. The texture felt rough and sacred—like the unpolished, raw beauty of our relationship, forged not out of smooth perfection but out of honest struggle, mutual respect, and an undeniable chemistry that had sparked from our very first meeting. I remembered the first time Aksh had held my hand - the sheer rightness of his skin against mine, a feeling so potent it still made my fingers tingle.
Mumma began singing a traditional wedding song, and as the melody washed over me, I closed my eyes and let the moment engulf me. I felt the heavy Haldi on my cheeks, a mask that was preparing me for the future, for a world where my name would be irrevocably linked to his. It felt like a barrier being melted away, leaving me vulnerable, exposed, and utterly ready for him.
A few minutes later, my best friend Neha arrived, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She was meticulously applying the paste to my cheeks and arms, kneading it into the skin with firm, circular motions.
"Congratulations! Soon-to-be-Mrs. Raichand," Neha teased, keeping her voice low so only I could hear the full weight of the new title. We both looked at each other and giggled—a moment of shared, giddy realization.
One by one, the stream of relatives continued, each touch a blessing, each smear of yellow a layer of good fortune.
I desperately wanted to send Aksh a photo, wanted to bypass the archaic rule, and show him how I was getting ready to be his. I tried to tell him that every heartbeat was counting down to him. But Mumma had strictly restricted me from doing so.
Then, the moment I had unknowingly been waiting for. Aksh's younger sister, Diya, arrived with his Haldi. She had a bowl containing the remnants of the paste used on him, having rushed over to ensure the auspicious ritual of sharing the leftover Haldi was completed. She ran towards me and hugged me tight, being careful not to rub too much of her own Haldi-stained sari on my clean outfit.
"Bhabhi, aap bohot acchi dikh rahi hain aaj. Bechare Bhaiya, aisa khubsoorat nazara miss kar rahe hain," Diya teased, her voice full of genuine affection.
(Bhabhi, you are looking so beautiful today. Poor Bhai, he is missing such a lovely sight.)
The phrase— "Poor Bhai"—sent a rush of heat to my cheeks. Although the Haldi mask already covered my face, I was certain my cheeks were coloured in some deep, dark red hue beneath the yellow. The thought of Aksh missing me, of him thinking about this exact moment, was almost unbearable.
Diya gave Aksh's Haldi to Mumma. Mumma sat down in front of me and, with a tender solemnity, applied his Haldi to my exposed skin. This was the true, final consecration. The mingling of the two pastes—mine and his—felt like the mixing of our two destinies. Tears caught between her lower lashes, my mother's emotion made me feel completely undone. I closed my eyes, a soft prayer forming on my lips—not for perfection, not even for beauty, but for courage. Courage to step into the unknown with the same heart that had once trembled just hearing Aksh's name. Mumma handed a small portion of my Haldi to Diya, and she left, completing the circle of the ritual.
As the ceremonial part ended, the cameramen, who had already taken some bustling group photos, also wanted to take some solo pictures. Everyone suggested different poses for my photoshoot, but I gently waved them away.
I leaned back slightly against the pillows, the heavy Haldi on my skin feeling suddenly cool and comforting. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the residual joy of the ceremony wash over me, trying to absorb the feeling of being so loved and so blessed. This wasn't about looking perfect for the album; this was about capturing the feeling. The cameraman, sensing the shift, captured the deep, introspective peace on my face. The camera clicked softly, almost imperceptibly.
I opened my eyes and slowly lifted my hands, palms facing up. They were covered in the thick, stunning yellow, layered and textured. I turned them over, tracing the lines on my wrist where the Haldi was applied most thickly. I held the image of Aksh's face in my mind, remembering his kind, steady eyes.
A genuine, radiant smile finally broke through my composure. It wasn't the polite, obligatory smile for the camera; it was the vulnerable, deeply felt expression reserved only for the thought of Aksh. I imagined him waiting for me, his eyes shining with that familiar mix of intense devotion and playful excitement. I imagined the strength of his arms, the steadiness of his presence, the quiet way he holds my soul captive.
The Haldi smeared across my skin felt like an invisible bridge stretching across the city, connecting me to him. This gold was his colour now, too. We were being marked, branded, consecrated together, even in separation.
As the ceremony concluded, and the women began singing celebratory songs, scattering rose petals over me, I looked down at my hands and arms. They were a vivid, stunning yellow, glistening with oil and scented with the earth. I felt a fierce, quiet joy.
He also has this same colour on him now, I thought, a private smile touching my lips. We are being coloured the same, prepared for the same journey, separated only by walls and a few hours.
The physical distance between them dissolved entirely. I could almost feel the weight of his hand in mine, the gentle pressure of his thumb drawing that familiar, comforting circle on my palm. The Haldi was their silent, shared language, a golden promise whispered across the city, confirming their mutual readiness.
The sun was reaching its zenith, pouring its actual, blinding light through the windows, making the Haldi on my skin truly glow. I felt purged, focused, and utterly beautiful in my raw, unadorned state. I was the gold, and he was the crucible. Together, they would be forever.
Aakash's POV
At the same hour, two towns away, the groom's house mirrored the same melody of joy and chaos.
I sat on a low, ornate wooden stool, covered with a cushion of deep maroon velvet. The cotton kurta I wore, crisp and white, felt like the final garment of my bachelor life, ready to receive the baptism of Haldi. Around me, the atmosphere was a controlled, joyful chaos. My elder cousins and aunts, women whose hands had nurtured me from infancy, chattered excitedly, their silk sarees shimmering like liquid jewels as they bustled with bowls and pastes. The strong, earthy scent of pure turmeric was almost sharp, cutting through the general perfume of jasmine and celebration.
I felt an uncharacteristic stillness settle over me, a profound quietude amidst the noise. Today, I was the centre of a beautiful gravity, being pulled inexorably toward my future. I had always liked being in control—rational, calm, and collected. But this morning, I was hopelessly undone, surrendered to the current of tradition and pure, overwhelming emotion.
Maa approached me first, her face radiating a profound love that felt almost sacred. She held a small silver bowl filled with the pungent, thick yellow paste—the magical concoction of turmeric, mustard oil, yogurt, and a secret blend of herbs known only to my grandmother. She dipped her forefinger, drew a perfect tilak on my forehead, and then, her touch almost agonizingly gentle, smeared a generous amount onto my cheek. The cooling paste felt like a fire being banked, settling the frantic beat of my heart.
"Aakash," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion, trembling slightly. "You are one of the best gifts I have ever received. I hope you will be an extraordinary husband too."
The touch was a catalyst. It didn't just apply a paste; it cracked open the vault of my memories, and suddenly, Esha wasn't just an abstract thought; she was a vivid, palpable presence. I could almost hear her voice, low and musical, and see the intense warmth in her eyes. There was something disarming about knowing that right now, somewhere under another roof, Esha was being draped in the same colour I wore. This shared ritual made the miles between us feel non-existent.
A cascade of joyful shrieks announced the arrival of my cousins, who descended upon me with gusto. They sang a teasing tune—one of those old Punjabi wedding songs designed to poke fun at the groom's shyness. Maa laughed openly, her joy radiant and unreserved. They started covering me with the thick yellow paste, not delicately, but with the robust, loving abandon typical of my family. The coarse texture of the Haldi and mustard oil felt raw and purifying, a preparation not just for the wedding, but for the commitment of a lifetime.
My younger sister, Diya, came forward next, brushing a streak of turmeric over my jaw—the sharpest line on my face. After applying, she bent towards me, her eyes dancing with mischievous glee, and whispered:
"Pata nahi Bhabhi kitni sundar lag rahi hogi. Aur aap unhe dekh bhi nahi paa rahi ho."
(I wonder how beautiful Bhabhi must be looking. And you aren't even able to see her.)
A rush of heat and affection tightened my chest. Diya knew exactly how to twist the knife of longing. I pulled her ear—a familiar gesture of mock punishment—and whispered back, a fierce grin spreading beneath the Haldi:
"Jab tera time aayega, tab bolunga."
(When your time comes, then I'll say it.)
She giggled, a bright, triumphant sound, and ran out. Maa handed her a bowl of my Haldi, which was to be taken to Esha's house—a beautiful symbol of our union preceding the ceremony itself.
I sat in fragmenting sunlight, the warmth soaking into my Haldi-covered skin. A light breeze brushed past me, drying the gold-streaked skin on my arms, cooling the burn of my anticipation. Soon after, Diya arrived back, holding a smaller bowl—the one containing Esha's Haldi.
As the cool, creamy paste from Esha's own ceremony was applied to my neck, something in me shifted profoundly. It wasn't just Haldi anymore; it was her essence, her blessing, the physical transference of her love and preparation. I inhaled deeply, trying to catch the faint, sweeter scent of the rosewater and perhaps the lilies she might have been sitting nearby. This was a private moment; a secret touch shared across the distance. It felt like receiving a letter in a language only our hearts understood. I was now literally wearing her ritual, her wishes, her love.
The moment the last of her Haldi touched me, a deep, settling peace replaced the earlier tension. I felt anchored.
Hereafter, everyone sat around me, filling the air with teasing, mischief, fun, and love. The pressure eased, and I leaned back, letting the boisterous joy of my family wash over me. I finally allowed myself to laugh fully—a sound that was pure and unrestrained.
I exhaled, smiling into the breeze. The laughter from below reached me again. The town spread beneath me, silent and gold in the late morning sun. Somewhere beyond those rooftops, in another universe of sound and colour, she was thinking of me. I wasn't just sure of it; I felt it in the very paste that clung to my skin. The physical distance dissolved. The world suddenly felt smaller, kinder, as if the universe itself leaned in to watch two hearts beat to the same, fierce golden rhythm. We were no longer two; we were already consecrated as one.
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Hey Folks!!
Coloured in each other's colour for each other. Are you excited about their marriage? For that, stay tuned!!
Hope you like this chapter. If yes, please like the chapter and comment on your favourite part.
Also, comment on the theories you think would happen next. Would love to read them.
Thanks for reading ❤️...