A Little Lie is Allowed in Love

The ‘Royal Garden Marriage Hall’ was alive. Shehnais and dhol beats shook the walls. Golden tassels on the ceiling threw warm light on every face. The air carried roses, rajnigandha, desi ghee laddoos, and tandoori smoke. Plates clinked, kids screamed, aunties laughed. Pure wedding chaos, and at its center—two very different agendas. Near the bar counter, Harsh Mehra stood with his friends. 26, 6 feet, gym-built, in a crisp white chicken-kari kurta-pajama with light stubble. He was his mother’s favorite and the king of his group. Amit, his college buddy and the groom’s cousin, slapped his shoulder: “Oye Harsh, youngest nawab of the house. Three brothers, three bhabhis. Now your turn.” Harsh swirled his cold drink, relaxed. “Simple yaar. I want a girl who’s beautiful, educated, and has a job. Basically a photocopy of my three bhabhis.” “Photocopy?” Rohit laughed. “Exactly. All three bhabhis are graduates, working, independent. Mom brags about them in kitty parties. So that’s the standard. Why downgrade?” Harsh winked. “Mehra name. I’ll find her.” His friends rolled their eyes. “High standards. Such girls are out of stock, bro.” But Harsh was sure. For him, marriage meant an equal partner—someone who could match his world, not just run his kitchen. On the other side, under velvet sofas and silk sarees, sat Neena Mehra. Pink Kanjivaram, three-layer pearl necklace, heavy gold bangles. She had three daughters-in-law already and the authority that came with it. Mrs. Aggarwal, chewing paan, asked, “Neena, when is Harsh’s turn? House is full with three bahus. Don’t let the boy slip.” Neena adjusted her pallu, sitting taller. “We’re looking. Plenty of girls. But we want one like my three bahus—sensible, educated, beautiful. Mehra House doesn’t take just anyone.” Then Mrs. Aggarwal dropped her voice: “Don’t repeat the mistake you made with the first three.” Neena froze, spoon mid-air in her kheer. “What mistake?” “Arre Neena, open your eyes. Do your bahus ever listen to you? 7 AM they leave for office, 6 PM they return, say ‘Mummy ji, tired,’ lock the room. If you talk, it’s ‘important call, later.’ Where’s the respect?” Mrs. Khanna jumped in: “My bahu wakes at 5 AM, massages my feet, waters tulsi, cooks. She knows a saas is a saas.” The words hit Neena. Sweet kheer turned bland. She thought of her own three bahus. They respected her, yes, but not the old-school, feet-pressing, pallu-holding kind. Neena had dreamed of evening head massages and someone to sit and chat. It never happened. For the first time, doubt crept in. “Maybe… there should be a bahu who actually listens to me. Who treats me like a mother-in-law, not a flatmate.” Mrs. Aggarwal seized it: “Then find Harsh a less educated girl. Simple, homely. Not too smart to argue. One who touches your feet every morning and says ‘Ji Mummy ji’.” Neena’s eyes lit up. She pictured a thin girl, head bowed, obedient. After ten years of being a saas, she finally felt her “time” would come. The criteria for bahu #4 was decided: less educated, more obedient. Right then, the hall went silent. Dhol missed two beats. Two hundred heads turned to the stairs. A girl was walking down, holding the bride’s hand. Bride was in red, but nobody noticed. The girl wore a yellow Banarasi saree with golden motifs, red glass bangles, long open hair till her waist, kohl-lined big eyes, tiny nose ring. She moved carefully, guiding the bride step by step. The air itself seemed to pause. Harsh almost dropped his glass. Amit grabbed it. “Who’s she?” Harsh whispered, eyes locked on her. Rohit grinned, “Bro, love at first sight. After 26 years.” Harsh didn’t hear. Lights, music, crowd—all blurred. Only she was sharp. Neena saw her too. She nudged Mrs. Aggarwal. “Who’s that in yellow, with the bride?” “Probably the bride’s friend from her side,” Mrs. Aggarwal said after checking through thick glasses. Neena’s face lit up like she found lost jewelry. “So beautiful. Natural glow. If she becomes my fourth bahu… perfect. And if she’s less educated, even better. She looks simple. Obedient from the eyes itself.” She ordered Mrs. Aggarwal to find details. Harsh was at Karan Verma’s wedding—his office colleague. Karan invited the whole Mehra family, but only Harsh and Neena came. Harsh always found weddings boring. Today was different. Today felt like a plot twist. Pheras done, varmala done, tears and vidaai. By 11 PM guests were leaving. Neena went to the car early—knee pain, couldn’t bear without AC. Harsh hugged Karan, said bye, and was walking out when a soft voice stopped him: “Excuse me…” He turned. The girl in yellow. Nervous, forehead sweating despite makeup, clutching a small golden purse till her fingers turned white. “Ji? You called me?” Harsh’s voice sounded foreign to himself. She looked down, blinking fast. “Ji… I came with my friend Riya. But she forgot me and left for home. My Vodafone has no network here. Can you call her? I have her number.” Harsh nodded. “Yes, no problem.” As he reached for his phone, it vibrated—‘Maa’ flashing with Neena’s photo. “One second,” he answered. “Yes Maa, I’m leaving.” “Harsh beta, where are you? I’m waiting in the car. Legs paining, driver switched off AC. Suffocating.” “5 minutes Maa, I’m coming.” He cut the call and dialed Riya’s number. Ring… ring… “Number switched off.” The girl’s face drained of color. “Oh God… what will I do?” Tears burst silently. Kajal streaked down. The guard and two waiters turned. “How will I go home? Mummy-papa will never let me out again. They didn’t even want me at this wedding. I lied that I’ll return by 10 PM with Riya. And she left me?” She cried harder. Harsh felt trapped. People were watching. The guard was walking over. “Arre, calm down. It’s 11:30 PM. Crying will make it worse.” Harsh lowered his voice: “If you don’t mind, I can drop you home. Not safe alone this late.” She jerked back, eyes wide through tears. “No! My father is very strict. If he sees me with an unknown boy, he’ll kill me. I can’t go with you.” “Okay, relax,” Harsh raised hands. “I won’t go till your house. I’ll drop you two minutes before your lane, on the main road. You walk from there. No one will see. Pakka promise.” She wiped tears with her pallu, kajal smudging more. Bit her lip, thought, then nodded. “Okay… fine. But promise, not in the lane. Not till the house.” “Pakka promise,” Harsh raised three fingers. He called Neena: “Maa, go home with driver. I’m with friends, Karan stopped me for some work. One hour max.” Neena complained but agreed. Harsh then asked the girl, “Address? I’ll book a cab.” She fumbled in her purse. “I… I don’t remember address properly.” She pulled out a crumpled visiting card with a cake photo and address printed below. “Drop me here. My house is near this cake shop, on the corner.” Harsh smiled despite tension. “Landmark memory. Smart.” He booked Uber. Cab arrived in 7 minutes. Entire ride she stared out the window, forehead on glass. Not one word. Harsh felt awkward. Once he offered water—she shook her head no. He didn’t push. At 12:15 AM the cab stopped at the cake shop. Shutter down, only the board lit. Streetlight, deserted road, dogs barking far away. “Here’s your shop,” Harsh said. “You’ll manage alone? Lane looks empty.” She took a deep breath, gathered courage, stepped out. Her silver anklet got caught in the car door for a second—she didn’t notice. “No problem. Two minute walk. Thank you for helping.” Harsh nodded. “Take care. And scold Riya tomorrow.” She gave a faint smile and disappeared into the dark lane. The sound of her anklets—cham-cham—lasted five seconds, then silence. Harsh watched till she was gone, then left for home. Harsh reached home at 12:45 AM. As he stepped out of the cab, headlights reflected something under the back seat. He bent down. A delicate silver anklet with tiny ghungroos. One ghungroo was broken. Still warm. “This is hers,” he murmured, closing his fist around it. The ghungroo pricked his palm. It felt oddly good. House was silent, only the kitchen night bulb on. Harsh tiptoed to his room, changed, lay on bed. The reel played: yellow saree, big kohl eyes, tears, cake shop card, now this anklet. He wrapped it in a handkerchief and placed it in the top drawer of his study table. Held it for a second longer than needed. Both Harsh and Neena had now, unknowingly, set their eyes on the same girl—for completely opposite reasons. Harsh saw beauty and innocence. Neena saw simplicity and obedience. Will Harsh cross paths with her again to return the anklet? Will Neena’s “perfect obedient bahu” turn out to be the same girl Harsh wants as his modern partner? And if they meet, whose version of “perfect bahu” will win?