Chapter 9 – The Weight of Expectations
907 Words
The Saturday sun filtered through gauzy curtains, gilding the room in a warmth that Mira didn’t feel. Her mother’s voice floated up from the kitchen—sharp, decisive, and relentless.
“Mira! Be ready in twenty minutes. The boutique closes by six. You know how long these things take.”
Mira exhaled slowly, setting down her sketching pencil. The half-finished design before her—a bold fusion of modern asymmetry and classic Indian embroidery—felt more alive than anything waiting at the bridal boutique.
She wasn’t ready. Not for wedding shopping. Not for this.
Her mother appeared at the doorway, hands on her hips, a mix of irritation and pride on her face. “You can sketch after you’re married. Right now, you need to think about your future. Rahul’s family is doing us a favor, Mira. Don’t forget that.”
There it was again—the invisible weight pressing down on her shoulders. Her “future” always sounded like someone else’s life.
The car ride was quiet, except for the faint hum of traffic. Her mother scrolled through her phone, making notes about the lehenga designs she wanted Mira to “try.”
Mira stared out the window. The city rushed past in streaks of color and motion—people chasing dreams, escaping pain, living freely. Why couldn’t she be one of them?
At the boutique, the world became silk and sequins. Rows of shimmering reds, golds, and ivories lined the walls. Saleswomen greeted them with smiles too bright to be real.
“Welcome, Mrs. Kapoor. The new bridal collection just arrived!”
Her mother’s eyes lit up. “Perfect. Show us something elegant but traditional.”
Mira stood still, feeling like an actor waiting for her cue.
The first outfit was crimson, heavy with embroidery. Her mother clasped her hands in delight. “This one! Look at you—every bit the bride you’re meant to be.”
Mira looked at her reflection. The girl in the mirror wore someone else’s dream. The weight of the lehenga felt like chains. Her throat tightened.
The saleswoman adjusted the dupatta around her shoulders. “Beautiful,” she murmured.
Mira forced a smile. “It’s… fine.”
Her mother frowned. “Fine? Mira, this is your wedding we’re talking about. Can’t you at least pretend to be happy?”
Mira opened her mouth to answer but couldn’t find the words.
She wasn’t unhappy because of the outfit. She was unhappy because none of it felt like her choice.
Later, as her mother haggled over prices and customization, Mira slipped away. She found herself in a quiet corner of the boutique, near a window overlooking the city. Her reflection stared back at her—half bridal, half broken.
Her phone buzzed.
Aarav: Still can’t stop thinking about your sketches. There’s something raw in them. Are you okay?
Her heart stumbled. He’d found her on social media a few days ago, under the pretext of returning her sketchbook. Their messages had been casual—safe—but every word felt like a secret thread connecting them.
She typed, I’m fine. Just… chaos. Then deleted it.
Typed again: Shopping for a wedding I’m not sure I want.
Then deleted that too.
Her mother’s voice echoed from behind. “Mira! Come here and see this ivory one!”
Mira sighed, pocketing the phone. When she turned, her mother stood holding another outfit, radiant with hope.
“Try this one. You’ll look divine.”
Something inside Mira broke. “Mom, I don’t even know if I want to marry Rahul.”
The words hung in the air—fragile and dangerous.
Her mother froze. “What did you just say?”
“I said I’m not sure. I don’t feel ready. I—”
Her mother’s expression hardened. “You’re being childish. This is what’s best for you. Rahul’s stable, kind, from a good family. You’ll have security, comfort—everything I never had.”
Mira’s voice trembled. “But what about love?”
Her mother turned away. “Love comes later. Security doesn’t.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Mira watched her mother smooth the fabric, blinking back emotion. Beneath the layers of stubbornness was a woman who had built her life on sacrifice, who feared that dreams couldn’t feed a family or survive reality.
But Mira wasn’t her mother.
That night, back home, the house was unusually quiet. Mira’s sketchbook sat on her desk—returned, finally, by Aarav two days earlier. He’d left a small note tucked inside:
Sometimes what you create tells you what you truly want.
She flipped to a blank page. The pencil trembled in her hand, but she began to draw anyway. A woman standing between two mirrors—one dressed in wedding red, the other in loose clothes, paintbrush in hand. Both reflected the same face, but only one had light in her eyes.
Her phone buzzed again.
Aarav: Still awake?
She hesitated, then replied. Trying to figure out how to breathe when everyone else is choosing how I live.
A long pause. Then his reply came:
Maybe it’s time you choose for yourself.
Her chest tightened. For the first time all day, she smiled.
Outside, thunder rumbled. Rain began to fall again, tapping gently against the window—soft, persistent, unstoppable.
And in the middle of that storm, Mira decided one thing:
She couldn’t keep living for everyone else’s peace.
- Writer
