My Miss Bardbard

Stitches of Silk and Silence

The tailor's fingers trembled as he measured the last stitch on the cream-colored wedding lehenga. Outside the shop, the afternoon sun blazed mercilessly, casting long shadows across the uneven pavement.

Sai sat stiffly on the wooden stool, her knuckles white as they gripped the edge of her seat. The silk fabric clung to her skin, heavy with the weight of a ceremony she hadn’t asked for. A single tear slipped down her cheek-silent, unnoticed-as the old man muttered something about luck and blessings under his breath.

Across the street, Virat leaned against his car, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold through the dusty shop window. His jaw was tight, his usual sharp edges softened by something unreadable. He hadn’t planned this either. But when Usha Moshi had collapsed into sobs, clutching Sai to her chest and whispering about Sai’s Aaba's last wish, neither of them had the heart to refuse.

A sharp gasp shattered the quiet. Pakhi stood frozen in the doorway, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the strap of her designer purse. Her eyes darted between Virat and Sai, widening in disbelief. "Virat," she breathed, voice cracking like thin ice. "What is this?"

Virat didn’t move. "Meet my wife," he said quietly. "Sai Joshi."

Pakhi’s grip on her purse tightened until the leather creaked. The air in the cramped tailor’s shop grew thick, choked with the scent of new fabric and the metallic tang of unshed tears. Sai didn’t look up, her fingers tracing the intricate embroidery of her lehenga-9a nervous habit Virat had noticed during their rushed engagement.

"Wife?" Pakhi’s laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. She stepped forward, her heels clicking like a countdown. "You don’t even like her, Virat. This is—"

"Enough." Virat pushed off the car, his voice low but firm. Something in his tone made Pakhi freeze mid-step. He didn’t glance at her as he walked past, his focus entirely on Sai, who was now staring at the floor as if it might swallow her whole.

Virat crouched in front of her, his knees brushing the hem of her lehenga. He hesitated, then reached out, tilting her chin up with two fingers. Her cheeks were damp, her lashes clumped together. Without a word, he wiped a tear away with his thumb. Sai’s breath hitched.

Usha Moshi let out a soft sob behind them, clutching her saree pallu to her chest. "Beta," she whispered, but Virat was already standing, offering Sai his hand.

The car ride to Chavan Nivas was thick with silence, broken only by Sai’s occasional sniffles and the hum of the engine. Virat kept his eyes on the road, fingers tapping an absent rhythm on the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, he caught Pakhi’s glare-sharp enough to puncture steel-but he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he glanced at Sai, curled into herself in the passenger seat, her wedding lehenga pooling around her like spilled cream.

"Cold?" he asked, reaching for the AC controls. Sai shook her head, but her trembling fingers betrayed her. Virat turned the dial anyway, warmth flooding the car. When Pakhi huffed and crossed her arms, he pretended not to notice.

Sai’s breathing evened out as sleep pulled at her. Her head lolled sideways, coming to rest against the window with a soft thunk. Virat hesitated, then gently guided her toward his shoulder. She sighed, nuzzling into him without waking. Pakhi’s sharp intake of breath was audible, but Virat kept his voice low. "Let her sleep," he said, more to the air than to anyone in particular.

The gates of Chavan Nivas loomed ahead, their intricate ironwork casting jagged shadows in the evening light. Virat parked, but Sai didn’t stir. He shook her shoulder lightly. "Sai. We’re home." She grumbled something unintelligible and clung to his arm like a koala. Pakhi scoffed, slamming the car door hard enough to make Sai jolt awake.