ISHQ-E-MOHABBAT

6. the weight of Tradition

Mayura abhimaan deep Shekhawat :

I woke up to an empty room, the silence a welcome respite from the turmoil of the previous night. He was gone, and I was grateful for the solitude. I freshened up, bathed, and emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, my hair damp and my skin still glowing from the warm water.

As I made my way to the walk-in closet, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the sheer scale of it. The room was a marvel of luxury, with rows upon rows of designer clothes, shelves stacked with expensive shoes, and drawers filled with glittering jewels. It was a treasure trove, a paradise for any woman who loved fashion and beauty.

But as I scanned the racks and shelves, my eyes landed on a simple red saree, its minimal embroidery and subtle sheen calling to me. I reached out and touched the soft fabric, feeling a sense of comfort and familiarity. This was what I wanted to wear, not some elaborate, over-the-top ensemble that would make me feel like a doll on display.

I chose a pair of simple gold earrings and a delicate necklace to complement the saree, and opted for minimal makeup, just a light dusting of powder and a swipe of mascara to define my eyes. My hair, still damp from the bath, I left open, letting it fall in soft waves down my back.

As I dressed, I felt a sense of liberation, of shedding the expectations and demands of others and embracing my own simplicity. I didn't need to show off expensive clothes or jewels to feel beautiful; I was content with my own natural grace.

And so, I emerged from the closet, a vision in red, my saree draped elegantly around me, my hair and makeup understated yet elegant. I felt like myself, not some artificial creation designed to impress others.

I made my way to the kitchen, my heart racing with excitement and a hint of nervousness. This was my first rasoi, my first time cooking for my new family, and I was determined to make a good impression. But as I navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the palace, I couldn't help but feel a sense of disorientation. Every door looked the same, every hallway identical. I wandered for what felt like an eternity, my saree rustling against the marble floors, until finally, I stumbled upon the kitchen.

As I entered, I was greeted by the warm smile of my mother-in-law, who was already busy instructing the workers on their tasks. She turned to me, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and said, "Ah, Mayura, beta, welcome to the kitchen! I see you're eager to start your first rasoi. Let me show you the ropes."

I felt a surge of gratitude towards her, relieved that she was willing to guide me through this unfamiliar territory. I nodded eagerly, my hands clasped together in a respectful gesture, and followed her to the stoves, where the aroma of sizzling spices and fresh vegetables filled the air. The workers nodded at me as I passed, their faces friendly and encouraging, and I felt a sense of belonging wash over me. This was it, my new domain, where I would create delicious meals and memories for my family.

"Mayura, beta, come let me show you the recipe for today's meal," my mother-in-law said, her voice warm and gentle. "We're making chana masala and rotis. It's a family favorite."

"Thank you, Maa...I mean, Mother-in-law," I replied, feeling a little shy.

"Arre, no need for formalities, beta," she said, patting my hand. "Call me Maa. I want you to feel at home here."

"Thank you, Maa," I said, feeling a sense of relief wash over me.

"Okay, now let's get started. First, we need to soak the chana..."

As we worked together, Maa taught me the intricacies of traditional cooking, sharing stories and tips passed down from her own mother and grandmother. Her kindness and patience put me at ease, and I found myself laughing and chatting with her like we were old friends.