Sahiti 's POV
The jasmine flowers in my hair were already drooping, and so was my patience.
Engagement ceremonies were supposed to be dreamy... romantic... the kind of thing Wattpad heroines write about in Chapter 20 after a whirlwind romance.
Mine? Chapter 1. No whirlwind. Just... wind.
"Chin up, kanna," Amma's voice floated from behind, her silver anklets tinkling as she adjusted my silk pallu for the tenth time. "People are watching."
I smiled — the polite, well-trained, Carnatic-music-teacher's-daughter smile. Amma (Kalavathy Vishwanathan) had spent years teaching children to hold their sruti correctly, and teaching me to hold my tongue correctly. My father, Venugopal, a government officer with more principles than hair, stood across the hall, proudly explaining to an uncle that his daughter was "simple, cultured, and good in studies... not like these modern girls."
If only they knew.
On the outside, I was the perfect Tamil Brahmin daughter. Inside? I was the girl who cleared her browser history like it was a part-time job. I'd never even had a boyfriend, but the thought of first kisses, bad decisions, and hotel room keys had a strange, electric pull. It wasn't about love—love was soft, predictable. I wanted chaos. I wanted stories I could never tell my relatives.
And then there was Dev Iyer.
The man who, in five minutes, would be officially my fiancé.
He stood near the stage, tall, neat, in an off-white kurta that probably cost more than my semester's tuition. His smile was kind... too kind. The kind of guy who would help an old lady carry groceries but would never pull you into a dark corner just to make you breathless.
We'd spoken twice before this day. Once at the temple ("Hi... you're Sahiti?" "Yes... you're Dev?" "Yes." long silence). Once at a café with our parents listening in like government spies.
Now, as I walked to the stage, he leaned down slightly. "You look... nice," he said, his voice low, polite.
"You too," I replied, my voice equally polite. We were like two HR employees exchanging compliments during a training session.
The rings were exchanged, the photographers clicked, and the aunties whispered. I could almost hear them — Such a good match, so educated, both from respectable families... Respectable. My favourite curse word.
That night, my phone buzzed.
Dev: "Hey. Hope you're okay with how things went today."
I stared at the text, wondering if he was hoping for me to confess undying love or just confirm that the snacks were good.
Me: "Yes. Congratulations to us."
His reply came quickly.
Dev: "I know this is... arranged. And I like you. But I'm not expecting... you know, love, right away. We can take it slow."
I could almost hear his sincerity. And for a second, I felt guilty for wishing I was texting someone else. Someone dangerous. Someone who'd send me "pack your bag" instead of "take it slow."
A week later, I was at Chennai airport with a single suitcase and a boarding pass that felt heavier than my jewellery box. I'd got admission for a Masters in Mathematics at one of Britain's top universities. My parents had been overjoyed — my father because "education is the true wealth" and my mother because "UK alliances have more prestige."
What they didn't know was that my excitement wasn't just about integrals and topology. It was about finally breathing without being watched. About finding out if those things I'd read late at night — about clubs, about lips brushing in dark alleys, about strangers — were actually real.
At the boarding gate, Appa gave me his last-minute speech.
"Study hard. No distractions. And remember, no... what do they call... boyfriends."
"Yes, Appa," I said with my demure smile. Inside, I was thinking: First thing I'm going to do is talk to a boy.
Amma hugged me tight. "Call every day, kanna. And... be careful." Her tone carried more than words. She knew the world, she just pretended she didn't.
Flight, economy class.
Middle seat. Crying baby to the left, snoring uncle to the right. I had eight hours to think about Dev Iyer, my impending marriage, and the quiet war inside me.
Dev had texted before take-off:
Dev: "Safe flight. I'll be in London next month for work. We can meet."
Safe. That was the word that defined him. Dev was safe, calm, reliable. He liked me — I could feel it. But he didn't love me. And maybe that was the only reason I could breathe.
Because I didn't know if I wanted to be loved yet. I wanted to be... lived.
As the plane roared into the clouds, I made myself a silent promise:
In Britain, I'd be the Sahiti my parents believed in by day... and the Sahiti I wanted to be by night.
Maybe Dev would remain the kind, safe man who sent me good morning messages.
Or maybe... London would change everything.
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