01-02-2026, 01:30 PM
Chapter 35: The Wedding Day, the Thali from today & The Ring from past
The wedding day arrived like a quiet promise kept.
The small temple near the town was bathed in the soft glow of oil lamps and marigold garlands. No grand mandap, no loud music—just the sacred hum of mantras, the scent of sandalwood and jasmine, and a handful of people who mattered.
Mirna stood in a simple white silk saree with a thin gold border, her hair adorned with fresh jasmine, eyes shining with nervous joy. Vikram wore a crisp white veshti and shirt. Shiney stood beside Mirna like a proud mother, eyes misty as she adjusted the pallu one last time.
When the priest asked Vikram to tie the thali, the hall fell completely silent.
Vikram lifted the gold chain—simple, unadorned, the way Mirna had wanted it. His hands trembled slightly as he fastened it around her neck, the mangalsutra settling between her breasts like a seal of forever.
He looked into her eyes.
She looked back—trusting, open, completely his.
The priest blessed them. The small crowd clapped softly.
Vikram pulled her into a gentle hug. She buried her face in his chest, arms wrapping around him tightly. Everyone knew the struggle they had survived—framing, beatings, doubt, tests. This moment felt earned.
Evening brought the reception in the church-affiliated marriage hall—a simple open space with plastic chairs, paper decorations, and a long table of home-cooked food: sambar, rasam, poriyal, payasam.
Local people came. Church friends. The old constable who had vouched for Vikram at the medical camp. Mohan arrived with Ramesh and Suresh, who teased him mercilessly about finally “settling down.” Everyone glowed with happiness. Mirna smiled shyly beside Vikram, her hand in his, the thali gleaming under the lights.
Then Krish and Swathi arrived.
They walked in quietly—Swathi in a deep maroon saree, Krish in a neat shirt. The room hushed for a second.
Swathi went straight to the couple, eyes bright with emotion. Krish stood beside her, smiling.
She pulled out an envelope.
“Fifty lakhs,” she said softly. “It’s nothing compared to what you did for us. Twice.”
Vikram’s eyes widened. “Swathi… no.”
Mirna looked at the cheque, then at Vikram, uncertain.
Swathi took Mirna’s hand and pressed the envelope into it.
“We know Vikram won’t take it for himself,” she said. “He’s starting fresh—no more old life. Consider this a token. An investment. Start a business. Whenever you can pay us back, fine. If not… we’re okay.”
Mirna tried to hand it back. “We can’t—”
Vikram stopped her gently.
He looked at Swathi and Krish.
“I’ll pay it back,” he said quietly. “I was wondering how to start something solid. No more driver jobs. I need to take care of her properly. Thank you.”
Krish stepped forward and hugged him—tight, brotherly.
Swathi hugged Mirna, whispering something that made Mirna smile through tears.
Then Mohan arrived.
He carried a small envelope and a sealed letter.
“Sekaran anna’s gift,” he said. “A blank cheque. Whatever amount you need—fill it. He called you his unsaid son. Said to start fresh. No debts. No favors. Just live.”
Mohan handed the letter to Vikram.
Vikram opened it. The words were simple, fatherly:
Boy,
You earned this life. Take it. Don’t look back.
Sekaran
Mirna watched Vikram read it. Her eyes filled with wonder.
This man I chose… so many people love him. He must be so pure, she thought.
The night deepened.
Their small room in the church dormitory was lit by a single lamp. The bed was simple, sheets fresh. Mirna stood shyly in her nightdress, thali still around her neck.
Vikram pulled her close.
No rush. No harshness.
He kissed her slowly—lips, cheeks, forehead. His hands were gentle, tracing her back, her arms, her waist. They moved to the bed together.
Missionary—soft, loving. He entered her carefully, watching her face for any discomfort. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, but everything stayed tender.
Slow thrusts, whispered “I love you”s, her fingers in his hair. When they came, it was quiet, shared, intimate.
She fell asleep in his arms, breathing even, thali resting between her breasts.
Vikram stayed awake.
He looked at her—peaceful, beautiful, his wife.
His eyes drifted to the table.
The two cheques lay there—Swathi’s 50 lakhs, Sekaran’s blank one.
He stood quietly, picked them up. The fan was blowing hard—he didn’t want them to fly away.
He opened the trunk suitcase to tuck them inside.
That’s when he saw it.
The ring.
The small gold ring Malar had given him after the first betrayal—after she framed him, used him, left him broken.
The memory he had buried forever came rushing back on his first night as a husband.
He stared at it.
Then at Mirna—sleeping, trusting, innocent.
He closed the suitcase.
Locked it.
And slipped back into bed beside her.
But the ring stayed in his mind.
the scare is still there and he didnt forget..
The wedding day arrived like a quiet promise kept.
The small temple near the town was bathed in the soft glow of oil lamps and marigold garlands. No grand mandap, no loud music—just the sacred hum of mantras, the scent of sandalwood and jasmine, and a handful of people who mattered.
Mirna stood in a simple white silk saree with a thin gold border, her hair adorned with fresh jasmine, eyes shining with nervous joy. Vikram wore a crisp white veshti and shirt. Shiney stood beside Mirna like a proud mother, eyes misty as she adjusted the pallu one last time.
When the priest asked Vikram to tie the thali, the hall fell completely silent.
Vikram lifted the gold chain—simple, unadorned, the way Mirna had wanted it. His hands trembled slightly as he fastened it around her neck, the mangalsutra settling between her breasts like a seal of forever.
He looked into her eyes.
She looked back—trusting, open, completely his.
The priest blessed them. The small crowd clapped softly.
Vikram pulled her into a gentle hug. She buried her face in his chest, arms wrapping around him tightly. Everyone knew the struggle they had survived—framing, beatings, doubt, tests. This moment felt earned.
Evening brought the reception in the church-affiliated marriage hall—a simple open space with plastic chairs, paper decorations, and a long table of home-cooked food: sambar, rasam, poriyal, payasam.
Local people came. Church friends. The old constable who had vouched for Vikram at the medical camp. Mohan arrived with Ramesh and Suresh, who teased him mercilessly about finally “settling down.” Everyone glowed with happiness. Mirna smiled shyly beside Vikram, her hand in his, the thali gleaming under the lights.
Then Krish and Swathi arrived.
They walked in quietly—Swathi in a deep maroon saree, Krish in a neat shirt. The room hushed for a second.
Swathi went straight to the couple, eyes bright with emotion. Krish stood beside her, smiling.
She pulled out an envelope.
“Fifty lakhs,” she said softly. “It’s nothing compared to what you did for us. Twice.”
Vikram’s eyes widened. “Swathi… no.”
Mirna looked at the cheque, then at Vikram, uncertain.
Swathi took Mirna’s hand and pressed the envelope into it.
“We know Vikram won’t take it for himself,” she said. “He’s starting fresh—no more old life. Consider this a token. An investment. Start a business. Whenever you can pay us back, fine. If not… we’re okay.”
Mirna tried to hand it back. “We can’t—”
Vikram stopped her gently.
He looked at Swathi and Krish.
“I’ll pay it back,” he said quietly. “I was wondering how to start something solid. No more driver jobs. I need to take care of her properly. Thank you.”
Krish stepped forward and hugged him—tight, brotherly.
Swathi hugged Mirna, whispering something that made Mirna smile through tears.
Then Mohan arrived.
He carried a small envelope and a sealed letter.
“Sekaran anna’s gift,” he said. “A blank cheque. Whatever amount you need—fill it. He called you his unsaid son. Said to start fresh. No debts. No favors. Just live.”
Mohan handed the letter to Vikram.
Vikram opened it. The words were simple, fatherly:
Boy,
You earned this life. Take it. Don’t look back.
Sekaran
Mirna watched Vikram read it. Her eyes filled with wonder.
This man I chose… so many people love him. He must be so pure, she thought.
The night deepened.
Their small room in the church dormitory was lit by a single lamp. The bed was simple, sheets fresh. Mirna stood shyly in her nightdress, thali still around her neck.
Vikram pulled her close.
No rush. No harshness.
He kissed her slowly—lips, cheeks, forehead. His hands were gentle, tracing her back, her arms, her waist. They moved to the bed together.
Missionary—soft, loving. He entered her carefully, watching her face for any discomfort. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, but everything stayed tender.
Slow thrusts, whispered “I love you”s, her fingers in his hair. When they came, it was quiet, shared, intimate.
She fell asleep in his arms, breathing even, thali resting between her breasts.
Vikram stayed awake.
He looked at her—peaceful, beautiful, his wife.
His eyes drifted to the table.
The two cheques lay there—Swathi’s 50 lakhs, Sekaran’s blank one.
He stood quietly, picked them up. The fan was blowing hard—he didn’t want them to fly away.
He opened the trunk suitcase to tuck them inside.
That’s when he saw it.
The ring.
The small gold ring Malar had given him after the first betrayal—after she framed him, used him, left him broken.
The memory he had buried forever came rushing back on his first night as a husband.
He stared at it.
Then at Mirna—sleeping, trusting, innocent.
He closed the suitcase.
Locked it.
And slipped back into bed beside her.
But the ring stayed in his mind.
the scare is still there and he didnt forget..
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