PART ONE — THE ENGAGEMENT THAT SHOOK MY VILLAGE
2021 | Jaipur, Rajasthan, India

I was 28, in love, and newly engaged to the man everyone warned me about.

“Aryan is too mysterious.”
“Why is he always borrowing money?”
“Are you sure he’s not just using you?”

But love… love makes fools of the wise.

I ignored the whispers.

I booked the wedding venue.

Paid advance rent for our apartment.

Even financed the boutique he said was his “dream.”

I told my mother:

“He may not be rich. But he loves me.”

She looked at me with weary eyes.

“Pyaar bina sach ke… woh zeher hai mithai mein chhupa hua.”
(Love without truth… is poison hidden in sweetness.)

I didn’t understand her then.

Not yet.

PART TWO — THE PHONE THAT NEVER STOPPED RINGING

Three weeks before our wedding, things started to feel… off.

Aryan was suddenly “always busy.”

He’d step outside to take calls. Whisper in corners.

One evening, while he was showering, his second phone rang.

I picked it up.

A woman’s voice said:

“You must be Aryan’s sister, right?”

I said nothing.

She continued:

“Tell him to stop calling me. I’m married. He was just a mistake.”

Her words hit me like a slap.

A mistake?

I didn’t confront him right away.

Instead, I watched… waited… dug deeper.

PART THREE — THE TRUTH THAT STABBED

I searched through his closet.

Found receipts in a woman’s name — hotel stays, spa visits, jewellery.

All dated after our engagement.

I sat on the floor in silence, my hands trembling.

I cried until my heart felt hollow.

Yet… I didn’t cancel the wedding.

I told my family:

“We just need a little more time.”

Aryan was furious.

“Over this nonsense? You want to humiliate me?”

I replied calmly:

“No. I just need to bury something first.”

He laughed cruelly.

“What will you bury? Me?”

I looked him dead in the eye.

“No. My own stupidity.”

Đã tạo hình ảnh

PART FOUR — THE COFFIN SHOP IN OLD CITY

I walked into a small coffin shop in the back lanes of Jaipur’s old city.

The shopkeeper, an old man with shaky hands, asked softly:

“Who passed away, beti?”

I smiled.

“The part of me that used to beg for love.”

He looked confused, but nodded.

I picked the simplest wooden coffin.

Paid in cash.

Then took a piece of chalk and wrote across the top:

“Yahaan meri bewakoofi dafan hai.”
(“Here lies my foolishness.”)

PART FIVE — WHEN RUMOURS SPREAD LIKE FIRE

Jaipur is no stranger to gossip.

Soon the stories started.

“She bought a coffin instead of a wedding dress.”
“Must be black magic.”
“That girl’s gone mad.”

But I stayed silent.

Pain doesn’t need a press release.

It needs privacy.

I stayed home. No makeup. No selfies. No noise.

Only healing.

I wrote in my journal.

Deleted our pictures.

And on the day I was supposed to get married…

I dressed in white.

And buried the coffin.

PART SIX — THE BURIAL UNDER THE BANYAN TREE

No one came.

Just me, a gravedigger from the next village, and a kind old priest.

He hesitated.

“Are you sure, child?”

I nodded.

As the box was lowered into the earth, I whispered:

“Aryan, I forgive you. But I choose myself.”

The priest said a short prayer.

“May what dies today never haunt you again.”

I closed my eyes.

“Amen.”

PART SEVEN — RISING FROM THE ASHES

Six months later, I launched my own bridal boutique: From Ashes to Aangan.

We made wedding dresses — but not just for any bride.

For survivors.

Divorcees. Abandoned women. Widows. Fighters.

We didn’t just stitch fabric.

We stitched strength into silk.

A post went viral:

“She buried her shame. Now she helps others rise.”

Orders poured in from Delhi, Kolkata, Mumbai, even from Indian brides in London and Dubai.

The same girl they mocked?

Now ran a thriving business that employed 17 women — all survivors like her.

PART EIGHT — WHEN HE CAME BACK

One monsoon afternoon, Aryan appeared at my shop’s doorstep.

His hair was unkempt. Eyes hollow.

“You’re doing well,” he said quietly.

I nodded but said nothing.

He handed me a crumpled note.

“I’m sorry,” it read.

I looked at him and said:

“I already forgave you, Aryan. But what I buried… will not be reborn.”

He didn’t argue.

He walked away.

Forever.

PART NINE — THE WEDDING THAT BROUGHT TEARS

I met Dev.

A school teacher. A widower.

He had a 5-year-old daughter, Anaya, who clung to me from the first day we met.

Dev didn’t promise the moon.

He brought truth. Steadiness. Quiet safety.

When he proposed, I said yes.

But this time, I didn’t wear white.

I wore deep crimson, the colour of rebirth.

As I walked down the aisle, Anaya ran up and hugged me.

“Are you my new mummy?”

I bent down, kissed her forehead.

“No, sweetie. I’m your forever.”

That day, I didn’t just become a wife.

I became a mother.

And for the first time in years…

…I wept tears not of pain.

But of peace.

EPILOGUE
They laughed when I bought a coffin.

But I knew what I was burying.

Now I wear a crown they never saw coming.

And in that tiny village in Jaipur…

Girls don’t fear heartbreak anymore.

They sew their strength into every stitch.

Just like I did.

— Kavya Sharma