Page 15 of Substitute Bride

RING GAME

Jhankar is standing quietly beside Vikrant, while Sharda sits in a wheelchair nearby.

Following her instructions, the eldest woman in the house is performing a traditional welcome prayer for both of them, marking their entry into the home.

Vikrant smiles warmly at Sharda, but she does not return his smile.

Her gaze remains firmly fixed on Jhankar, who stands with her eyes downcast. Jhankar clutches a bag in her hand, one she brought from her home, and holds it tightly, as if it were her only anchor in the storm that has upended her life.

Vikrant attempts a fleeting glance at her.

He had offered to take her bag earlier, hoping she could enter the house more comfortably, but Jhankar refused both his help and his presence.

She had shaken his hand off with a quiet firmness and now stands next to him at the doorway, burdened not just with her bag but with everything she cannot say.

As the prayer concludes, Sharda looks affectionately at Jhankar and speaks with warm authority.

"Put your right foot forward, gently tip over this rice urn, step into the vermilion plate, and enter the house with your auspicious feet."

Jhankar knows she has no right to refuse.

Everything about this moment feels forced, yet she suppresses her resistance.

It is not the place to reveal her unwillingness.

Quietly, she nudges the rice urn with her foot and steps into the vermilion-filled plate.

However, the plate is wet and slippery, and she loses her balance.

Just as she begins to fall, Vikrant instinctively catches her, one hand gripping her wrist, the other steadying her waist. With Sharda watching from the front, Jhankar cannot directly express her disgust, but she turns her face towards Vikrant and whispers firmly, her voice icy.

"Stay away from me."

Vikrant clenches his jaw in silent anger, but the weight of Sharda’s watchful eyes reins in his reaction.

He straightens up and helps her stand, his movements stiff with restraint.

Jhankar, resisting the urge to push him away, chooses instead to walk ahead with quiet dignity.

As she steps forward, deep red footprints trail behind her, marking her entry into the house.

Sharda, determined to uphold traditions despite the underlying tension, signals the maid and gives the next instruction.

"First of all, go to the temple, receive blessings, and sit there. Savita and I are coming right now."

Vikrant and Jhankar obey without a word and begin walking toward the prayer room.

Jhankar follows Vikrant, glaring at his back with resentment.

Upon reaching the temple area, both fold their hands respectfully, though Jhankar’s eyes are ablaze with frustration as she stares at the idol.

Her silent prayers are filled with complaints and unspoken anger.

Vikrant notices her expression and addresses her in a hardened tone.

"Do you think anything bad will happen to them just because you’re glaring at this idol like that?"

She turns to him, her voice steady but scathing.

"Your expression suggests you don't have much faith in God, yet you’re pretending to be devout now."

He gives a mocking smile and sits comfortably on the floor mattress.

"You’re absolutely right, I don’t believe in Him. But Maa does, and because she believes, I never question her. I follow whatever she tells me."

"Every mother punishes her son for his wrongdoings. Yours should’ve done that, maybe then you’d have turned out better."

Vikrant stares at her, unable to respond.

She speaks fearlessly, and every word she utters poses a challenge he cannot respond to, especially with the possibility of Sharda walking in at any moment.

He sits in silence, brooding, while Jhankar remains standing.

Sensing his attention shift back to her, she climbs onto the mattress without hesitation.

As she settles, Vikrant’s eyes immediately fall on her feet. The vermilion she had stepped into earlier has stained her soles red, and now, with every step on the white bed sheet covering the floor, she leaves bold crimson prints. His brow furrows in disapproval.

"What the hell? You should have washed your feet before coming here. They’re filthy."

Jhankar glances at him calmly, then at her feet. She knows the red footprints are part of the housewarming ritual, but seeing how irritated it makes him, she seizes the moment. Without breaking eye contact, she starts walking faster across the pristine white sheet, deepening the stains.

"You should know better than to do this," he snaps. "This is someone’s house. You’re spreading dirt."

"Yes, until two days ago, I knew all about manners and respect. But ever since you barged into my house uninvited, kidnapped me, and forced me into a marriage I never consented to, well, all my manners have vanished. And I don’t think they’re ever coming back."

Just as Vikrant turns, fury begins to boil over, Sharda enters with two or three other women. Both of them immediately fall silent. Sharda smiles and looks down at the stained mattress, her eyes lighting up. She looks at both of them with genuine affection.

"In this house, Goddess Lakshmi herself has left her footprints. Surely, this means the goddess will bless us abundantly."

Vikrant turns to stare at Sharda, dumbfounded. Jhankar, witnessing his helpless expression, struggles to stifle her laughter. His irritation contrasts hilariously with Sharda’s praise.

"Sit down quickly beside each other," Sharda says cheerfully. "There is milk, water, and flower petals in this pot, and now we’ll drop a ring into it. The one who finds it first will be declared the winner of this game."

This ritual always fascinated Jhankar. She had often dreamed of the day her brother would marry so she could tease him during this game, and when it was her turn, she had imagined outwitting her husband with playful charm.

But today, the circumstances are far from her dreams. Still, if she must play, she certainly won’t let this man, her unwanted husband, win.

As soon as Jhankar looks at Vikrant, he catches the fierce glint in her eyes. Her silent challenge amuses him. He turns toward Sharda with a calm smile and obediently sits down for the game.

Jhankar takes her place beside him but suddenly recalls how annoyed he was by the red marks on the bed sheet.

A mischievous thought strikes her. Without warning, she brushes her vermilion-stained foot against Vikrant’s cream-colored pants.

Predictably, a bright red mark appears. Vikrant stares at her, furious, but before he can utter a word, Sharda speaks up with a delighted tone.

"Wow! The goddess of the house is spreading blessings everywhere…"

Vikrant freezes, biting back his frustration.

Jhankar again suppresses her laughter. Placing her bag beside her, she prepares to win.

As soon as the ring drops into the pot, Jhankar plunges her hand in and retrieves it without delay, holding it up triumphantly for Sharda to see.

Vikrant had assumed this game would be effortless, something meaningless and symbolic.

But her swift victory catches him off guard.

Sharda smiles and drops the ring in for a second round.

This time, Vikrant is alert and determined.

He moves quickly, but before he can even locate the ring, Jhankar once again fishes it out and displays it with a victorious smile.

Sharda’s eyes now rest on Vikrant, whose expression has shifted to one of disbelief.

He’s not accustomed to losing, especially not to a girl who openly despises him.

But she has now won twice. Smiling warmly, Sharda picks up the ring again and announces the rule.

"This game is played five times. The person who wins three rounds is the winner. But if Jhankar wins the next round, we’ll stop the game right here, because the victory will already be hers."

Upon seeing Sharda approaching with the ring in hand, Vikrant promptly adjusts his posture and prepares himself for the next round of the game.

His body is alert, and his gaze sharpens as if a real battle is about to begin.

Sharda carefully places the ring back into the pot filled with milk, flower petals, and water, and both Vikrant and Jhankar position their hands over the surface, waiting for the right moment.

The moment the ring touches the liquid, both of them plunge their hands into the pot.

But this time, Vikrant is quicker. With a swift and precise motion, he grabs the ring, a small yet undeniable smile flickering in his eyes as he watches Jhankar’s surprised expression.

Although he wants to smirk, he feels it is not in his nature to show triumph without a reason.

With controlled composure, he simply extends his hand and shows the ring to Sharda, who is closely observing the tension and subtle expressions playing across their faces.

Sharda, noticing the playful yet intense competition between them, begins to smile softly.

The game is no longer just a ritual; it has become an emotional tug-of-war where victory is laced with pride, defiance, and unspoken emotions.

Once again, she places the ring in the pot.

This time, Vikrant doesn’t hesitate. His fingers dart into the pot like a trained reflex, and he successfully retrieves the ring a second time.

Before Sharda can declare the round, Jhankar speaks up, her tone laced with irritation.

“The ring didn’t fall into the pot properly, so how could anyone find it?”

Before Sharda can answer, Vikrant immediately interjects with a firm voice.

“The player who removes the ring from the pot wins. That’s the game’s only rule.”

Sharda chuckles softly at their exchange and observes both of them, who are now intensely staring at each other like opponents in a serious match rather than newlyweds performing a light-hearted ritual. With amusement twinkling in her eyes, she lifts the ring again and declares.

“You both are equal so far. And according to this tradition, the one who wins rules over the other. So now it remains to be seen who will emerge victorious.”

Both of them adjust their sitting positions.

Vikrant, now slightly competitive, leans forward with determination.

Jhankar, equally resolved, sits up straighter, her fingers poised like a predator waiting to strike.

Sharda waits for the perfect moment, and then with a swift flick, she lets the ring fall into the pot again.

As soon as the ring sinks into the petal-filled milk, both of them dive their hands in.

Their hands bump into each other repeatedly, slipping over the petals and swirling the water into a fragrant storm.

Suddenly, Vikrant manages to find the ring again.

His fingers wrap around it tightly, and he begins to pull it out.

But Jhankar, quick and cunning, grabs his wrist, subtly pushing his hand back into the pot.

In one smooth motion, she slides her index finger into his palm, hooks the ring, and yanks it away before he even registers what has happened.

“I won…”

She announces with a victorious glint in her eyes, proudly holding up the ring.

Sharda starts laughing, clapping her hands in delight, completely unaware of the underlying tension.

Vikrant, however, stares at Jhankar in disbelief.

The ring had been firmly in his hand, yet he didn’t even realize when she maneuvered her way to victory.

Her boldness surprises him, and for a moment, he forgets to respond.

Jhankar, meanwhile, meets his gaze with a challenging smile, her unspoken defiance louder than any words.

After all the rounds and light-hearted tension, Sharda begins to feel the toll of her excitement and rituals.

She looks visibly worn out. Understanding her fatigue, Vikrant supports her gently and escorts her to her room, where Sharda expresses her desire for Jhankar to spend some time with her.

Respecting her wish, Jhankar stays back.

The three of them engage in long conversations, with Sharda asking questions and telling stories from her own wedding days and even teasing them softly.

They share a meal together—one that is simple but warm in its domestic intimacy.

Suddenly, the maid enters the room and gently reminds her.

“Please take your medicine and rest now.”

Sharda glances at the wall clock and realizes how much time has passed. She turns to Vikrant and Jhankar, a satisfied smile on her face, and says softly.

“You both should go to your rooms and rest now.”

Jhankar becomes slightly uneasy hearing this.

A weight settles over her chest. Her eyes dart sideways, and then she catches a glimpse of Vikrant.

No matter how much authority he holds or how composed he appears, she reminds herself silently, "I will never allow this man to touch me. " That certainty steels her nerves.

They both begin walking toward Vikrant’s room. He walks ahead, unlocking the door with casual familiarity. As he pushes the door open and steps inside, his eyes fall upon a stunning yet unexpected sight.

The entire room is decorated with red roses.

Red petals scattered across the white bed, candles lit softly in the corners, creating a romantic ambiance unmistakably prepared for a wedding night.

Vikrant halts at the doorway, stunned. A faint frown creases his brow.

He is certain this was not Sharda’s doing, she would never arrange something like this without telling him.

However, now that the marriage has occurred, it's possible that a well-intentioned maid or staff member decorated it, thinking it was the logical next step.

While he’s still trying to rationalize the setup, Jhankar steps inside quietly with her head bowed. But the moment she looks up and sees the room, her entire body stiffens. Her heartbeat thunders in her chest, rage and disgust rising like a tidal wave.

Without warning, she pulls out a sharp object from her handbag, a small blade, and presses it tightly against Vikrant’s throat. Her eyes are fiery with fury, her voice trembling with determination as she hisses,

“I will kill you if you even try to touch me.”