The dawn of the wedding day did not just break; it erupted in a symphony of color and sound. From the first light, the air in Chandragarh was thick with the scent of marigolds, roses, and sandalwood incense. The entire palace, from its highest spires to its lowest courtyards, had been transformed into a living, breathing piece of art. Intricate rangoli patterns, crafted from finely ground rice flour and vibrant colored powders, adorned every doorway and corridor, depicting peacocks, lotus flowers, and sacred symbols of blessing. Canopies of rich velvet and raw silk in royal hues of saffron, crimson, and gold fluttered in the gentle morning breeze, casting dancing shadows on the marble floors.
Inside the palace, the hustle was a controlled chaos. Maidservants, dressed in matching silk sarees, moved with practiced grace, their arms laden with garlands of fresh jasmine and tuberoses. The air rang with their cheerful chatter and the tinkling of their glass bangles. They had been tending to Viddhi since before sunrise, their hands working magic. They anointed her with fragrant oils for the snan (holy bath), then carefully dressed her in the weighty, magnificent bridal attire. The lehenga was a vision in deep, passionate red Benarasi silk, so heavily embroidered with zari and gold thread that it seemed to capture and hold the very sunlight. Each tiny sequin and pearl, meticulously sewn by master artisans over months, shimmered with every slight movement she made. The weight of the fabric was immense, a tangible symbol of the role she was about to assume. Her jewelry was not mere adornment; it was a king's ransom. Heavy gold kada bracelets encircled her wrists, a thick, layered haar necklace laden with emeralds and diamonds rested against her chest, and delicate jhumkas danced from her ears. The maang tikka descended from her hairline to the center of her forehead, its central pearl resting like a teardrop of cold fire, mirroring the icy resolve in her heart. The final touch was the deep red sindoor that would soon be applied, and the intricate mendhi patterns that covered her hands and feet, telling a story of love and celebration that was a stark contrast to the one unfolding within her.
Meanwhile, the grand entrance of the baraat was a spectacle of pure, unadulterated power and opulence. The sound arrived first—a deafening, joyous cacophony of shehnais, drums, and conch shells that grew from a distant hum to an overwhelming wave of celebration. Then, they appeared. Raja Vidhaan, the groom, rode a magnificent, snow-white stallion caparisoned in gold and crimson. He was not just a king today; he was a conqueror claiming his ultimate prize. He wore a regal sherwani of crushed midnight-blue velvet, embroidered with silver thread that formed patterns of fierce lions and soaring eagles. A long, ceremonial sword, its hilt glittering with gems, was strapped to his waist. His face was a mask of triumphant pride, a man who had won not just a kingdom, but the woman he believed had captured his soul. Behind him, his procession stretched as far as the eye could see—elephants with their trunks painted in bright colors, dancers spinning in a whirl of colorful skirts, and soldiers in polished armor, their presence a clear reminder of the military might he commanded.
The mandap, the sacred wedding canopy, was a architectural marvel erected in the palace's main courtyard. Four pillars, carved from sandalwood and wrapped in fresh flowers, supported a canopy of rich brocade. From its center hung a massive, intricate thorana of mango leaves and marigolds, a symbol of fertility and prosperity. Beneath it, the sacred fire, the agni, crackled in a large, ornate kund, its flames waiting to bear witness to the sacred vows.
When Viddhi, supported by her maternal uncle, began her slow, graceful walk towards the mandap, a collective gasp rippled through the gathered royalty and nobility. She moved like a goddess descended from the heavens, her head demurely bowed, the heavy garments and jewels lending her an ethereal, otherworldly grace. To the spectators, she was the perfect picture of a blushing, serene Hindu bride. Raja Vidhaan's gaze was locked on her, his chest swelling with a possessiveness that bordered on worship. He saw only the beauty, the innocence, the final piece of his legacy falling perfectly into place.
The ceremony itself was a long, elaborate ritual steeped in ancient Vedic traditions. The air was thick with the rhythmic chanting of Sanskrit mantras by the head priest, his voice a resonant drone that vibrated through the very ground. The first pivotal moment was the Kanyadaan, the giving away of the daughter. Maharaj Rudrapratap, his voice thick with emotion, took Viddhi's hand and placed it in Raja Vidhaan's. As he did so, his eyes met Viddhi's for a fleeting moment, and in them, she saw not just the king, but the father—his eyes glistening with a painful mix of pride and profound loss. It was a look that echoed his words from the previous night, a silent reiteration of his faith in her.
Then came the Saptapadi, the seven sacred steps around the holy fire. With each step, they took a vow. As they walked, their garments tied together, Viddhi repeated the vows spoken by the priest.
"With this first step,may we provide for our household," the priest chanted.
'...so I can get close enough to destroy yours,'her mind countered silently.
"With this second step,may we develop physical, mental, and spiritual strength."
'...the strength I will need to watch you fall.'
"With this third step,may we prosper in wealth by righteous means."
'...the wealth you stole from my family's coffers.'
Step by step,vow by vow, she built the foundation of her revenge, each sacred promise a layer in the prison she was constructing for him. When the final step was taken, and the priest proclaimed them man and wife, a roar of "Badhai Ho!" and "Jai Suryagarh-Chandragarh!" erupted from the crowd. Flower petals rained down from the heavens, and the music swelled to a triumphant crescendo.
The Vidaai, the farewell, was the most emotionally charged moment. As Viddhi stood at the gates, ready to depart for her new home, Maharani Madhavi completely broke down, clutching her daughter, her tears staining Viddhi's ornate dupatta. "Be happy, my beta," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "Write to me every day." Maharaj Rudrapratap stood tall, but his jaw was clenched tight, his hand resting on his wife's shoulder, his own eyes suspiciously bright. Viddhi touched their feet in a final, deep pranaam, the gesture filled with a genuine, aching gratitude for the sanctuary they had provided.
Then, she turned and stepped into the lavishly decorated chariot that would carry her to Suryagarh. Raja Vidhaan joined her, his posture radiating victorious satisfaction. As the chariot began to move, followed by a seemingly endless train of carts laden with her dowry and gifts, Viddhi did not look back with tear-filled eyes. Instead, she cast one last, long look at the receding silhouette of Chandragarh. Her eyes were dry, and in their depths was a cold, steely glint that reflected the dying sun, making them look like chips of amber fire.
'Now the time has come,' she thought, her mind a fortress of resolve. 'My beloved parents, my dear Ayaan... the final journey of your vengeance begins now.'
'Suryagarh... prepare yourself. Your true heir has returned.'
Viddhi was now the Maharani of Suryagarh. But this queen had not come to rule the kingdom; she had come to reclaim it. The law of fate—Viddhi ka Vidhaan—was now entering its final, unstoppable phase.