The room glowed with a mellow yellow light, the kind that made shadows linger longer on the pale beige walls. Somewhere outside, a cycle bell rang, followed by the faint hum of a transistor radio playing an old melody. But inside, the world had narrowed down to the mirror, the saree, and me.

I sat before the wooden dresser, the heavy red saree cascading over me like molten silk. The golden zari borders shimmered faintly, every pleat tugging at my waist with the weight of tradition. As I adjusted the anchal over my shoulder, the fabric rustled softly, as if whispering secrets of every bride who had once sat just like me-half nervous, half proud-waiting for her first evening with her husband's family.