The boy who did not fit the room

The Singhania house had learned the art of noise.

Crystal laughter echoed off marble walls, bangles clinked like rehearsed music, and voices rose and fell with the practiced ease of people who had always known they belonged. The air smelled of incense and expensive perfume—layers of celebration laid thick enough to hide discomfort.

Manaswi stood near the pillar by the staircase.

Not sitting.

Not invited to stand closer.

Just… placed.

She had learned long ago that if she stayed still enough, people forgot to move her.

Her saree was simple—powder blue with a silver border that had dulled with age. Reema had handed it to her earlier without looking up.

“This will do. Don’t overdress,” she’d said.

Manaswi hadn’t planned to.

She never did.

From her corner, she watched the room gather around Kriti.

Kriti—the bride-to-be.

Kriti—wrapped in silk and smiles.

Kriti—whose laughter was met with approval, whose nervousness was coddled, whose presence was celebrated.

Manaswi felt no jealousy.

Only distance.

She had grown up beside Kriti, not with her. The same roof, different worlds. One born of love and legacy, the other of compromise and tolerance.

“Where is the groom?” someone asked.

The question rippled through the room like a sudden draft.

Manaswi’s fingers curled unconsciously around the edge of her dupatta.

She had seen him only once before—from afar.

A fleeting glance in a corridor.

A tall figure walking too carefully, as if the world were made of fragile glass.

They said his name with softened voices.

“Veeranshu.”

Not with pride.

Not with excitement.

With caution.

As if the name itself required gentleness.

He entered quietly.

Not announced.

Not escorted.

Just… arrived.

Veeranshu Singhania paused at the threshold, blinking at the brightness as though the light had surprised him. He wore an ivory kurta, perfectly tailored, yet something about the way he held himself made it seem like borrowed clothing.

Too formal for his comfort.

He clasped his hands together, fingers fidgeting, eyes scanning the room—not searching, just… noticing.

Too much sound.

Too many faces.

Neha reached him first.

“There you are, beta,” she said softly, adjusting his collar. “Come, everyone’s waiting.”

He nodded, but didn’t move immediately.

“Why are they all talking at once?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

“It’s like… too many radios.”

Akhil cleared his throat.

“They’re excited,” he said, a bit stiffly. “You should greet Kriti.”

Veeranshu frowned, processing.

“Oh,” he said after a pause. “Yes. That’s important.”

He took three careful steps forward—then stopped again.

The noise swelled.

Laughter.

Questions.

Curious glances that lingered a second too long.

Manaswi watched him from her corner.

He didn’t fit the room.

It wasn’t just the way he hesitated, or how his gaze lingered on harmless details—a curtain tassel, a crack in the marble, the flicker of a diya.

It was the way the room subtly adjusted around him.

Lowered voices.

Measured smiles.

Politeness sharpened with pity.

So this is him, she thought.

The groom everyone spoke about in half-sentences.

When he finally reached Kriti, the room leaned in.

Kriti smiled—bright, practiced.

“Hello,” she said.

Veeranshu tilted his head, studying her face with unsettling sincerity.

“You look… different,” he said slowly.

Kriti laughed, a little uncertain. “Different how?”

He thought carefully before answering.

“Like when you put a cover on a book,” he said.

“It’s shiny, but I can’t see the story.”

An awkward pause followed.

Someone laughed too loudly.

Kriti’s smile faltered for half a second—then returned.

“That’s… sweet,” she said.

Veeranshu nodded, satisfied.

He had said the truth.

Truths were important.

As the elders began discussing dates and rituals, Veeranshu’s attention drifted again.

And then—

He saw her.

Not because she moved.

Not because she spoke.

But because she wasn’t doing either.

Manaswi felt it—the moment his eyes landed on her. It was not a stare. Not invasive. Just… present

Manaswi stood near the pillar, holding a tray no one had asked her to carry.

People brushed past her — silk, perfume, laughter —

as if she were furniture that had always been there.

“Kriti, beta, sit here,” Reema said loudly.

“Someone bring her water.”

Manaswi shifted the tray to her other hand.

Her fingers were starting to ache.

“Why don’t you put it down?” a voice asked suddenly.

She looked up.

Veeranshu was standing too close. Too earnest.

“I wasn’t told to,” she replied softly.

He frowned, genuinely troubled.

“That seems inefficient,” he said.

“Your hands are shaking.”

She instinctively hid them behind the tray.

“They do that sometimes.”

He stared at her hands for a long moment, then gently took the tray from her.

She gasped. “You shouldn’t—”

“It’s heavy,” he said simply.

“And you are lighter.”

Before she could argue, he placed the tray on a nearby table and returned to her, nodding once — satisfied.

“There,” he said.

“Better.”

Her heartbeat felt suddenly loud.

No one had ever removed a burden from her without being asked.

“You’ll get scolded,” she whispered.

He tilted his head.

“For what?”

“For caring,” she said.

He thought about it seriously.

“That sounds like a strange rule,” he replied.

“I don’t think I like it.”

Something inside her loosened.

Later, when she turned away, she didn’t see him watching her —

memorizing the way she disappeared into corners.

Some people don’t announce their arrival,

they simply stay.

And suddenly, silence doesn’t feel so empty anymore.

“You don’t look like the others,” he said thoughtfully.

Her heart skipped. “Is that… bad?”

He shook his head quickly.

“No. Different is not bad,” he said.

“Different is just… different.”

He glanced at her hands.

“They’re shaking.”

She hadn’t noticed.

“I get shaky too,” he offered.

“When places are too full.”

She nodded, unsure what to say.

“You can sit,” he said suddenly, pointing to a nearby chair.

Manaswi hesitated. “It’s okay—”

“It’s not,” he insisted, frowning again.

“Chairs are meant to be used.”

Before she could protest, he pulled the chair out.

The room noticed now.

Reema’s eyes narrowed.

Sneha whispered something under her breath.

Manaswi sat.

Her face burned.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Veeranshu smiled—not wide, not charming.

Just… pleased.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Manaswi.”

He repeated it quietly. “Manaswi.”

Then, after a moment, he shook his head.

“That name is sharp,” he said seriously.

She blinked. “Sharp?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Like glass. Pretty, but it can cut.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh.

He studied her again, eyes soft.

“You look like soft light,” he said slowly.

“Soft things need soft names.”

Her heart stuttered.

“So,” he concluded, as if solving a puzzle,

“I think I will call you… Shona.”

The word lingered between them.

Warm.

Unexpected.

Her cheeks flamed.

“You— you can’t just—” she started.

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

“I— no one—” she stumbled.

“Oh,” he said, considering.

“Does it hurt?”

“No!”

“Then it’s okay,” he decided.

She stared at him, flustered.

Across the room, Kriti watched them with a faint frown.

Veeranshu turned back to Manaswi.

“If you don’t like it, tell me,” he added quickly.

“I don’t like keeping things people don’t like.”

She swallowed.

“I… don’t hate it,” she admitted.

His smile returned—small, genuine.

“Good,” he said.

“Then Shona is safe.”

And for the first time in a room full of people—

Manaswi felt seen.

Not chosen.

Not special.

Just… acknowledged.

The room buzzed on, unaware that something subtle had shifted.

And somewhere beneath the boyish pauses, the gentle confusion, the careful words—

A mask settled perfectly into place.

“Jo rishton mein naam se pehle hi paraye the,

unhein pehli baar kisi ne apna samjha.