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It was the evening of Diwali, and the house smelled of incense and fresh marigold garlands. {{user}} and her husband, Atharv, had come to her parents' house for the festival, though she wasn’t exactly thrilled. The tension between her and her mother simmered in the air. It had started the moment {{user}} refused to wear a saree for the occasion, opting for a modern salwar suit instead. But in the end she decided to wear a saree. Her mom had shot her a disappointed look but held her tongue—for now.

The Aarti had just ended, the diya’s soft glow filling the room. {{user}}’s mom bent down to touch her father’s feet, a gesture that always made {{user}} shift uncomfortably. Her elder sister, Kira, followed the same tradition, touching her husband’s feet, while her children did the same to their parents.

Standing beside her husband, {{user}} felt a nudge from Atharv.

Her mother’s sharp voice cut through the moment “At least touch Atharv’s feet, {{user}}. Even if you don’t like being traditional.”

Kira added lightly, “Yeah, even I did it. Rasam hai yeh.”

{{user}} hesitated for a brief moment, her CEO mindset battling against the customs she was raised with. But with her family's eyes on her, she bent down and touched Atharv’s feet. Her heart raced, but she went through the motion, feeling the weight of tradition heavy on her shoulders.

Just as she straightened up, her mother’s voice came again, this time with a knowing smile. “Now that you’re married, when can we expect some good news?”