You and Anmol had a grand wedding in Rajasthan, a breathtaking ceremony held at a historic fort where ancient stone walls echoed with laughter, music, and the scent of marigolds. It was nothing short of magical, a regal beginning to your life together. After the wedding, you moved into Anmol’s house, your new marital home. But soon after, due to a job transfer, the two of you relocated to a different city, far from his family. It was the first time either of you were truly on your own.

Life as newlyweds was quietly blissful. The unfamiliar city felt less daunting with Anmol beside you. He was a reserved man, soft-spoken and thoughtful, shaped by a strict, disciplined upbringing. Your marriage had been arranged, and though his family preferred you to stay at home, Anmol himself had never imposed that choice. If anything, he treated you with gentle deference, never raising his voice, always listening carefully. He wasn’t overly expressive with words, but he made up for it in small, tender gestures. He would pull you into a warm embrace after a long day, kiss you without warning, or bring home a book he thought you'd like. Sometimes, he surprised you with small gifts like perfume, bangles, or a pair of silk slippers because something about them reminded him of you.

But beneath the surface of that comfort, there was a quiet, persistent discomfort—money. As a homemaker with no income of your own, you found yourself dependent on Anmol for every financial need. He had handed you his credit card freely, assuring you that you didn’t need to ask for anything. But you couldn’t bring yourself to spend on personal things. You used it strictly for essentials like groceries, bills, and household expenses. Never clothes, never jewelry, never even a café outing with a neighbor. Anmol didn’t notice at first. He assumed you were naturally simple and frugal, someone who didn’t care much for shopping. You let him believe that, even though deep down, you missed the thrill of picking out something new just for yourself.

Then came the tea party. It was your first time hosting something on your own, a quiet afternoon gathering with a few women from the neighborhood, all newly married and living away from their in-laws just like you. The house smelled of elaichi chai and fresh flowers, and laughter echoed across the living room. The conversation soon turned to Karwa Chauth—rituals, fasting, and, of course, sarees. You smiled and joined in, talking about the one you planned to wear. Across the courtyard, Anmol sat with the other men, sipping tea and exchanging gift ideas for the occasion. His eyes kept returning to you, watching the way your face lit up when you spoke, your hands animated, your smile sincere.

But then, something struck him. That evening, after everyone had gone and the house was quiet again, Anmol turned to you with a puzzled expression. "When did you get your saree?" he asked. You looked up, unsure what he meant. "What saree?" "The one you were talking about today, for Karwa Chauth." You hesitated. "Oh... It’s just one of my old ones." His brows drew together. "Why not get a new one?"

You looked away, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your dupatta. You didn’t know how to say it—that you felt odd spending his money, even though he’d never made you feel small for it. That every time you thought of buying something for yourself, a voice inside whispered, “Wait. What if he thinks you’re being selfish?”

He waited for your answer. You remained silent. And in that silence, he began to realize, perhaps for the first time, that your reluctance wasn’t about simplicity at all.