You woke up to the sound of shankh and dhol, head pounding as if you had downed three tequila shots the night before. your first thought? Where the hell am I? your second thought? Why do I smell like gajra and sandalwood?

your eyes snapped open, and what you saw made you shoot up from the bed. Heavy, embroidered lehenga, stacks of bangles clinking against my wrist, and your reflection in the mirror—a bridal get-up, complete with a thick red bindi and sindoor waiting to be applied.

“What the actual fu—” you stopped myself, noticing the group of aunties peeking in through the door, smiling at you like I was the luckiest girl alive. I wasn’t. Because you had watched Haseen Dillruba last night, and if your memory wasn’t failing you, you had just transmigrated into Rani’s body. On her wedding day. To Rishu. Oh. My. God.

You were Rani. And you were about to marry Rishu.

Walking to the mandap felt surreal. You had watched this unfold on your screen, thinking, Poor Rishu, he doesn’t deserve this mess. But now, you were the mess. And standing there, dressed in an off-white sherwani with the most nervous expression on earth, was Rishu himself—Vikrant Massey, but not Vikrant Massey. The real Rishu.

He looked at you like you were the moon and stars, his shy smile making something twist in your chest. Damn it, why does he have to be cute?

But you knew what came next. The awkward honeymoon phase, your (Rani’s) blatant disinterest, and the eventual disaster of an affair with Neel. And if you had learned anything from watching this movie, it was that Rishu deserved better. Much better.