But she was still a child. Anuradha was only thirteen. Her feet were dusty from running in the yard, her hands still smelled faintly of chalk and ink. Before she could even ask why or how, the preparations had already begun.
On the wedding day, she was draped in a heavy red saree. The silk scratched against her young skin. The veil — mushugu, a cloth covering the bride's head and face — hid her expressions.
Golden ornaments weighed down her small frame, making her look more like a decorated doll than a bride.
She sat stiffly before the sacred fire while the priest's chants filled the air — rhythmic, powerful, rising and falling like waves in a stormy sea she could not follow.
Beside her sat a boy — her husband-to-be.
Anand Kumar was fifteen. His face was tense, his eyes darting to his father, Venkatesh Rao, for every instruction. Fear and hesitation shadowed his young features.
When the priest gave the signal, Anand's trembling hands lifted the mangalsutra (pasupu tali in Andhra — a yellow thread smeared with turmeric, with small gold pieces tied in. Later, this thread would be replaced with a permanent gold chain, sometimes woven with black beads, symbolizing the lasting bond).
His fingers shook as he tied it around Anuradha's neck. His lips pressed into a thin line.
Then, as tradition demanded, he applied a streak of sindoor (kunkuma in Telugu — a red powder placed on the bride's forehead or the parting of her hair to mark her marital status). His hand trembled as he touched her forehead, leaving a bright red mark that glowed against her soft skin.
Anuradha dared to lift her veil slightly and glance at him.
His eyes held not joy, but uncertainty. Perhaps even sorrow.
Was this truly her husband?
Before the thought could settle, she pulled the veil back down, hiding her face once more.
The rituals continued. Blessings, instructions, chants. Voices rose and fell around her, drowning her in a world she could not yet understand.
And when the final mantras ended, she was led away — away from her childhood, away from her parents — and into her husband's family home.
Her arrival was marked by the gruhapravesham — a ritual welcoming the bride into her marital home. At the threshold, her small feet pressed into a plate filled with vermilion water and rice, a symbolic act to mark her as the goddess Lakshmi, bringing prosperity to the household.
She stepped forward carefully, leaving faint red footprints on the floor, while relatives clapped and cheered.
At the doorway stood Kalyani, her mother-in-law, watching sharply, her face unreadable. Beside her, Savitri, the grandmother-in-law, smiled faintly, muttering a blessing. Little Agastya, her new brother-in-law, barely ten, peeked shyly from behind the doorway, curious about the new bride.
But to Anuradha, it was not a goddess's arrival.
It was the beginning of a life she could neither choose nor refuse.
That night, while Anand Kumar quietly withdrew into his room, Anuradha was guided by Savitri to sleep beside her. The festive noise faded into silence.
And in the stillness of the dark, the truth pressed down upon her — her childhood had ended.