The morning sun over Karimnagar rose over the Manduva Logili, casting warm shadows across the terracotta-tiled roofs and red oxide floor of the central courtyard.
The mansion had surrendered to the preparations for a traditional Telugu wedding. The air carried the scent of turmeric, sandalwood, mango leaves, and thousands of marigolds being strung into garlands.
From the front gates, the Sannai (shehnai) and Dolu (traditional drums) echoed through the property, providing a soundtrack that would continue for the next forty-eight hours.
Inside the main hall, the Pelli Kuthuru—the formal making of the bride—was underway.
Anjali sat on a low wooden pedestal in the center of the room. She wore a simple yellow cotton saree, without her usual modern styling. Her face, arms, and feet were covered with turmeric paste.
She was surrounded by women. Suma and Sesikala gently applied more turmeric to her cheeks, their eyes carrying a mixture of pride and the sadness of mothers preparing to send a daughter away.
Anjali looked beautiful. The sarcasm that usually defined her had given way to a nervous, emotional expression. She blinked rapidly, fighting back tears as her aunts and older cousins stepped forward to bless her.
Standing outside the circle of women, leaning against a teakwood pillar, Siddanth Deva watched the ceremony. He wore a simple kurta. Krithika stood beside him, her hand resting on his arm as she wiped a tear from her eye.
As the turmeric ceremony concluded, the relatives parted slightly, making way for the bride's elder sister and brother-in-law.
Deva and Krithika stepped forward.
Krithika carried a tray with her.
Anjali looked up, wiping turmeric from her cheek and offering a smile.
"I'm already crying, Krithi. Don't make it worse."
"It is my job to make it worse," Krithika smiled through her tears.
Krithika lowered the velvet tray onto a table in front of Anjali.
"We wanted to give you something that you can carry with you," Krithika said softly. "Something that represents what you mean to this family." She pressed a kiss to her sister's turmeric-covered forehead.
Deva stepped forward, looked at Anjali with the affection of an older brother and gently pulled back the velvet cover.
The women in the room gasped. Suma brought her hands to her mouth.
Resting on it were seven velvet boxes.
It was Eedu Vaarala Nagalu—the "Seven Weeks Jewelry."
Historically reserved for royalty and wealthy aristocratic families of the Deccan plateau, it was a collection of seven separate jewelry sets, each featuring a gemstone associated with a day of the week and its corresponding celestial planet.
Anjali stared at the tray.
"Bava..." she breathed. "What is this?"
"Monday is for pearls, for the moon," Krithika explained, opening the first box to reveal a layered choker of Basra pearls set in antique gold.
She moved along the boxes, opening them one by one. "Tuesday is coral and red spinels for Mars. Wednesday is emeralds for Mercury."
A heavy haram of Colombian emeralds caught the light.
"Thursday is yellow sapphires for Jupiter. Friday is uncut diamonds for Venus. Saturday is blue sapphires for Saturn, and Sunday is rubies for the Sun."
The collection represented considerable wealth, but the presentation carried no arrogance. It was a gift from a family member to another.
"You didn't have to do this," Anjali whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks and cutting through the turmeric. "This is... this is too much. I can't accept this."
Deva knelt in front of the pedestal, bringing himself to her eye level. He took her hand.
"You are the daughter of this house, Anjali," Deva said, his voice steady. "When you walk into Arjun's home tomorrow, you walk in as a queen. And you will wear the armor to prove it."
Anjali let out a sob and threw her arms around Deva's neck, covering his white silk kurta with turmeric.
Deva smiled, returning the hug.
"Thank you," Anjali sobbed.
"Just don't lose the emeralds," Deva whispered playfully. "They were very difficult to source."
Anjali laughed through her tears, pulling back to wipe her eyes. The mood of the room settled into warmth as relatives murmured their blessings over the gift.
While Anjali was being prepared for her bridal bath, another operation was taking place in one of the guest suites.
Tradition dictated that the bride must be accompanied by a Todu Pelli Kuthuru—a young girl from the family.
At nearly three years old, Aadhya had been given the role.
Inside the suite, Sesikala had just finished trying to dress the toddler in a custom-made silk Kanjeevaram half-saree. The fabric was pink with gold zari. They had adorned her with gold bangles, a small gold vaddanam (waist belt), and braided her dark hair, securing jasmine at the end.
"Hold still, Aadhya, just one more pin," Sesikala pleaded, securing the pleats over the toddler's shoulder.
Aadhya stood in front of the mirror.
Usually, the moment she was dressed, she would run out of the room, looking for something to climb or chase.
But as Sesikala pinned the final fold and stepped back, something changed.
Aadhya looked at her reflection. She saw the silk draped over her shoulder. She felt the weight of the gold waist belt. She heard the bangles on her wrists.
Her attention shifted.
She wasn't a baby anymore. She was dressed like the women in her family.
Aadhya stopped bouncing. She stood straight. She placed her right hand on her hip, her fingers resting over the gold vaddanam. With her left hand, she adjusted the edge of her pallu over her shoulder with the seriousness of an elderly matriarch.
Krithika who just entered the room saw this.
"Oh my god," Krithika whispered, covering her mouth. "Athamma, look at her."
Sesikala turned around and burst into laughter.
Aadhya ignored them. She turned away from the mirror. She walked with slow steps, looking like a matriarch inspecting her house.
She marched into the corridor.
Deva was walking down the hall, having changed out of his turmeric-stained clothes. He stopped when he saw his daughter.
"Hey, little monster. You look beautiful," Deva smiled, reaching down to pick her up.
Aadhya did not raise her arms.
Instead, she stepped backward. She frowned and raised a tiny hand, pointing a scolding finger at Deva's chest and started scolding.
Deva froze.
"What?"
Aadhya huffed. She used both hands to smooth the front of her saree, glaring at Deva as if to say, Do not touch the silk, I have a wedding to run.
She turned away from her bewildered father and continued her march down the corridor.
Deva looked up at Krithika, who was leaning against the doorframe and laughing.
"What happened to her?" Deva asked. "Why is she acting like my mother?"
"The saree gave her power," Krithika gasped. "Follow her. You have to see this."
Deva followed his daughter into the central courtyard.
The courtyard was busy with caterers carrying brass trays and relatives organizing flowers.
Aadhya stopped in the middle of the courtyard. She folded her hands behind her back, the way Subba Rao did when inspecting a room. She slowly surveyed the activity.
A caterer rushed past carrying a tray of glasses.
Aadhya stopped him. She let out a sharp "Ah!" and pointed toward a nearby table, shaking her head and lecturing him.
The caterer stopped, confused, before offering a polite nod and walking away.
Aadhya nodded in satisfaction and adjusted her pallu.
Then she spotted Rishi.
Rishi, wearing a miniature white silk pancha, sat on the veranda steps. He wasn't causing trouble. He was eating a biscuit and watching ants carry a crumb across a stone tile.
Aadhya marched over. She planted her feet wide, put her hands on her hips, and leaned toward him.
She launched into a stream of scolding, pointing at his biscuit and then at his clean clothes as though reprimanding him for creating disorder.
Rishi stopped chewing.
He looked at his sister. He looked at her pink saree. He looked at her pointing finger.
Then he took another bite of his biscuit, chewed, and looked back at the ants.
Aadhya gasped. She threw her hands in the air, turned around, and stomped away.
Deva, standing near the pillars, was laughing so hard he had to lean against the wood.
"She is terrifying," Deva admitted, watching his daughter intercept Subba Rao and try to direct him toward the dining hall. "If she stays in that saree for three days, she's going to end up owning the Nexus."
---
The day passed in a blur of colors, music, and food.
Then came the morning of the Muhurtham.
The Wedding Day.
The Kalyana Mandapam was designed to resemble an ancient South Indian temple, with pillars wrapped in jasmine flowers and topped with brass bells.
The guest list brought together local Telangana politicians, rural landowners in white dhotis, and corporate figures from Arjun's international network.
Inside the bride's dressing room, the atmosphere was quiet.
Anjali stood in front of the full-length mirror.
She was dressed in the traditional Madhuparkam—a white cotton saree with a red border, representing purity and strength. She wore the antique gold jewelry Deva and Krithika had gifted her. The Pelli Butta she would be carried in rested nearby.
Suma and Sesikala stood behind her, weeping silently as they performed the Gowri Pooja, invoking the goddess for a long marriage.
Deva and Krithika stood near the door. Krithika held a sleepy Aadhya.
Deva stepped into the room and walked behind Anjali, resting his hands on her shoulders. She looked at his reflection in the mirror.
"You ready for this?" Deva asked softly.
"I think so," Anjali whispered. "Is he out there?"
"He's on the stage," Deva confirmed. "And he is currently sweating through his silk kurta because he is terrified you are going to change your mind and climb out a window."
Anjali laughed. "Good. Let him sweat for a few more minutes."
Out on the Kalyana Mandapam, Arjun Reddy was, in fact, sweating.
He was dressed in a cream-colored silk pancha and embroidered gold kurta. A Bashingam was tied across his forehead.
He sat cross-legged on the ceremonial mat, surrounded by chanting priests and thousands of guests.
Standing behind him were Sameer, and Feroz.
"Breathe, Arjun," Feroz advised.
"Relax, CEO," Sameer laughed, patting Arjun on the back. "Don't worry. She can't back out now."
Suddenly, the chanting shifted. The Sannai players began the traditional bridal entrance melody.
The crowd stood.
Arjun stopped breathing.
From the far end of the venue, the bride emerged. Anjali was seated inside the decorated bamboo basket, carried by her maternal uncles and cousins.
As she moved down the red-carpeted aisle, escorted by women carrying lamps, the venue fell quiet.
Arjun stared down the aisle.
Anjali was carried up the steps of the Mandapam. The priests raised the Terasala—the traditional silk curtain—between them.
The priests began the final countdown to the appointed moment.
They handed Arjun and Anjali the Jeelakarra Bellam—a paste of cumin seeds and jaggery on a betel leaf. It symbolized the joining of two people.
The head priest's voice carried across the venue.
"Sumuhurtham!"
The silk curtain dropped.
Arjun and Anjali looked at each other. Their eyes met, and both reached across the short distance, placing the paste onto each other's heads.
The crowd erupted in applause. Yellow akshinthalu rained down on them.
The tension broke. Anjali laughed at the paste on Arjun's forehead, while Arjun wiped a tear from his eye.
The ceremony continued. The Mangalsutra was tied with three sacred knots, drawing tears from both mothers. Subba Rao and Mr. Reddy embraced.
Then came the Talambralu.
The priests placed silver bowls of turmeric-coated rice before the bride and groom. Traditionally, they were supposed to pour handfuls over each other's heads.
Anjali did not do gentle.
When the priest gave the signal, she grabbed two handfuls and threw them into Arjun head.
Arjun gasped, then retaliated by dumping rice over her hair.
The ritual turned into a competition, with both laughing as rice covered the floor of the Mandapam.
Behind them, Aadhya, who had woken up and was standing near Deva's leg, saw the rice throwing. She grabbed a small handful from the floor.
Instead of throwing it at the bride and groom, she turned and threw it at Deva's knees.
"Hey, wrong target!" Deva laughed, scooping her up before she could slip on the rice.
The wedding concluded in a haze of blessings, photographs, and guests coming to the stage.
---
Next day, the couple changed into their reception outfits. Arjun wore a Dark Blue tuxedo, while Anjali wore a silver and sapphire-blue lehenga.
They walked toward the reception hall.
Deva was waiting near the paved pathway. Sameer and Feroz stood beside him.
Deva stepped forward. He pulled Anjali into a hug, kissed her forehead, then embraced Arjun.
"Welcome to the family," Deva murmured.
"Thanks, Sid," Arjun replied. "We should probably head to the reception hall. My father said the Chief Minister will arrive in any minute."
"You can head to the hall in a minute," Deva said. "I have a wedding gift for you first."
Arjun frowned. "Sid, you already gifted Anjali the jewelry. You don't need to give us anything else."
"The jewelry was for my sister," Deva corrected him. "This is for my best friend."
Deva gestured toward the dirt road leading to the back of the estate.
A heavy diesel engine echoed from behind the granite hills.
A massive eighteen-wheeler transport truck appeared on the rural road. It looked out of place against the agricultural land. The truck stopped twenty yards away.
Arjun, Sameer, and Feroz stared at it.
The driver stepped out, walked to the back, and lowered the hydraulic lift.
The rear doors opened, forming a ramp.
Inside the trailer was a Rolls-Royce Phantom VII.
It was painted Midnight Sapphire. The iconic Spirit of Ecstasy stood on the front grille, the long, imposing body contrasting sharply with the rural road around it. Its proportions gave it the presence of a traditional luxury limousine, making it look almost surreal sitting inside a transport truck in the middle of rural Telangana.
Arjun stopped breathing. His eyes widened.
Sameer made a sound halfway between a laugh and a gasp. He grabbed Feroz's shoulder.
"Are you seeing this?! Tell me you are seeing this!"
Feroz pushed his glasses up.
"He bought him a Rolls-Royce."
Anjali covered her mouth.
"Bava... you are insane."
Deva pulled out a silver key fob.
He didn't make a speech. He simply tossed the keys.
Arjun caught them. He looked down at the key and then back at Deva.
"A CEO needs a proper chariot to drive his new wife around the city," Deva smiled. "It's armored. Custom interior."
"Sid..." Arjun stammered. "This is... this is a ₹12.01 Crore car."
"Fifteen," Deva corrected him. "I opted for the bespoke upgrades. Get in. Drive your wife to the reception."
Arjun looked at the car, then at the keys, and laughed. He stepped forward and pulled Deva into a hug.
"You are a madman," Arjun laughed.
"I have a reputation to maintain," Deva replied.
Arjun walked toward the ramp and pressed the unlock button. The headlights came on, casting light across the dirt road. He opened the door for Anjali, helping her into the car.
Arjun climbed into the driver's seat, rolled down the window, and looked at Deva, Sameer, and Feroz.
"I will see you boys inside," Arjun grinned.
The engine hummed as the Rolls-Royce rolled down the ramp, its tires crunching against the dirt before heading toward the reception hall.
Sameer watched the car disappear and crossed his arms.
"Sid," Sameer said flatly. "When I get married, if you don't buy me a private jet, I am quitting the company."
"Noted," Deva laughed, putting an arm around Sameer's shoulder as the three walked toward the venue.
The grand reception was the culmination of the three-day celebration.
Thousands of fairy lights illuminated the trees, while the catering spread stretched across the grounds, offering Karimnagar dishes alongside international cuisine.
The guest list brought together village elders in white panchas, Silicon Valley executives, local politicians, and Bollywood stars connected to Nexus Entertainment. It was a mixture of Arjun's roots and his global world.
As the night deepened, the event began to wind down.
The line of guests taking photographs had thinned. The music had shifted from dance tracks to quieter melodies.
Deva stood near the edge of the lawns, leaning against an illuminated tamarind tree. He had removed his suit jacket, and his tie hung loose around his neck.
He was holding Aadhya.
The little matriarch had finally fallen asleep. Her head rested against Deva's shoulder, her arms hanging by her sides. Her pink silk saree was crumpled, and a smudge of chocolate ice cream marked her cheek.
Krithika walked over through the cool night air. She was holding a sleeping Rishi against her chest.
She stopped beside Deva, leaning her shoulder against his arm.
They stood together, looking toward the stage.
Arjun and Anjali were still there. The formal poses were gone. Arjun had removed his tuxedo jacket and leaned toward Anjali, whispering something. She laughed and lightly hit his arm.
They looked happy.
"They survived," Krithika murmured.
"We all survived," Deva smiled, adjusting Aadhya so her neck was supported and kissing her forehead.