I am about to marry three men.
They are brothers.
From today onward, all three of them have the right to touch me.
Anywhere.
And none of them minds that their brother will touch the same skin on another day.
They will share the woman they marry.
They will share the woman who will give them children.
That woman is me.
I am not interested in marrying three men,
but it is the price of being greedy.
Greedy for my parents' inheritance.
My parents were never the perfect parents in my eyes, but they weren't so cruel that I would send them to an old age home either. I could manage living with them.
But a few years back, I fell in love with Rohan. I told my rich parents about him, and their reaction was: don't tell him that we're rich.
My family decided to do a little gold digger test.
Guess what?
He passed as the gold digger.
After that incident, my parents started looking for a family I could get married into. They feared that if they wouldn't get me married I would bring someone like him home and ruin their reputation.
I agreed because, honestly, my taste in men was terrible.
What I didn't know was that they would find three men for me.
Can you imagine your parents choosing three husbands for you?
You can't, right?
But it was my fault. I should have guessed it earlier, because my parents follow everything and anything—in the name of customs and traditions.
They belong to the Khano tribe. In our tribe, polyandry is common. I knew about it, but my mother had only one husband. So for most of my life, until recently, I assumed that my parents were progressive. I thought that was why we lived in a different city, away from tribal customs.
Then, a few months back, that illusion broke.
I saw my mother crying alone in a room, holding a photograph.
"Ma?" I whispered from the doorway.
She startled, wiping her tears too quickly. "You weren't supposed to see me crying."
My father stepped closer, his voice gentle. "It's alright."
She looked at the photograph again, her hands trembling. "I thought I had buried this grief."
"You don't have to," he said, pulling her into his arms.
I waited for anger.
For questions.
For distance.
Instead, my father held her tighter.
"He was a part of your life," he murmured, his own voice breaking. "It's okay to miss him."
She broke down then, sobbing into his chest.
A question rose in my heart: Wasn't he jealous?
A few days later, I asked my father.
"Why would I be?" he said calmly. "We had different personalities. The way I loved her was completely different from the way he loved her."
At that time, it sounded like complete nonsense to me.
But today—watching these women sitting in front of me with their multiple husbands—I finally understood him. Since childhood, he had been surrounded by such relationships. For him, this wasn't strange. It was normal.
In front of me, I could see a girl being introduced to two brothers.
"Hi," the girl said, smiling, shaking hands with one and then the other.
"Hello," the men replied.
She looked happy.
But that wasn't my reaction when I first got to know about my parents' plan.
"What?" My eyes widened when my mother first showed me their picture.
"Three brothers?"
"I agree, I couldn't find one guy for myself," I said angrily, "but that doesn't give you the right to marry me off to any number of people."
"You are almost thirty," my mother snapped. "What should we tell people? That something is wrong with you because you're still single?"
I couldn't believe her. I was disappointed—angry that what people would say mattered more to her than how I felt.
"Every woman marries two to three husbands. What's wrong with that?" my father shouted. "Your mother had two husbands too."
"My mother was married to five," he added.
"Dad, I don't want to get married," I cried. "I'll handle your business and remain single—but not two or three husbands. Please." I pleaded.
"I do business with people from the Khano tribe," he said coldly. "If they find out that my own daughter is disgusted by our customs and traditions, forget billions—you'll bring our business down to cents."
"Dad, please," I cried, falling to my knees. "You were okay with Rohan. What changed? I'll marry anyone, just not more than one man."
"Then get out of my house," he said. "No business. No money. Without me, you'll be a beggar."
He was right.
Everyone knew me as his daughter. He had introduced me in press conferences. No company would hire me—they would see me as a threat, a spy.
"Mom, please," I turned to her.
"Marry them for three to four years," she said softly, looking at my father, "so we can say you married once."
"If it doesn't work and you want a divorce," my father added, "you can come back and handle the business."
Irrespective of how I felt, my parents and my best friend Divya were thoroughly enjoying it.
Divya was fascinated—almost thrilled—by the idea of having multiple men as partners, and that too legally, in a society where everyone celebrated it instead of condemning it.
"Look at this," she whispered to me once, her eyes sparkling as she glanced around. "More husbands, more respect."
But standing there, dressed as a bride, I felt none of that excitement.
What looked empowering from the outside to me felt exhausting from the inside.
Divya saw choice.
I saw obligation.
I saw a life where love would have to be negotiated, divided, managed.
My parents noticed her excitement.
My mother smiled at Divya and said, "If you like this way of life so much, we will find a family like this for you too."
Divya's eyes widened, half in surprise, half in delight.
My parents weren't joking.
Divya had no parents of her own. Over the years, mine had quietly filled that space for her—guiding her, scolding her, worrying about her future as if she were their own daughter.
Divya laughed it off in that moment, brushing it aside as excitement carried her away. But I saw something else settle into her expression—a spark of possibility, of belonging.
In the Khano tribe, the bride and grooms wear red traditional attire, while the guests are dressed in white. From a distance, this contrast made it easy to spot them.
They were tall, built with the kind of strength that made people look twice—broad shoulders, long limbs, bodies that carried confidence without display.
One of them carried his body like he owned the space—broad chest, thick arms, he looked like a man with power, a serious look, someone you would think twice before messing.
The second moved with an easier confidence. Leaner, smoother, his body relaxed but aware, every stretch of muscle flowing naturally, as if he knew exactly how good he looked without needing to prove it.
And the third—uncomfortably so—was all sharp lines and restless energy. Long limbs, tight muscle, youth clinging to him in a way that made my eyes linger longer than they should have.
I knew one thing for certain:
I would never fall in love with someone like the third one. It's nice to admire him from afar but not get romantically involved.
Because I was always against this marriage, I never tried to know anything about them. I believed I wouldn't have to marry them, if I fought until the end.
Now, the situation has changed, I am already getting married to them and I want to know more about them, more than their looks.
And I know who can give me more details, my best friend Divya.
I spotted her a little distance away, standing with two brothers, laughing freely, completely absorbed in their conversation. She looked relaxed, curious, alive—nothing like me.
I called out to her.
She turned, still smiling, excused herself, and walked toward me—her expression glowing with excitement, as if she had just discovered something fascinating.
"How much do you know about them?" I asked.
"Nothing much," Divya replied casually, "but definitely more than you."
I gave her that look.
She laughed. "What do you want to know? I've made their profiles in detail."
At least their names, I said.
She instantly pulled out her phone.
I stared at the screen, genuinely stunned by the amount of information she had collected.
"Arun and Varun are the younger brothers," she began. "They're twenty—eight, twins—two years younger than you. And Karan is the eldest. He's thirty—two."
"Oh God," I muttered.
I didn't say everything out loud, but my face betrayed me immediately.
Divya noticed.
She tilted her head, amused, eyes sparkling. "You don't like the number twenty—eight, do you?"
"Couldn't my parents at least look for someone older?" I asked in a hush-hush voice.
"They did," Divya replied calmly. "Karan is thirty—two."
I gave her a look.
She understood immediately.
"Look around you," Divya said softly, gesturing with her eyes. "That woman has five husbands. That one has four."
I followed her gaze.
"All of them were younger than the eldest brother," Divya continued. "No one ever cares about the age of the younger brothers. And two years isn't that young. They're not teenagers. They're twenty—eight. Fully grown adults."
She wasn't wrong.
I wasn't marrying children.
They were men—grown, settled, capable of making their own decisions.
Still, knowing that didn't completely erase the discomfort. It only quieted it enough for me to stand there without protesting.
Sometimes logic doesn't change how you feel.
It just leaves you with fewer arguments.
And so I stayed silent, reminding myself that this wasn't about preference or romance.
It was about terms.
And I had already agreed to them.
"Now," Divya said casually, "shall I tell you about their finances, their parents, their ex-girlfriends—or something else?"
The question hit a nerve.
I was marrying them so I wouldn't lose my parents' property.
But a sudden, ugly thought rose inside me-
Were they marrying me for mine?
The idea unsettled me more than I expected.
"Finances," I said immediately.
Divya didn't even hesitate.
"They own three times more property than your parents," she replied.
So this wasn't about money.
Not for them.
The imbalance I had feared didn't exist in the way I imagined.
"All the rituals are over. You may proceed to the dining area," someone announced.
I got up from my seat. I knew exactly what this was—a marriage of convenience.
Survive for three years. Play my role well. Maybe even enjoy them in bed.
And then leave.
Without guilt.