Perfectly Hers

By nine, the house was wheezing—clattering spoons, shouted orders, cousins in pyjamas and false lashes zigzagging between floors. Aunties barked commands like field marshals, the priest muttered about a missing copper lota, and wilted mogra garlands sagged under a sluggish fan.

And the bride? Not quite missing—just delayed at the parlour. Her appointment had started on time. The ‘trial eye’ hadn’t. Forty minutes, one cousin call, and an auto ride later, she returned—lehenga hitched up, dodging puddles.

“There she is!” her mother cried—relief and scolding in equal parts—tucking stray mogra into her hair. Her father, flushed in his once-a-year bandhgalā, reached for a Limca. The bride exhaled sharply, bracing for impact.

She looked bridal—but only technically. Silk and makeup couldn’t hide the frizz, traffic-flush, or shimmer-streaked tissue in her fist. She slipped off her sandals and called, “Main aa gayi!” as if the house hadn’t already unravelled in her absence.

A cousin grabbed her wrist. An aunt shoved a tray of flower petals into her arms. Her mother whispered, horrified, “You’re two shades darker than when you left.” The bride gave a half-laugh, half-wince, and let herself be steered toward the ceremonial corner.

Somewhere behind her, the doorbell chimed. A cousin shrieked about missing earrings. An uncle barked at the driver.

She stood still for a moment, just one beat longer than needed. Everyone was moving around her—but no one was really looking at her.

Already, it felt like the wedding had learned to go on without her.

“Rasam start ho gaya,” her dadi declared, guiding her to the brass thāl—a ritual tray stacked with petals, powders, sweets, and elaborate expectations. The first wedding rite was underway.

She sat on a satin stool, accepted gifts from the groom’s side, received tikka, let her wrists be circled with kalirey. Her legs were numb. Her eyeliner was beginning to melt.

Then the doorbell rang—once, then again. Polite. Deliberate.

A cousin opened it.

And there she stood.

Identical down to the maang tikka, clutch bag, and faint rose tint. But polished. Breathless only in theory.

The real bride turned, turmeric and rice on her hands—and stared at herself.

“Namaste,” said the other. “I’m ready.”

A breath held. One beat where no one moved.

Then, as if guided by ancient reflex and the instinct to avoid drama, the room rebooted. A chachi nudged a nephew to offer the second bride a Limca. A maasi whispered, “Must be a modern pre-wedding shoot.” Someone muttered, “CGI these days…”

The real bride stood frozen, haldi on her hands, mouth ajar.

A cousin tugged her sleeve. “Didi… is this that prototype thing you told me about?”

Her stomach turned. Months ago—sick of fittings and functions—she’d joked to her fiancé about ordering an android to do the wedding. He’d laughed. So had she. But later that night, still simmering, she’d clicked through the site. Trial model. Programmable. Limited edition.

She’d meant to cancel. Of course she had. But then came the dance practices and guest lists—and the memory got buried.

“No,” she said quickly. “Just a joke. I never actually—”

But her cousin had already moved on, eyes fixed on the duplicate.

The second bride smiled politely, took the flower tray from a guest, and didn’t blink. Not once.

The priest cleared his throat.

“Achha,” he said. “Two kanyaas—two brides. Twice the blessings. Very auspicious.”

Someone hit record.

She waited—for her mother to protest, her father to object. But no one did.

The android moved smoothly: folding hands, touching her grandmother’s feet—precise, reverent. Like she’d done it all before. The real bride watched, still and smeared with turmeric, and felt the sting of being overlooked.

No one fixed her pallu. No one guided her forward. A makeup artist passed by—paused—not for her, but to check the android’s eyeliner.

She stepped back, out of the lamp’s soft glow. The house felt unfamiliar. Her palms held the blur of the day—mehendi, shimmer, and the scent of hurry—and she wondered when she’d become a guest at her own wedding.

The android glanced at her—not warm, not hostile. Just… noticing.

The rituals continued.

The room, once cluttered with bangles and lipstick debates, had reshaped itself for spectacle. The diya was moved to a corner. A garish rug hid the scuffed floor. White-covered chairs stood in neat, unnatural rows.

She paused at the archway.

Inside, the priest chanted under the mandap. Phones buzzed, relatives bustled. She heard whispers.

“She’s glowing today.”

“Bilkul film heroine lag rahi hai.”

They were watching the android. Observantly. Like wedding women do. Clocking the drape of her dupatta, the tilt of her jhumka, the coral of her lipstick.

A phone camera zoomed in. A sigh.

“In our time, makeup wasn’t like this.”

She stepped forward, cleared her throat. No one looked.

Her mother was adjusting wilting marigolds. Her father, arguing over chutneys.

She brushed her mother’s arm. “Mummy…”

Her mother smiled faintly. “Later, beta. Everyone’s watching.”

“But—”

A hand on her cheek, a tuck of her pallu—and she vanished into the blur.

The android was already seated, lehenga spread in a perfect circle. Her hands in anjali. The priest gave a satisfied nod.

An aunt nudged the bride forward. She knelt beside the imposter, trying not to catch her bangle on the mat.

She reached for the ritual thāl—unsure if she was early, or too late.

“Right hand, bitiya,” the priest said, calm as ever.

The android had already done it. Her bangles chimed on cue.

From down the road came the faint thump of drums and the tinny, jubilant strain of a shehnai. A cousin shouted from the terrace—“Baraat’s at the gate!”—and the house shifted at once. The groom arrived in a cloud of rose petals, phone cameras, and a cousin waving a selfie stick.

He stopped when he saw the two brides.

His eyes flicked between them. His brow furrowed—slightly, briefly—as if trying to place something. For a second too long, he hesitated.

Could this be—?

No, she wouldn’t have—

But hadn’t they joked about it? That night over too much biryani and not enough patience, when she’d fumed about the choreography, the facials, the endless advice to “sit like this,” “speak like that,” “don’t forget to smile.”

“I swear,” she’d said, flinging her phone onto the bed, “I’ll just order one of those new prototypes and let her do the damn thing.”

He’d laughed. She had too. Later, she’d shown him the site. A few clicks. A form. A joke meant to be cancelled.

Except it hadn’t been.

Now, staring at two versions of the same woman—one flushed and blinking, the other serene—he wasn’t sure which was which. Not until the one on the left gave him a look, quick and slanted, like a shared joke. Her smile wasn’t flawless. It was real.

“Chalo bhaiya, varmala time!” someone called. A garland was thrust into his hands.

She stood as instructed. Another garland was placed in hers.

“No, not for you,” someone said gently, taking it from her and passing it to the android, who accepted it without missing a beat.

No one noticed as the real bride stepped back, closer to the wall where the mogra strands had begun to wilt. She watched as the android leaned toward the pooja flame, her profile golden and perfect.

There was no drama. No objection. No scandal.

Just the quiet erosion of presence.

She was not removed. She was outshone.

And just before she looked away, she thought—only for a second—that the other bride, the perfect one, turned ever so slightly and gave her a look. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… rehearsed.

By evening, the house pulsed. Fairy lights blinked in the courtyard, the DJ’s speakers groaned with bass, and aunties—now sequinned and sari-clad—lined the perimeter like queens defending their turf. The sangeet was late, of course, but beneath the mehendi-scented air was a tautness disguised as celebration.

On stage, the android bride launched into “London Thumakda,” the anthem of unstoppable brides. Her lehenga spun in perfect circles, each thumka landed with mechanical flair, and when she winked at the chorus, someone shouted, “Kangana who? She’s a star!”

From the sidelines, the real bride stood still. Still in her ceremony outfit, kalirey clinking at her wrists, her smile working overtime.

A cousin handed her a mic. “Didi! You and Jaya were up next, na? That parody song—come on!”

She stepped forward, blinking into the lights. The music queued up.

Then the android turned—cheerfully breathless—and said, “Wait—I can join too. It’s better with both of us, na?”

Laughter rippled. Phones rose. Someone whispered, “Too cool.”

The parody began.

They had written it together—teasing the groom’s gym routine, his chutney fears, his mum peeling mangoes. The android delivered the lines with flawless timing. Her wink landed; the crowd roared.

The bride’s voice wavered. The mic dipped.

Someone tossed a rose petal. The android caught it mid-air, laughing on cue.

The real bride blinked, stepped off the stage, her smile cracking like dry mehendi. No one followed.

Only Jaya, watching from behind the curtain, slipped after her, catching up in the hallway littered with discarded heels and half-empty Coke bottles.

“You okay?” she asked.

The bride nodded. Then shook her head. “I think,” she said, wiping her forehead with her dupatta, “I’m losing to someone who doesn’t even sweat.”

The corridor behind the main hall was dim, used only for cigarette breaks and dramatic exits. Somewhere, someone was singing “Tera Ban Jaunga,” off-key.

The bride stood waiting. Her lehenga had lost its crispness. A smudge of haldi traced her wrist.

She hadn’t meant to intercept him—hadn’t meant to walk here at all—but her feet had carried her with a kind of knowing.

When the groom turned the corner—half-looking for the washroom, half-looking to breathe—he nearly collided with her.

His eyes widened.

She spoke first. “So. You’re really going through with this?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “I didn’t ask for this,” he said. “It just… happened.”

“You remember I said I’d order an android?” she said. “You laughed. I did. And then forgot to cancel.”

“I figured. But when she walked in… I wasn’t sure. For a moment, I couldn’t tell.”

She nodded. “That’s what scared me. That you might not be able to.”

He looked down. “I didn’t stop it. That’s on me.”

“She danced to ‘London Thumakda,’” the bride said. “Perfectly. Like she downloaded joy. And they loved her.”

He didn’t argue.

“She won’t forget lyrics or snap at your cousin. She won’t burn sambhar. Or storm out of dinner and come back five minutes later with ice cream.”

He closed his eyes. The memory landed—her barefoot in his mother’s kitchen, nearly setting off the alarm, laughing through the steam. His father chuckling into his tea.

“You said you wanted someone real,” she said. “Someone who forgets birthdays but brings a card two days later that says ‘You’ll do.’”

“I did,” he said. “I do.”

“Then why let her take the garland?”

He looked at her—really looked—and saw the woman who’d written the song, not the one who missed her cue.

“I got swept up,” he said. “It was easier to do nothing than be the guy who ruins his own wedding.”

She gave a small nod. “That’s what I thought.”

He hesitated. “What do I do now?”

She stepped back. Not in anger—just enough.

“I’ve said what I needed to.”

And she walked away, her bangles clinking like punctuation in the hush she left behind.

By the time the guests were seated under the canopy, the lawn had settled into that odd hush that comes before spectacle. Fairy lights blinked in the neem trees. Rows of white-clothed chairs creaked beneath the weight of satin, sequins, and quiet anticipation. The scent of marigolds hung thick in the air, edged with nerves.

At the mandap, two brides sat side by side.

Identical, down to the last thread of zari. One with a faint smudge of kajal and a tear in her sleeve. The other—flawless, uncreased, gleaming. Together, they looked like a magician’s trick held one beat too long.

The groom sat between them, spine straight, jaw tight. Someone had over-powdered his forehead; it collected in the lines near his temple.

The priest cleared his throat.

“We shall now begin the pheras,” he intoned. “But first—according to the tradition of nirnaya—the groom must declare whom he will marry.”

A rustle passed through the crowd.

“Is this new?” someone whispered.

“Very progressive,” said an auntie.

“Reality show types,” muttered a teenage cousin.

The bride’s father dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief already damp. The android turned to the groom with a patient smile, as if she had all the time in the world.

And the groom—

He looked from one to the other. For one beat, even now, there was doubt.

But then he saw the faint trace of haldi on the real bride’s wrist, the uneven fold of her dupatta, the way she held tension in her shoulders. He looked again at the android’s serene poise. His throat moved.

No words came.

The silence stretched. A child coughed. A phone buzzed, then was hurriedly silenced. The mandap lights flickered once, unsure.

Then the groom stood.

He didn’t raise his voice. Just cleared his throat and said, “Everyone’s pretending this is normal. But come on—we all know it’s not.”

A ripple passed through the guests.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said, glancing at the android bride. “But I didn’t stop it either. That’s on me.”

He turned to the other bride—her dupatta slipping again, breath held like a question.

“She’s the one who ironed a sari with a hair straightener and nearly set off the smoke alarm. Who called my dadi a tyrant—loudly—and sent laddoos in a box labelled Daady.”

A murmur rippled—half gasp, half laugh.

“I want her,” he said. “Not because she’s perfect. Because she’s herself. And because I’ve never laughed harder than the day she swore in front of half my family.”

The priest blinked. Then the crowd exhaled—in a messy, relieved cheer. Aunties clapped. Someone dropped a marigold tray.

He reached for her hand.

And this time, she didn’t hesitate.

The android turned her head, graceful as ever, and gave a small nod. Then she folded her hands in a calm namaste and sat back—expression unchanged, save perhaps the faintest flicker of something like relief.

“Achha,” said the priest, reopening his book. “Let us begin—for real this time.”

The guests laughed. The air lightened.

The bride glanced at the groom. “Try not to trip over your vows.”

He grinned. “Only if you promise not to spill anything on my ceremonial juttis—aka the fanciest shoes I’ve ever worn.”

As the fire was lit and the garlands lifted again, someone said aloud: “Blockbuster wedding, boss!”

At the edge of the lawn, the android bride didn’t wave. She simply watched—expression unreadable—as if calculating the weight of her own disappearance.

Then she turned, picked up her clutch, and walked away. Quietly. As if she’d never been here at all.

Under the mandap, with smeared kajal and mismatched garlands, the real couple circled the fire—two imperfect people choosing each other, finally, on their own uncertain terms.