The insistent ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the hallway seemed to mock him. Every swing of the pendulum was another beat of the societal drum, a constant reminder of the dwindling time.
His daughter, Tripti, was a vibrant 17, a whirlwind of laughter and dreams, yet in the eyes of their conservative community, she was an old fully mature woman.
He watched her from the window, her long hair flowing in the breeze as she played with the neighborhood children. He remembered her as a tiny thing, her laughter echoing through the house. Now, she is the only lifeline for him and his wife, her beauty undeniable, her intelligence sharp but something is was making her separate from those children.
The whispers had started, the concerned glances from neighbors, the veiled suggestions at family gatherings. "Such a lovely girl," they'd say, their smiles laced with a hint of pity. "But time is slipping away." He felt the familiar knot of worry tighten in his chest. He loved his daughter fiercely, cherished her independence, her spirit. But the weight of societal expectations pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. The conversation between his friends group of that day was still echoing in his heart upto his mind.
One evening, while Tripti was out with friends, he sat down with his wife. "What if she never finds someone?" he confessed, his voice trembling.
His wife, ever the pragmatist, placed a comforting hand on his. "She will, my ladoo ke bapu, ladoo is strong, intelligent, and kind. The right man will see that. Besides," she added with a mischievous glint in her eye, "who needs a man when you have a father like you?" Her words, though intended to be lighthearted, only served to deepen his anxiety.
He knew his wife was right, that Tripti would find happiness, but the fear of her being alone, of her happiness being dictated by societal norms, gnawed at him. He decided to talk to Tripti. It wasn't easy. He stumbled over his words, unsure how to broach the subject without sounding like a meddling father.
But Tripti, ever perceptive, sensed his unease. "Bapu, I know what everyone says," she said, her voice gentle. ”But I'm not worried. I'm focusing on my education, on my dreams. Love will come when it's meant to." He looked at her, truly saw her – the strength in her eyes, the determination in her jaw. In that moment, the weight of societal expectations seemed to lift. He realized that his daughter was not a bird to be caged, but a soaring eagle, ready to take flight on her own terms. He still worried, of course, every father did. But now, instead of focusing on the ticking clock, he focused on nurturing her dreams, on encouraging her to chase her passions. He realized that his role was not to find her a husband, but to empower her to find her own happiness, on her own time, on her own terms.
~Jeevan Rajwans
The air in the Collector's office hung heavy with the scent of stale files and simmering frustration. Jeevan, the District Collector in the heart of Rajasthan, stared at the swirling dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom.
His family, a formidable force of well-meaning aunts and overbearing uncles, had declared war on his bachelorhood.
Jeevan, a man of ambition and independence, had dedicated his life to serving the people. He had climbed the bureaucratic ladder with grit and determination, navigating the treacherous terrain of conservative Rajasthan with a blend of empathy and iron will. But his achievements were overshadowed by a single, glaring omission – a wife.
The pressure was relentless. "Suitable" brides were presented with the frequency of monsoon showers. Each one, meticulously vetted by his family, was a walking resume: "From a reputed family, accomplished in music and dance, excellent homemaker should not be much educated, shy one and not older than 15." But Jeevan saw only a parade of conformity, of women who valued tradition and education, duty over desire and most importantly not an underaged girl.
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