In the quiet town of Udaipur, where old havelis whispered secrets and tradition hung heavy like the monsoon air, something peculiar was being arranged—something whispered behind closed doors and never discussed in polite company.

The Shikhawat family hailed from an old zamindar lineage, steeped in tradition and legacy. Colonel Rajesh Singh Shikhawat had inherited the grandest and oldest haveli in Udaipur—a sprawling estate that stood as a testament to generations of pride and power. He lived there with his wife, Devika, and their only son, Rajveer. Rajveer was a decorated young officer in the Indian Army, admired for his unwavering bravery, discipline, and deep loyalty to his country.

Unfortunately, Captain Rajveer Singh Shikhawat had passed away three months earlier in a tragic accident during a short vacation home from duty. While riding his motorcycle along the highway to Mount Abu, his bike had skidded on a patch of loose gravel, sending him off the road. He died on the spot. The news struck the Shikhawat family like a thunderclap, shattering their world in an instant.

Rajveer was young, valiant, strikingly handsome... and unmarried. Since the day of his untimely death, the Shikhawat haveli had felt suspended in time. His room remained exactly as he had left it—his toothbrush still resting in its holder, his army uniforms neatly pressed and folded in the almirah. As if he might walk in at any moment, flashing that easy smile of his. But he never did. And somewhere deep within those walls, his absence lingered louder than words. But more than these remnants of his life, it was his spirit, the elders said, that remained restless.

It was Rajveer's aunt, Savitri Mausi, who had flown in from Beijing, draped in a silk cheongsam and clutching her jade prayer beads, who offered a solution so strange that it left the mourning Shikhawats stunned in silence.

"In China," she had said, adjusting her spectacles with a scholarly air, "we have a tradition called mínghūn—a ghost marriage. If a man dies unmarried,  and by that, I mean a virgin, his soul is said to wander. He becomes restless... lonely. And slowly, that loneliness turns to bitterness. Even vengeance. But if he's married, even after death, the rituals bind his spirit, give him companionship, and allow him to finally rest in peace."

Rajveer's father, Colonel Shikhawat, had frowned. "Ghost marriage? What sort of mumbo jumbo is that, Savitri?"

Savitri Mausi nodded gravely. "It's not mumbo jumbo, Jijaji. It's an old Chinese custom, though now illegal, but it's still practiced in some rural areas. The idea is simple... spirits, like humans, long for companionship. In many families, an unmarried person's death is considered inauspicious. A dead man must be married to pass peacefully into the next realm."

She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Sometimes, people dream of the deceased asking for a bride. Other times, a matchmaker or priest helps find a suitable girl. The wedding takes place with full rituals—a framed photograph or a symbolic effigy stands in place of the groom. The bride dresses in red, performs every sacred vow. Even in death, the traditions are honored. And of course, we can blend it with our customs. The girl will take the saat phere, and be welcomed into the Shikhawat household as the rightful daughter-in-law. Just she won't be wearing sindoor or mangalsutra."

"But what happens to the girl after the wedding?" Devika asked quietly.

"She'll live like a daughter-in-law. But she's not expected to... well... live like a wife. She just becomes part of the family. She'll be cared for, educated if she wants, and honored. It's not unlike widow rituals, just reversed. It's no different from marrying a tree to ward off misfortune. Symbolic, but powerful in meaning. And the family gains peace, knowing their son is not alone in the afterlife."

His mother, Devika, clutched Rajveer's photo tightly to her chest, her eyes swollen from months of quiet weeping. Her voice trembled as she asked, "But... where will we find a girl willing to marry a dead man?"

Rajesh turned to her, disbelief written across his weathered face. "Are you seriously considering this, Devika?"

"I just want my only son to rest peacefully after his death... I don't want him to be lonely," she whispered, her voice breaking. "If this is what it takes..."

There was a long silence between them. The idea was unthinkable—yet so was the thought of their son's soul wandering, unloved, forever incomplete.

Rajveer's parents hesitated. For days, they tiptoed around the topic, each unsure if it was grief or madness leading them to even entertain such a thing. But something about the way Savitri had explained it, with the quiet conviction of someone offering solace rather than superstition, stayed with them. It was less of a ritual and more of a release. A final gesture of love.

A few days later, Devika found herself sitting across from a priest. Her voice was steadier this time. "Is it... really possible? A marriage after death?"

The priest nodded solemnly. "It's rare, but not unheard of. And if done with devotion and the right intention... it can bring peace."

... --- ...

... --- ...

Meanwhile, in a small town not too far from the city, Naina's parents were struggling to pay for her college entrance exams. Her father, Harilal, was a humble tailor. Her mother, Sushila, cleaned homes. They wanted the best for their only daughter, but dreams were expensive.

When the priest came to them with a proposal, their first reaction was horror.

"A marriage with a dead man? Have you gone mad, Naina ke baba?" Sushila gasped, pressing her hand to her chest.

"It's not a real marriage, Sushila," Harilal murmured, eyes scanning the letter the priest had given him. "She'll live with a rich family, be treated like a daughter-in-law, get an education. They'll even send money."

"And what will people say?"

"People talk no matter what," he said bitterly. "They talked when we had to food to eat for days on end. They talked when we couldn't pay her school fees. They talked when she topped her class but wore torn sandals."

Sushila looked at their daughter, who was helping a neighbor's child with homework in the next room. Her face was calm, unaware of the storm brewing.

"She'll be safe," Harilal said quietly, looking down at his weathered hands. "She'll be educated, respected."

His wife opened her mouth to protest, but he gently raised a hand. "I know it's not ideal. But tell me, is poverty ideal? Is marrying her off to some drunkard who'll beat her better? At least this family doesn't want a maid. They want a daughter-in-law. Since their son is gone, they will see Naina as the last thread connecting them to him."

He paused, voice thick with emotion. "They'll pour all their love into her. She won't be someone's burden... she'll be someone's memory, someone's legacy." Tears welled in his wife's eyes as he added, "Our daughter will never go hungry again."

After a long silence, Sushila nodded. "Okay. Talk to the priest. But Naina must agree."

Naina did not cry when her parents told her about the proposal. She sat quietly, absorbing every word with a steady gaze. After a moment, she looked up and asked softly, "I won't be locked up, right?"

Her father met her eyes and nodded firmly. "No, beta. You'll be free. Just... you'll carry a memory with you."

That night, as the moonlight filtered through her window, Naina lay awake, turning the decision over in her mind. It was strange, uncertain—but also a chance. A way out. And when morning came, she quietly said yes.

Preparations began quickly. The Shikhawats sent tailors, decorators, even a catering team to the modest town. Naina's small house bloomed overnight with marigolds and lights. The ceremony was to be held with all the rituals of a traditional wedding.

Naina's mehndi ceremony was an intimate affair, held quietly at her home. Only her closest friends gathered, carefully applying intricate henna designs on both her hands. They laughed and tried to lighten the mood, but their cheerful teasing couldn't quite chase away the knot of nervousness in Naina's stomach. Still, she smiled—small and brave—while the warm scent of turmeric mingled with the sweet aroma of jasmine in the air.

Then came the wedding day, arriving like any other—bright and noisy, filled with the sharp, comforting scent of turmeric and marigold. Naina was dressed in a lavish red lehenga, every inch embroidered with delicate golden zari that shimmered like sunlight. Her bridal jewelry, all gifts from the Shikhawats, sparkled with the promise of a life she had never imagined. She looked every bit the royal bride, a vision of tradition and grace.

It seemed the Shikhawats spared no expense, making sure their son's wedding was nothing short of grand—even if their groom was no longer among the living.

There was no groom arriving on a horse that day. Instead, an effigy crafted in Rajveer's likeness sat solemnly on the mandap, dressed in a pristine cream sherwani. Beside it stood a framed photograph of him in his army uniform—handsome, proud, and forever frozen in time. His medals, polished to a bright gleam, were laid out carefully like precious wedding gifts, silent symbols of honor and sacrifice.

The priest chanted mantras. Naina circled the fire with the effigy. Rajveer's photograph watched in silence. There were no shoes to steal, no baraat to dance, but there were tears.

At the bidaai, Naina finally broke down. Silent until then, her composure gave way as she hugged her parents tightly, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her mother sobbed, holding her like she never wanted to let go. Her father, usually so composed, had to wipe his glasses twice—whether from mist or emotion, no one could say.

Devika stepped forward and gently placed a hand on Naina's mother's shoulder. "She's our daughter now," she said softly. "Not a daughter-in-law. A daughter. Always."

Rajesh nodded solemnly, his voice steady but kind. "We may have lost a son, but we've gained a daughter. You have our word—she will be respected, loved, and safe."

As the car drove away toward the Shikhawat haveli, Naina kept her hand pressed against the glass, watching her parents disappear behind her, taking one world with them... and carrying her toward a new, uncertain one.

... --- ...

... --- ...

The car drove through city lights and rural bends, finally reaching the Shikhawat haveli. It was grand, old, and echoing with stories. At the grand entrance, a group of women stood waiting—Devika at the center, flanked by other female relatives. Their eyes were kind, their saris heavy with tradition, and their faces lined with grief softened by hope.

Rajesh stepped forward first. With a warm, reassuring smile, he opened the car door and helped Naina out. Without a word, he placed his hand gently on her back and guided her to the entrance. Then, pausing at the threshold, he stepped aside to join his wife—allowing the mother to welcome their new daughter-in-law into a house that had long been waiting for someone to return.

Devika held a silver thali and circled it thrice around Naina's face before placing a gentle tika on her forehead. "Welcome home, beta," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears.

Naina stepped over the threshold slowly, her lehenga brushing against rose petals scattered on the floor. Her heart was strangely heavy—not with fear, but with the gravity of what lay ahead. She was now the bride of a man she would never meet. A daughter-in-law to a home whose son had returned not in flesh, but in photo and memory.

But even in this surreal sorrow, she found a purpose forming quietly in her heart. "I may not be a wife," she thought, "but I will be the daughter they deserve." And with that silent vow, she entered the house—not as a symbol, but as a promise.

When the wedding rituals ended, Naina was quietly taken to a large room in the haveli. As she stepped inside, she immediately knew—this was Rajveer's room.

His presence was everywhere. Photographs lined the walls: childhood birthdays, school achievements, and proud moments in his army uniform. His medals were neatly displayed, his books still on the shelves, as if waiting for him to return and pick one up.

Fresh flowers had been placed around the room to mark the occasion. But even through the soft scent of roses and marigolds, something else drifted in the air—something that made Naina stop.

She took a deeper breath. It was faint, but unmistakable. A masculine scent. A warm, woodsy cologne—sharp at first, then soft and haunting.

Naina's eyes widened, then softened with realization. It was his cologne. The one he had once used, the one that now lingered like a ghost between folded shirts and pillowcases.

She slowly walked over to the dresser. Her eyes landed on a half-used bottle of cologne. She picked it up and brought it close.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

She would never get to smell this cologne on the man who wore it. Never experience it in the folds of a shared moment or a passing hug. Never feel its presence as a part of someone alive. All she had was this bottle.

A sad smile touched her lips as she placed the bottle back gently. She looked around the room once more, full of things he had once touched, owned, lived among.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, her red bridal lehenga settling around her like a memory.  

Devika Shikhawat knocked gently on the door before stepping inside, a silver plate of food in her hands.

Naina immediately stood up upon seeing her.

But Devika walked over and took her hands with warmth. "No need to stand, beta," she said softly, guiding Naina to sit back down on the edge of the bed. "From today, you're not just our daughter-in-law... you're our daughter. Truly. Think of it as gaining another set of parents."

She sat beside her and placed the plate on the nearby table.

"I spoke to your maa," Devika continued, brushing a loose strand of hair from Naina's face. "She told me you wanted to become a doctor. Then do it, beta. Study hard. Go on tours if needed. Make your dreams come true. Don't let anything stop you. You now have four parents who love you and will stand behind you, always."

There was a pause. Then her voice cracked.

"I can only imagine how difficult this is for you... marrying someone who isn't even alive. It's something no girl dreams of." Her eyes brimmed with tears. "But I can't express how grateful we are. Because of you, our son can rest in peace now. You gave his memory a sacred place."

The plate forgotten for a moment, she clutched Naina's hands and broke into quiet sobs.

Naina's eyes welled up. She didn't know what words could comfort a grieving mother—so she simply pulled Devika into a hug. They sat that way for a while, bound by shared silence and a sorrow too deep for language.

Eventually, Devika composed herself and wiped her tears with the edge of her pallu. "Look at me," she said with a soft laugh, "forgetting the reason I came in. You haven't eaten a single bite since morning."

She picked up the plate and broke off a piece of roti. "Come now, let me feed you."

And she did—like a mother would, gently and lovingly—offering Naina not just food, but the first tender bite of belonging.

After Naina had eaten, Devika stroked her hair and said kindly, "Now go freshen up and get some rest, beta. You've had a long day."

One of the household staff had already brought Naina's bags into the room. They had even taken the care to arrange her belongings neatly in a new almirah placed beside Rajveer's. The sight made Naina pause for a moment—two wardrobes, side by side, one full of a life that had ended too soon, the other just beginning.

She turned to Devika with a soft, grateful smile. "Thank you, Maa."

Devika touched her cheek lovingly before walking out.

Just as Naina was about to close the door, she heard a knock. Savitri Mausi stood there, holding something red in her hands.

"There's one last ritual left, dear," Savitri said, her voice gentle yet solemn. "For a bride of a ghost marriage, it's tradition to wear red to bed on the first night. It symbolizes the completion of the ceremony."

She handed Naina a simple red chiffon saree. The fabric shimmered faintly under the light, soft and unassuming, yet carrying the weight of a strange custom.

Naina took it with quiet hands, nodding wordlessly.

Savitri gave her a brief smile before turning away.

Naina closed the door slowly, the saree draped over her arm. She looked down at it and then at the room that was now hers—filled with traces of someone she never got to meet, yet was now bound to forever.

With a tired sigh, Naina changed out of her heavy bridal outfit and removed the last of her jewelry. The silence in the room was deep, the kind that echoed. She stepped into the bathroom and let the water wash over her, hoping it would also wash away the strangeness of the day.

When she emerged, she wore only her blouse and petticoat. With no one to share the room, there was no need for modesty. Besides, she didn't want the red chiffon saree to trail over the damp bathroom tiles.

She walked barefoot to the dressing table, picked up the saree, and began draping it around herself, slowly and carefully. Her fingers trembled from fatigue and the surreal weight of her situation.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw it.

A figure—tall, still—standing behind her.

She gasped and snapped her eyes up to the mirror.

Nothing.

The reflection showed only herself, alone in the softly lit room. The shadows behind her were still.

She turned quickly, heart racing. The space was empty.

Her breath caught for a second before she exhaled shakily. "Get a grip, Naina," she muttered, half-chiding, half-wishing someone would answer. "It's just in your head."

Shaking off the chill, she turned back to the mirror and resumed draping the saree.

She never noticed the faint shimmer in the mirror's glass...
The outline of a uniformed figure watching her silently—his gaze steady, his expression unreadable.

Curious.
Appreciative.
And far too real to be just imagination.

... --- ...

Naina, dressed in the simple red chiffon saree, sat leaning against the headboard of the bed. Her eyes wandered over the room that wasn't hers but now was. Married—but without sindoor, without a mangalsutra, without the man the world called her husband.

She let out a long, tired sigh and closed her eyes.

At some point, she drifted into sleep, unaware of when exactly dreams took over. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated her face, but the room itself was awash in a pale, silvery-blue light from the full moon peeking through the large window behind the bed.

The silence deepened.

And then, without a sound, the bedside lamp clicked off on its own.

In her sleep, Naina's body shifted slightly... or perhaps was guided. Her legs gently slid down, until she lay stretched out properly on the bed, her head resting neatly on the pillow. The blanket, which had been bunched at the foot of the bed, slowly floated upwards—gracefully, purposefully—until it covered her from toe to shoulder like a loving touch.

A breeze? Or something more?

Stray strands of hair clinging to her cheek stirred, brushed aside by fingers that weren't really there.

She didn't stir. She remained in peaceful sleep, never knowing she had been tucked in... with care.

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Stay Tuned for Pt. 02

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A/N::

For those who aren't sure what a ghost marriage is, here is the explanation I got from Google::

In , a ghost marriage (: 冥婚; : mínghūn; 'spirit marriage') is a marriage in which one or both parties are deceased.: 99  Other forms of ghost marriage are practiced worldwide, notably in France since 1959 (see ; compare and , i.e. marriage to a living relative of the deceased). The origins of Chinese ghost marriage are largely unknown, but reports of it being practiced today can still be found.

Reasons[]

In traditional Chinese culture it is shameful to be the parents of an unwed daughter, and unmarried girls are often shunned from society. For men, ghost marriages were often performed for the sake of progeny. In addition, ghost marriage for men let the family's lineage carry on. The spouse of a deceased male could adopt a child who would carry on the lineage of the man's family. Other reasons for performing ghost marriages for deceased males are dreams and séances from the spirits of the males who want to be married. Chinese tradition also says that younger brothers do not marry before their older brothers, so sometimes a Chinese ghost marriage will be performed to stay in line with this tradition.

Arrangement[]

Sometimes the family of a deceased person will use a priest as a matchmaker. Other times they will leave out a red envelope with gifts and believe that the deceased person's spouse will reveal himself.

Sometimes when a woman's fiancé died, in order for her to participate in the ghost marriage, she would have to participate in the man's funeral service, which included uncomfortable mourning standards, taking a vow of celibacy, and to immediately take up residence with the man's family. There are no requirements for a man doing this but this has not been recorded.

Performance[]

These ghost marriages were similar to both a wedding and a funeral. The families of the participants will exchange gifts of various sizes which can include cakes, dresses, and money.

To represent the deceased person(s) effigies made of will be used. These are clothed in what people would wear to weddings and are usually burned afterwards. Most of the rites of the marriage are actually performed in the same way regular Chinese marriages are usually performed.