“We Are Not Our Academic Scores, Career Titles, or Marital Statuses”
Bhavna’s POV
I’m tired.
Tired of every conversation at home turning into a Shurti highlight reel.
“Look at her. PhD student. Getting married too. Shaadi ki tayari chal rahi hai, pura mohallah dekhega.”
Meanwhile, I’m the girl who “just” has a Bachelor’s degree and a stable corporate job.
But let me tell you something no one in my family cares to hear:
I know Shurti. I know her beyond the heavy bridal lehenga and academic medals.
I know she cries in the bathroom after every family function because she’s exhausted of being perfect.
I know she dreams of painting, not publishing.
I know her marriage was arranged in a rush because her fiancé’s family said yes—and she didn’t have the strength to say no anymore.
They don’t see that.
But I do.
And that’s why I chose different.
Not because I couldn’t be her.
But because I didn’t want to lose me in trying.
So when the baraat came blasting outside my window, and my mother sighed that this could’ve been you,
I smiled and said,
“No, Ma. This was never supposed to be me.”
Bhavna’s Mother’s POV
I don’t hate my daughter.
I just… worry.
Shruti’s wedding looked like a dream.
Horse, band, lights, everything so grand.
And then I looked at Bhavna, sitting with her laptop open, eating Maggi, working through the noise.
“That could’ve been you by now,” I whispered.
She didn’t even look up. Just said, “But it’s not.”
And maybe that stung more than it should’ve.
Because what mother doesn’t want to see her daughter glowing in red and gold, surrounded by family, with someone to hold her hand through life?
But maybe… maybe I never asked what her dreams looked like.
I only kept comparing them to Shurti’s.
Shurti’s POV
People say I have it all—brains, beauty, and now, a baraat.
But here’s what they don’t see:
Every chapter of my life has been written in someone else’s handwriting.
I didn’t choose this wedding date.
My parents did.
I didn’t want to wear red.
I wanted lavender.
I didn’t even finish my dissertation because planning this wedding became more important.
And when I saw Bhavna watching from her window, I almost envied her.
She was in her space. Her pace. Her power.
Unapologetic.
They keep saying, “Why can’t you be more like Shurti?”
But if they ever asked me, I’d say,
“I wish I had the guts to be more like Bhavna.”
Bhavna’s Father’s POV
I don’t always say it, but I see her.
Waking up early, working late. Earning. Paying bills. Keeping the lights on.
But every time someone’s daughter gets married, I feel this weight on my chest.
Did I do something wrong?
Did I raise her to be too independent?
My wife says, “She’s wasting her time, not even looking for a boy.”
But when I see the way she walks out the door every morning—sharp, confident, untouchable—I think,
Maybe she’s just waiting for someone who actually deserves her.
Or maybe… she’s not waiting at all.
And that’s okay.
It has to be okay.
Because she’s enough. Just as she is.
Final POV – Bhavna (Again)
I’m not in a race.
I’m not behind.
I’m not lost.
I’m just not on the path you wanted me to walk.
Let Shurti have her PhD, her fairy tale wedding, her accolades.
I want my quiet mornings, my office banter, my solo trips to Goa, and my messy, beautiful self-growth.
I don’t need a mandap to prove my worth.
And I won’t apologize for not fitting into your idea of “success.”
Because I’m building a life. Not a comparison.