Here I sit in the mandap, a ceremonial space that feels more like a stage for an agonizing play than a place for a sacred union. The mandap, intricately decorated with garlands of marigold and shimmering fabrics, was meant to be a symbol of joy and festivity. Now, however, it feels like an elaborate trap, its vibrant colors mocking the somber reality of my situation. The heavy canopy overhead and the ornate floral arrangements seem to press down on me, adding to the suffocating weight of this moment. The air is thick with the scent of incense, mingling with the oppressive heat that seems to seep into every crevice of this space. I am going to marry a man whose face remains as shrouded in mystery as the very future I’m about to face. I don’t know his name, age, or occupation—essential details that should have been a natural part of this so-called marriage.