He pointed to a small line, written in red ink at the corner of the paper, in which there was another secret

Mumbai, a late spring afternoon, the atmosphere was bustling at a luxurious restaurant by the river. The wedding of Arjun, a young architect, and Priya, a girl from a prestigious family, was taking place in a splendid space. The flower decorations were made of white and pink orchids, the crystal chandeliers were sparkling, the banquet table was covered with a pure white silk cloth. Arjun, in an elegant black sherwani, held the hand of Priya – the beautiful bride in a lehenga imported from Italy – radiantly in front of the camera.

But behind that perfect appearance, an unpleasant atmosphere was creeping in. Arjun’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Shankar – fishmongers at Crawford Market for many years – entered the wedding hall with a simple look. Mr. Shankar wore a worn white shirt, Mrs. Shankar wore a faded purple sari. Their appearance was in stark contrast to the opulence of the bride’s family, who were successful businessmen in the real estate industry.

As Mr. and Mrs. Shankar entered, some of the bride’s relatives began to whisper. One of Priya’s cousins covered her mouth and whispered to the person next to her:

“Oh my god, why is there such a fishy smell? The smell of fish has even flown into the wedding hall!”

The words reached Mrs. Shankar’s ears. She paused, clutching the old cloth bag tightly, her eyes brimming with tears. Mr. Shankar gently held his wife’s hand and whispered:

“Let them be… We came for Arjun. Don’t mind it.”

From afar, Arjun could faintly hear the gossip. He squeezed Priya’s hand, trying to keep a smile, but his eyes showed the pain. Priya noticed her husband’s uneasiness and whispered:

“Don’t mind it, they’re just talking nonsense.”

But the gossiping didn’t stop. Throughout the ceremony, from the traditional wedding ceremony to the cake cutting, the atmosphere between the two families became increasingly tense. Some of the bride’s family avoided sitting near Mr. and Mrs. Shankar, leaving them alone at a corner of the table. Arjun tried to stay calm, but his heart felt like it was being stabbed every time he saw his mother bow her head and silently pick up food.

After the main ceremony, it was time to open the wedding gifts – a familiar custom for guests to congratulate the newlyweds. The gifts were brought up one by one: thick envelopes of money, gift boxes wrapped in metallic paper. Everyone eagerly awaited the valuable gifts from the bride’s family and high-class friends.

It was Mr. and Mrs. Shankar’s turn to give gifts. Mrs. Shankar slowly walked onto the stage with a small, old wooden box tied with hemp rope. The whole hall was silent, with a few curious and disdainful glances. Arjun quickly ran to help his mother, but she gently waved her hand:

“I can do it myself.”

She opened the box and took out a folded piece of paper, yellowed by time. No envelope, no decoration, just a plain piece of paper. A murmur arose. A relative of the bride’s family burst out laughing:

“What is this? An IOU?”

Priya, standing next to Arjun, was also surprised, but she squeezed her husband’s hand, signaling him to calm down. Mr. Shankar spoke in a low but clear voice:

“This is our most precious gift to our children. Not gold or silver, but everything we have left.”

Arjun took the paper from his father’s hand and opened it in front of everyone. After reading it, his eyes were red. He tremblingly handed it to Priya. She read it, and immediately tears welled up. The whole hall fell silent.

Arjun choked into the microphone:

“This is the transfer paper… the last piece of land in my hometown that my parents still have. They sold everything, keeping only this piece of land for me. And today, they give it to me and Priya, so that we can build a home.”

He paused, his voice breaking:

“My parents wake up at 3am every day, rain or shine, still going to the market to sell fish. They have nothing but love. But today, they are insulted… just because of the smell of fish on them.”

The room fell silent. A few of the bride’s family members bowed their heads in shame. Priya’s mother, Mrs. Anjali – who had previously been indifferent – stood up, walked up to the stage, and held Mrs. Shankar’s hand:

“I’m sorry. I was wrong to let people say bad things. I didn’t know you two had sacrificed so much.”

But the story didn’t end there.

That night, in the bridal chamber, Arjun and Priya sat side by side, still holding the folded paper. Priya, her eyes red, said:

“I don’t want this land. It’s all your parents’. I want to give it back.”

Arjun chuckled:

“You don’t understand. There’s another secret in this paper.”

He pointed to a small line written in red ink at the corner of the paper:

“Open the secret compartment in the wooden box.”

They opened the wooden box again. At the bottom, there was a secret compartment. Inside were a handwritten letter and an old silver ring, tarnished by the years.

The letter, written by Mrs. Shankar, told a story that even Arjun had never known. Many years ago, Mrs. Shankar had saved a woman who had an accident on her way to the market. That woman was Priya’s biological mother, who had passed away when Priya was young. The silver ring in the box was the keepsake she had entrusted to Ms. Shankar, hoping that one day she would find her daughter.

Ms. Shankar wrote:

“When I learned that Arjun loved Priya, I realized that she was the daughter of that woman. I did not say it, because I wanted the two of them to come together through love, not out of gratitude. Today, I return this ring as a wish

happiness.”

Priya burst into tears, hugging Arjun tightly. Amidst the gossip and the gap between rich and poor, there was a thread of fate connecting the two families.

A year later, Arjun and Priya built a small house on that land. But they did not keep it for themselves. They turned it into a free vocational training center for poor laborers, street vendors like Arjun’s father.

The silver ring that Priya wore on her hand, as a reminder of love and silent sacrifice.

One peaceful afternoon, when Arjun and Priya watched the children in the village learn a trade, Mrs. Shankar and Mrs. Anjali came to visit. The two mothers, once distant because of their status, now held hands and laughed like friends.

Mr. Shankar, still simple, said softly:

“There is nothing shameful about the smell of fish. It is the smell of sweat… of love.”

The story ends with Arjun and Priya standing on their homeland, under the golden sunset, understanding that true happiness lies not in wealth, but in love and appreciation for each other.