Bridal photo Swap

He was lying on his bed, scrolling endlessly through his phone on a lazy Sunday afternoon, when the ad appeared. “Transform your selfie into a dream bride – AI Magic!” The image showed a model in a red Banarasi saree, nose ring, eyes rimmed in kajal, her long jet-black braid trailing over her shoulder like a silken rope.

Ravi smirked.

He’d seen those apps before. But this one promised ultra-realism, complete with background, lighting, even hairstyling.

Curiosity beat hesitation.

He clicked.

He uploaded his selfie—freshly washed face, hair ruffled, nothing fancy.

The app whirred and processed. After a few seconds, the screen faded to black. Then: ping.

He gasped.

The image looked like a real photograph—not a filter, not an effect, but a bridal portrait. There he was—or rather, someone he could be—dressed in a crimson silk saree with antique gold zari, hair parted perfectly and braided long with jasmine, skin glowing, lips tinted a deep cherry red, soft bangles layered along delicate wrists.

It wasn’t Ravi. It was someone else.

Someone he couldn’t stop looking at.

His fingers trembled as he saved the photo.

That night, strange dreams came.

He stood before a mirror, adjusting the pallu of a saree he didn’t remember putting on. His reflection moved before he did. Her eyes looked back, but they weren’t just his eyes—they were wiser, feminine, filled with emotion.

A soft voice whispered: “You wore it. You became me. Now help me return.”

Ravi woke up in sweat, heart pounding. He looked at his phone. The bridal image was gone.

He tapped the app icon.

“This app is no longer available.”

The next day, strange news broke. The model from the ad—Aaradhya Deshmukh—had gone missing. Last seen at a wedding studio two days ago.

Ravi’s breath caught.

He opened the photo gallery. No sign of the picture.

Except—there was a new file. Unnamed. Hidden.

He opened it.

It wasn’t an image.

It was a booking confirmation for a bridal shoot session, at a studio across the city. The time? Tomorrow, 4 p.m.

In his name.

Ravi told himself not to go. But all day, he felt a strange pressure behind his eyes—like a voice urging him forward.

By 3:45, he was outside the studio.

An old wooden board read Shakti Bridal Studio – Since 1978.

The inside smelled of sandalwood, marigolds, and ancient silk. A woman in a soft cotton saree appeared from behind a curtain. Her gray hair was woven into a neatly oiled braid, her bangles silent as she walked.

“I see you got the invitation,” she said, eyes scanning his face.

“I—I don’t understand…”

She held out her hand. “Come, dear. The bridal room is ready.”

Before he could protest, she gently took his wrist and guided him inside.

The room was lit by yellow bulbs, a wide mirror in front, a red velvet stool below.

On the rack nearby hung a single red bridal saree—ornate, rich, alive somehow. Below it sat a tray of bangles, kajal, bindis, earrings, a thick black braid extension, jasmine flowers, and a golden waist chain.

“You must wear it fully. Only then can she speak,” the woman whispered, then left.

Ravi stared at the saree.

His hand moved before he could think. He touched the blouse—velvet maroon with gold embroidery. He felt a shiver. Then the petticoat—smooth silk, light.

He changed slowly. Blouse first, pulling it tight across his chest. Then the petticoat.

Then the saree.

It was heavier than it looked. As he pleated the front, he heard faint whispering. The fabric clung to him like it knew him. As he tucked and wrapped it across his shoulder, the mirror flickered.

His reflection wasn’t copying him anymore. It was ahead.

He sat before the mirror, trembling, and reached for the black braid extension. As he clipped it into his hair, it fused with his own—falling down his back in a thick, silky plait, grazing his lower back. The jasmine came next, woven carefully into it, each petal fragrant and familiar.

Kajal. Bindi. Nose pin.

Gold bangles on his wrists.

Then the waist chain. It clicked into place, snug.

He looked up.

And there she was.

Not Ravi.

But Aaradhya.

“You returned,” the voice said.

Ravi blinked. The reflection was smiling faintly.

“You wore what I wore. You felt what I felt. Now I can speak.”

The mirror glowed faintly. Images swirled—of Aaradhya, the real model, sitting in this same room, wearing the same saree, laughing. Then—something dark. A ritual. Someone chanting. A bargain made.

She’d agreed to become the perfect bride. But the price was identity.

The spirit of the saree didn’t want a model. It wanted someone who believed.

And now it had Ravi.

“But I’m not her,” Ravi whispered.

“You could be,” Aaradhya said from the mirror. “You already are. Haven’t you felt it?”

He looked down at his hands, now adorned in gold. At the long braid cascading down his back. At the bindi between his brows. The warmth of the saree hugging his waist.

He had felt it. Something peaceful. Something real.

“But what happens now?”

“You choose,” she said. “You can take it all off and walk away. Or you can step through the mirror. Finish the journey.”

Ravi stood slowly. His braid swayed behind him as he walked closer.

He placed a hand on the mirror.

It rippled.

He stepped through.

The light blinded him.

When it faded, he was standing in a courtyard, fully dressed as a South Indian bride, long braid swaying behind, anklets chiming.

A temple bell rang.

People turned. Smiled.

She had arrived.

The bridal ceremony played out as if real—sacred fire, turmeric, flowers, slow rituals. But this time, Ravi wasn't playing a role.

He laughed with women. He adjusted his long braid without thinking. He glanced down at the jasmine resting against his chest and felt no confusion, only calm.

When the time came to remove the attire, he paused.

“I want to keep it,” he whispered.

The old woman appeared again.

“Then you must take her name.”

He nodded.

“My name is Riya.”

Back in his apartment the next day, the red saree lay folded on his bed. The braid extension beside it.

He sat before the mirror, slowly brushing his own now-growing hair. Each stroke felt like a promise.

The photo was gone. The app never reappeared.

But every time Riya wore that saree, she felt it again—the thrill, the power, the belonging.

And in the mirror, Aaradhya still smiled.

Because her story didn’t end in disappearance.

It began in Riya.