She wipes away,
The little beads,
Of sweat,
On her forehead,
Discreetly and-
Tries to slow down,
Her racing heart.
Though she has,
Stood like a painted doll,
Many times before,
She is yet to be,
Accustomed to this,
Dreary ritual.
As the elders,
Fumble their way,
Through the customary small talk,
She glances at him,
Inspects him minutely,
Trying to assess him-
And fails miserably.
Will she be accepted or not,
A million doubts arise in her mind,
Is he the one,
She wonders,
Or is he,
One among so many,
Yet to come and go.