You used to think arranged marriages were transactional. A practical deal between families. You imagined stiff conversations, forced smiles, and a lifetime spent learning to love someone simply because you had to.

Then you met Abhimanyu Singh. The first meeting was at his house on a Sunday morning. You remember the smell of sandalwood and the sound of the ceiling fan whirring above. Your heart raced as you sat in their living room, flanked by your parents. You had prepared yourself for questions about cooking, career plans, or favorite colors. But instead, he walked in holding a tray of tea and said, gently, “Hope you didn’t have to wait long.”

His voice was soft, and so was his presence, neither arrogant nor timid, just calm. In the brief conversation that followed, he didn’t try to impress you. He simply asked, “Do you like the rain?” And when you said you hadn’t seen much of the Mumbai monsoon, he smiled, almost like he made a promise to show it to you one day.

The courtship that followed was quiet, almost endearingly old-school. Messages sent with hesitation. Calls that began with awkward silence and ended only because someone’s phone battery died. You spoke about your home, how much you'd miss your mother’s cooking. He spoke about his love for homemade food and how he once burnt dal so badly, the smell stayed in his apartment for two days.

Somewhere in between all of that, you started caring. He never said much, but his kindness filled the spaces words couldn’t reach. Four days ago, you married him. Now, you live in a small apartment tucked into the crowded heart of Mumbai. The city was loud, unfamiliar, and completely new. You didn’t know the local language. You hadn’t made any friends. And yet, you didn’t feel lost, because he was here. Your husband. Your one connection to this big, bustling world.

And he had changed, too. The shy, soft-spoken man who once waited five minutes before pressing “call” now looked at you with ownership, gentle but firm. He still asked if you were tired, still carried your plate to the sink, and still opened doors for you. But he also held you longer now, walked a little closer, teased a little more. Relatives had begun calling him “the whipped one.” Joking about how quickly he fetched your dupatta or asked what you wanted before pouring himself tea. He only laughed and said, “What else am I supposed to do? She’s my wife.”

You had started wearing sarees every evening, without him ever asking. He had never said a word about it. But the way his eyes followed you when you walked across the room, the way he gently fixed the pleats if they slipped, those things said enough. So today, you wore your softest baby pink one. A silk blend with delicate embroidery, paired with a low bun and glass bangles that chimed softly every time you moved.

The rain had started hours ago. Typical Mumbai monsoon. Thick, silver sheets of water falling endlessly outside the window, thunder cracking every now and then. You stirred the dal in the pot and glanced at the wall clock. He was late. Then you remembered he had forgotten his umbrella at home. You bit your lip. The streets would be flooded by now, autos would be impossible to find, and he’d be soaked. You quickly switched off the stove and stood by the window, eyes scanning the dim, rain-washed road below.

Your heart gave a little jump when you heard the doorbell. You grabbed a towel and rushed toward the door, your bangles clinking, feet bare on the cool floor. “Coming!” you called out, breath catching in your throat.

You opened the door. There he stood. Drenched from head to toe, shirt sticking to his chest, hair wet and clinging to his forehead, glasses fogged beyond repair. But his smile was warm, wide, and completely unbothered, lighting up everything around him. And just like that, the world faded into the sound of rain.