Chapter 1: First meet
The scent of cardamom and ginger-laced chai* filled the Sharma household, mingling with the soft warmth of marigold strings hanging by the door. Outside, the quiet hum of a small-town afternoon drifted in—children laughing as they ran barefoot across the lanes, the distant clang of temple bells, the rhythmic chime of a bicycle passing by. Inside, however, time seemed to stretch and pull in nervous anticipation.
(*chai: tea made by boiling tea leaves with milk, sugar, and sometimes spices.)
Riya Sharma sat in the corner of the living room, hands carefully folded in her lap, her heart a steady thrum against her ribs. She had told herself she wouldn’t be nervous—not when her mother had reassured her for the tenth time that this was just a meeting, not when she had seen the Malhotra family countless times at gatherings and celebrations.
But this was different.
Today, they weren’t just family friends. Today, they were families discussing her future.
She stole a glance at the hallway mirror, adjusting the pleats of her soft peach salwar kameez*. The delicate embroidery shimmered faintly when she moved. Her long dark hair was braided neatly over one shoulder, a few soft strands framing her oval face. Her skin carried the natural warmth of sunlight, and her large brown eyes—usually bright and expressive—held an unfamiliar uncertainty.
(*salwar: a pair of light, loose, pleated trousers, usually tapering to a tight fit around the ankles, worn by women from South Asia typically with a kameez** - as in a long tunic.)
The reflection staring back at her looked composed.
Inside, however, something fluttered.
Excitement?
A rush of voices from the entrance pulled her attention away. The Malhotras had arrived.
Aarav Malhotra stepped in behind his parents, dressed in a crisp white kurta* that contrasted against his sun-touched complexion. He carried himself with effortless confidence—not arrogance, but quiet assurance. Broad shoulders, straight posture, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms. His features were sharp but softened by a thoughtful gaze. His hair was slightly tousled, as though he had run a hand through it absentmindedly.
(A kurta for men is a traditional, loose-fitting, collarless—or sometimes collared—long shirt originating from South Asia, typically falling between the mid-thigh and knees).
He wasn’t entirely a stranger. She had seen him during Diwali* gatherings, across crowded wedding halls, once even during a family trip to Jaipur years ago.
(*Diwali is a festival that celebrates the triumph of light over darkness, good over evil, and knowledge over ignorance)
But she had never truly looked at him.
Today, it mattered.
His dark eyes scanned the room politely before landing on her.
There was a pause—brief, but unmistakable.
Riya looked away first.
Heat crept up her neck as she lowered her gaze, fingers tightening around her dupatta*. The elders’ conversation filled the room—nostalgic laughter, stories of childhood pranks, shared history that wove their families together like old silk threads.
(*dupatta: a length of material worn arranged in two folds over the chest and thrown back around the shoulders, typically with a salwar kameez, by women from South Asia.)
“Riya, beta*, why don’t you show Aarav the garden?” her mother suggested, her tone light but purposeful.
(*beta: dear child in hindi)
Riya rose gracefully. “Yes, Ma.”
Aarav stood as well. He offered a small nod, polite, almost formal.
The moment they stepped outside, the air shifted. The courtyard was modest—stone flooring, rows of potted tulsi* and jasmine, a wooden swing swaying faintly in the afternoon breeze. Sunlight filtered through neem leaves, scattering golden patterns across the ground.
Silence settled between them.
Not uncomfortable. Just… aware.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” Aarav said after a moment, hands slipping into his pockets.
His voice was deeper than she remembered—steady, grounded.
“I’m not nervous,” Riya replied too quickly.
One of his brows lifted.
“Oh? You’ve been twisting your dupatta since we stepped out.”
Her fingers froze.
He had noticed.
A faint smile tugged at his lips, not mocking—just observant.
“Maybe a little,” she admitted.
“That makes two of us,” he said.
That surprised her.
“You?” she asked.
“I was given a twenty-minute lecture in the car about making a good impression,” he confessed dryly. “Apparently, my ‘serious face’ is intimidating.”
She couldn’t help it—a soft laugh escaped her.
The tension loosened.
“So,” he said, tilting his head toward the jasmine plant. “Do you like jasmine?”
Riya blinked. “Yes. It blooms at night. The fragrance is strongest when no one is looking.”
He studied her for a second longer than necessary. “That’s poetic.”
She flushed. “It’s just something my nani* used to say.”
(*nani: mother’s mother - maternal grandmother)
Aarav nodded slowly. “You’re close to your grandparents?”
“I was,” she replied softly. “My nani raised me while my parents were busy with the shop. She used to say that love is like jasmine—quiet, patient, but impossible to ignore once it blooms.”
The words hung between them.
Neither acknowledged the weight of them.
Aarav shifted slightly. “And what do you think about… all this?” he asked carefully. “Arranged marriage.”
She considered it before answering. “I think it’s frightening.”
He exhaled faintly, almost relieved by her honesty.
“But,” she continued, “I also think it’s brave.”
His gaze sharpened with curiosity. “Brave?”
“To commit first,” she said, meeting his eyes properly for the first time. “And then learn how to love.”
Something changed in his expression then. Something quieter. Thoughtful.
“You’re not opposed to it?” he asked.
“I’m not opposed to choosing,” she clarified.
“And if the choice feels wrong?”
She held his gaze steadily. “Then I’d say so.”
A slow nod. Respect flickered between them.
“I wouldn’t want someone to agree out of obligation,” Aarav said. “If we move forward, I want it to be because we both decide.”
Not because their parents wished for it.
Not because it was convenient.
Because they chose.
A breeze lifted the loose strands of her hair. Without thinking, she tucked them behind her ear.
His eyes followed the movement.
“And what about you?” she asked softly. “You’ve built your life in Delhi. Your architecture firm. Your independence. Are you ready to share it?”
He leaned back slightly against the swing’s frame. “I don’t know,” he admitted honestly. “I’ve been alone for a long time. I like my routines. My space.”
The words should have stung.
But his honesty didn’t feel cold—it felt real.
“And?” she pressed gently.
“And I also don’t want to come home to an empty apartment forever.”
That was the first vulnerable thing he offered her.
It settled warmly in her chest.
“You won’t expect…” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “You won’t be expected to give up your job. Or your studies. I’ve made that clear.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “You have?”
“Yes.”
Something softened in her gaze.
“I want a partner,” he said quietly. “Not a shadow.”
Silence again.
But this time, it was different.
Lighter.
A bee buzzed lazily near the jasmine pot. Somewhere inside, their mothers laughed loudly at a shared memory.
“You know,” Aarav said, a hint of teasing returning, “you’re much calmer now.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. You’ve stopped attacking your dupatta.”
She glanced down, startled—and realized he was right.
“And you’ve stopped looking like you’re being interviewed for a government post,” she countered.
He laughed—openly this time.
The sound startled them both.
It was the first moment that felt unscripted.
Unplanned.
Real.
Their eyes met again.
This time, neither looked away immediately.
There was no lightning strike. No dramatic swell of music.
Just a quiet awareness.
The beginning of something unnamed.
Riya finally allowed herself to look at him properly. He was handsome, in a quiet way.
Not the kind that made heads turn immediately, but the kind that made you linger, noticing things—sharp features softened by a calm expression, a strong build carried with ease, the way his sleeves were casually rolled up as if he was used to getting things done.
And his eyes. They held something steady, something unreadable, but not unkind.
From inside, her mother called out, “Riya, beta!”
They both straightened instinctively.
“Decision time?” Aarav murmured.
“Maybe,” she whispered.
They walked back toward the house side by side—not touching, not brushing shoulders, but acutely aware of the space between them.
At the doorway, he paused.
“Riya.”
She turned.
“If you need time,” he said, voice steady, “take it.”
A small smile curved her lips.
“And if I don’t?”
Something flickered in his eyes—something warm.
“Then,” he replied, “we’ll begin.”
And for the first time since morning, her heartbeat didn’t feel the usual nervousness.
It felt a newfound possibility.
to be continued...🪷
