Mr and Mrs Rajput

POV: Sara

I am sitting in front of the mirror in a white gown. The soft lights around the mirror make everything look dreamy… unreal. It’s my wedding day.

And I am marrying the coldest officer in the police department.

Jay Rajput.

An IPS officer. From a political family. Disciplined. Reserved. Untouchable.

I always wanted a love marriage. Filmy type. Eye contact, slow realization, stupid fights, dramatic confession.

But destiny clearly skipped that chapter.

I have never been in a relationship. Single since childhood. Focused on career, on journalism, on exposing corruption. And now I’m marrying a man I have met only three times.

Three.

And here I am… dressed like a bride.

Yes, it’s an arranged marriage. Nothing dramatic. The only dramatic element here is me because I am a certified drama queen.

It all happened so fast.

My Mom Sneha Singhania met her old friend after years. Casual meeting turned serious within minutes.

“She is searching for a girl for her nephew,” Mom had said that evening, eyes shining.

And just like that, they came to our house.

I remember the first time I saw him.

He was wearing glasses. Simple. Clean. Black shirt. Six feet tall. Broad shoulders. Definitely a gym guy. Calm. Silent. Almost intimidating.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t frown.

He just… observed.

We barely said a word.

“Do you want to talk privately?” Mom had whispered.

We sat in the balcony.

Silence.

He looked straight ahead. “I am Jay Rajput.”

“I know,” I replied. “You’re the most feared SP in Mumbai.”

A slight eyebrow raise. That’s it.

“I don’t talk much,” he said.

“I talk too much,” I replied instantly.

Another silence.

“Are you okay with this marriage?” he asked.

I looked at him. I should have said no. I should have asked for time. I should have been dramatic.

But I saw my parents inside, watching us through the curtain.

“Yes,” I said.

Only because of them.

—

Wedding Venue

The hall is glowing with golden lights. Cameras flashing. People whispering. The scent of flowers everywhere.

My dad, Satma Singhania, is holding my hand.

His grip is firm… but slightly trembling.

We walk toward Jay.

He stands there in a black suit. Perfect posture. Controlled expression. Like he is attending an official ceremony, not his own wedding.

My father places my hand in his.

For a second… our fingers touch.

His hand is warm.

The priest speaks, voice echoing slightly.

“Jay Rajput, do you accept Sara Singhania as your lawful wife?”

Without hesitation.

“I do.”

No pause. No emotion. Just certainty.

Now it’s my turn.

“Sara Singhania, do you accept Jay Rajput as your lawful husband?”

My throat feels dry.

I hesitate.

One second.

Two seconds.

I feel everyone watching.

“Yes… I do.”

The words feel heavy.

Like a contract signed with invisible ink.

The rituals continue. The vows. The blessings.

And then comes the most difficult part of any wedding.

Photo time.

I am standing for three hours straight.

Three.

My legs are officially dead.

My smile is stuck.

I whisper under my breath, “Oh God, please save me. I am on the way to death.”

He glances at me slightly. “You complain a lot.”

I fake a smile for the camera. “You don’t blink at all. Are you even human?”

“I am trained.”

“Of course you are.”

But honestly?

How the hell is he still standing like a statue?

Meanwhile, every single dish on the buffet is my favorite.

Paneer. Pasta. Desserts. Everything.

And I have to eat with manners.

Slow bites.

Controlled chewing.

Small smile.

I hate it.

I am not just Sara Singhania anymore.

I am…

Sara Jay Rajput.

The name feels unfamiliar.

Heavy.

Powerful.

Scary.

—

Night

All the guests leave.

The noise fades.

The room is quiet.

Too quiet.

I am sitting on the bed, still in my bridal attire. My heart is beating faster than during press conferences.

The door opens.

Jay walks in.

He closes the door softly.

He doesn’t look at me at first. He removes his watch. Places it on the table. Takes off his blazer. Everything precise. Controlled.

Then he looks at me.

“Sara… I have to tell you something.”

I nod. “Hmm… bolo.”

( Hmm... Say )

His expression turns colder. Distant.

“Mujhe love aur shaadi par vishwas nahi hai. So don’t expect anything. Maine yeh shaadi sirf apne parents ke kehne par ki hai.”

( I don't believe in love or marriage. So don't expect anything. I only got married at my parents' insistence. )

For a second, I can’t process it.

What the hell is he saying?

What does he think I am? A toy? A political alliance? A duty?

I feel anger rising in my chest.

But I swallow it.

Because now he is my husband.

And also… an IPS officer.

Which means access to confidential information.

Control, Sara. Think practically.

I look at him straight.

“As your wish,” I say calmly. “Aur agar honesty ke saath kahun… maine bhi yeh shaadi sirf apne parents ke liye ki hai.”

( And if I say it with honesty… I too have done this marriage only for my parents. )

His jaw tightens slightly. Maybe he didn’t expect that.

He nods once.

“Good. Then there will be no misunderstandings.”

He moves to the bed and lies down on the right side.

I pick up a large pillow and place it between us like a border.

A soft wall.

A silent agreement.

We lie there.

Two strangers.

Married.

Bound by vows.

Separated by a pillow.

I stare at the ceiling.

This is not how I imagined marriage.

But then again…

I am Sara Jay Rajput now.

And maybe… this story has just begun.

POV: Jay

I stand in front of the mirror adjusting my cufflinks.

Black suit. Perfectly ironed. No crease. No flaw.

Everything controlled.

Everything in place.

Except my life.

Today is my wedding day.

Three years ago, I had stood like this once before.

Different house. Different suit. Different bride.

Vedika Sharma.

It was also an arranged marriage. Not love. Not some tragic romance. Just two families agreeing. Two responsible adults nodding. I had accepted it calmly.

I don’t fall in love. I don’t believe in it.

But I do believe in responsibility.

The wedding date was fixed.

Cards were printed.

And then....

A criminal I had arrested months earlier escaped custody.

Revenge.

He couldn’t reach me.

So he reached her.

Vedika was shot outside her own house.

She died before the ambulance arrived.

Not because she loved me.

Not because I loved her.

But because she was about to marry me.

That day, I decided something.

No more marriages.

No more risks.

No one will suffer because of my surname or my uniform.

My father, Pratham Rajput, said it was destiny.

My mother, Pratiksha Rajput, cried for months.

Veer tried to distract me.

Aarohi stopped talking about weddings altogether.

And I buried it.

Work became my only language.

—

Then three years later, Ma said softly one evening,

“Jay… ek baar mil lo. Bas mil lo.” (Jay… meet her once. Just once. )

I refused.

Again and again.

But she kept insisting.

“Beta, hum tumhe akela nahi dekh sakte.” ( Son, we cannot see you alone like this. )

I finally agreed.

Not because I wanted to marry.

But because I was tired of watching her eyes fill with tears.

—

When I first see Sara Singhania in her house, she is nothing like I expected.

She is loud.

Expressive.

Restless.

Her eyes move constantly, observing everything.

Journalist.

Crime reporter.

Trouble.

She looks at me directly and says, “You’re the most feared SP in Mumbai.”

Not impressed.

Not scared.

Just factual.

Interesting.

She talks too much.

But she doesn’t talk foolishly.

When I ask her, “Are you okay with this marriage?” she looks at her parents before answering.

“Yes.”

That “yes” sounds like duty.

Not desire.

Good.

That makes it easier.

—

Wedding Venue

The hall is filled with politicians, officers, media people.

I hate public events.

But I stand straight.

SP Jay Rajput.

Unshaken.

When her father, Satma Singhania, places her hand in mine, I feel it.

Her fingers are cold.

She is nervous.

She hides it well.

The priest asks me, “Jay Rajput, do you accept Sara Singhania as your lawful wife?”

“I do.”

No hesitation.

Because once I decide something, I do not step back.

When she hesitates before saying yes, I notice.

One second delay.

Fear.

Conflict.

But she says it.

“Yes… I do.”

Her voice is steady.

Brave girl.

—

Photo session.

Three hours.

She whispers, “Oh God, please save me. I am on the way to death.”

I almost smile.

Almost.

“You complain a lot,” I tell her.

“You don’t blink at all. Are you even human?” she replies.

“I am trained.”

She rolls her eyes slightly.

She is dramatic.

But genuine.

She tries to eat slowly and politely, but her eyes keep drifting toward desserts like a child.

I notice everything.

Micro-expressions.

That’s my job.

—

Night.

The room is silent.

I enter first.

Remove my watch.

Blazer.

Everything mechanical.

Controlled.

She is sitting on the bed, nervous.

I don’t want to hurt her.

But I don’t want to lie either.

“Sara… mujhe tumse ek baat kehni hai.” ( Sara… I need to tell you something. )

She nods. “Hmm… bolo.” ( Hmm… say. )

I look at her directly.

“Mujhe love aur shaadi par vishwas nahi hai. Toh mujhse kuch expect mat karna. Maine yeh shaadi sirf apne parents ke kehne par ki hai.” ( I don’t believe in love or marriage. So don’t expect anything from me. I married only because my parents insisted. )

I watch her face carefully.

Shock.

Anger.

Hurt.

But she swallows it.

Strong.

“As your wish,” she says calmly. “Aur agar honesty ke saath kahun… maine bhi yeh shaadi sirf apne parents ke liye ki hai.” ( And if I speak honestly… I also married only for my parents. )

For a moment… something tightens inside my chest.

Why does that sentence bother me?

Good.

No expectations.

No emotional demands.

Safer.

“Good. Then there will be no misunderstandings.”

I lie down on the right side of the bed.

She places a large pillow between us.

A border.

A silent treaty.

I stare at the ceiling.

I tell myself this is practical.

Two responsible adults fulfilling family duty.

Nothing more.

But when the lights are off, I hear her breathing change slightly.

Uneven.

Like she is thinking too much.

I close my eyes.

Three years ago, a bride died because of me.

Tonight, another woman sleeps beside me.

And I don’t know which thought scares me more.

Losing her.

Or caring about her.

This marriage is not love.

It is not passion.

It is not destiny.

It is an agreement.

But somewhere deep inside…

For the first time in three years…

I don’t feel completely empty.