u/Kasap1982

Chapter 15: The Rain and the Candle

Kathmandu rain is not polite. It doesn’t drizzle; it attacks.

It was a Friday night in mid-July. The monsoon had officially arrived, and the sky had been pouring buckets since the afternoon. By 9 PM, the sound of the rain battering against our window and the tin roof of the neighbor's house was deafening.

Yurika was at her little table, frowning at a math problem. I was on the bed, pretending to read a book, but mostly just watching the back of her neck.

Suddenly, with a loud crack of thunder that shook the floorboards, the lights went out.

Pitch black.

"Ah!" Yurika gasped. I heard the sound of her pen dropping on the table.

"Stay there," I called out, my voice cutting through the darkness. "I have a candle."

I fumbled in the drawer of the bedside table, finding the emergency candle and a lighter. A flicker of flame sparked to life, casting long, dancing shadows against the green walls.

I walked over to where she was sitting. She looked pale, her eyes wide. She hated thunder.

"Come," I said, extending my hand. "No studying in this light. You’ll ruin your eyes."

She took my hand—her fingers were cold—and stood up. We moved to the center of the room, placing the candle on the floor on top of a steel plate for safety. We sat down on the carpet, cross-legged, the tiny flame flickering between us.

The world outside had vanished. The traffic, the neighbors, the city—everything was drowned out by the relentless drumming of the rain. It was just us, inside our little box, bathed in warm, orange light.

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "It’s raining very hard," she whispered.

"It is," I agreed softly.

I looked at her. The candlelight softened her features, painting her skin in shades of gold and amber. Her eyes, usually so focused on her books, were now fixed on the flame. She looked ethereal.

"Yuri," I said.

She looked up. Her dark eyes met mine, and for once, she didn't look away. The air in the room suddenly felt heavy, charged with a static that had nothing to do with the storm.

I shifted closer. Just a few inches.

"You look..." I struggled for the word. "Different in this light."

"Different good or different bad?" she asked, a small, nervous smile playing on her lips.

"Beautiful," I breathed. "Always beautiful."

Her smile faltered, replaced by a look of vulnerability. She lowered her gaze to my lips, then quickly back to my eyes. Her breathing hitched.

My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I reached out and cupped her face. Her skin was warm now. She leaned into my touch slightly, her eyes fluttering shut.

"Hajur..." she whispered. It sounded like a plea.

I leaned in. Slowly. Giving her every chance to pull away.

She didn't. Instead, her hands moved up, clutching the fabric of my t-shirt at my chest.

I tilted my head and brushed my lips against hers.

It was barely a touch. A ghost of a kiss. Soft. Tentative. Testing the waters.

She gasped, a sharp intake of breath against my mouth.

Then, I pressed closer.

It wasn't like the movies. There were no fireworks. It was better. It was warm, and sweet, and smelled of rain and wax. Her lips were soft, trembling slightly beneath mine. For a moment, she froze, unsure of what to do, but then she relaxed, her lips moving awkwardly but eagerly against mine.

I pulled back just an inch, resting my forehead against hers. We were both breathing hard, sharing the same air.

"Yurika," I whispered, my voice rough.

She opened her eyes. They were shining, dilated and dark. She looked dazed.

"That was..." she trailed off, touching her lips with her fingertips.

"Our first," I finished for her.

She let out a shaky laugh. "We did everything backward. Marriage, living together, then dating, and now..."

"And now," I repeated.

I kissed her again. This time, there was less hesitation. My hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair, pulling her closer. Her arms went around my neck, holding on tight. The kiss deepened, growing hungrier, pouring out months of unspoken longing, awkwardness, and hidden affection.

When we finally broke apart, the candle had burned low.

The rain was still hammering down, but inside, the silence was thick with anticipation.

I looked at her, searching her face. "Yuri."

"Yes?"

"The bed is warmer than the floor."

She understood. Her cheeks turned a deep crimson, visible even in the dim light. She bit her lip, looking down, but she didn't say no.

She nodded. A barely perceptible movement.

I stood up and offered her my hand. She took it, rising gracefully. I blew out the candle.

The room plunged into darkness, but I knew exactly where she was. I guided her into the bedroom. The streetlights were out too, so the room was wrapped in absolute shadow.

We sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under our weight.

My hands found her waist. She was trembling.

"Are you scared?" I whispered, stroking her back gently.

"A little," she admitted, her voice shaking. "But... not of you."

I kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then the sensitive spot just below her ear. She shivered, her hands gripping my shoulders.

"We can stop," I murmured against her skin. "We can just sleep."

"No," she whispered firmly. "I don't want to just sleep."

She reached out and her fingers fumbled with the buttons of my shirt.

That night, nearly a year after our wedding, we finally had our suhagraat.

It wasn't about performance. It was about discovery. It was slow, clumsy, and incredibly tender. In the dark, stripped of our clothes and our defenses, we learned the map of each other's bodies.

I learned that she was ticklish near her ribs. She learned that I held my breath when she touched my chest.

There were moments of awkwardness—knees knocking together, tangled limbs—but instead of embarrassment, there were soft giggles and whispered apologies.

"I love you," I said it for the first time, my voice buried in her hair as I held her close.

She stiffened for a second, then melted. "I love you too, Hajur."

When we finally lay still, the storm outside had quieted to a steady drizzle. The room was cool, but under the blanket, tangled together skin-to-skin, we were burning warm.

She fell asleep with her head on my chest, her arm thrown possessively across my stomach.

I lay awake for a long time, listening to the rhythm of her heart beating against my own. I thought about the boy who wanted to run away from his wedding. I thought about the girl crying on the bus bench.

And I thanked every single god in the sky that I hadn't run away.

This was it. This was my life. And looking at the sleeping form of my wife in the shadows, I knew it was a damn good one.

Previous Chapters

Chapter 15: The Rain and the Candle

Kathmandu rain is not polite. It doesn’t drizzle; it attacks.

It was a Friday night in mid-July. The monsoon had officially arrived, and the sky had been pouring buckets since the afternoon. By 9 PM, the sound of the rain battering against our window and the tin roof of the neighbor's house was deafening.

Yurika was at her little table, frowning at a math problem. I was on the bed, pretending to read a book, but mostly just watching the back of her neck.

Suddenly, with a loud crack of thunder that shook the floorboards, the lights went out.

Pitch black.

"Ah!" Yurika gasped. I heard the sound of her pen dropping on the table.

"Stay there," I called out, my voice cutting through the darkness. "I have a candle."

I fumbled in the drawer of the bedside table, finding the emergency candle and a lighter. A flicker of flame sparked to life, casting long, dancing shadows against the green walls.

I walked over to where she was sitting. She looked pale, her eyes wide. She hated thunder.

"Come," I said, extending my hand. "No studying in this light. You’ll ruin your eyes."

She took my hand—her fingers were cold—and stood up. We moved to the center of the room, placing the candle on the floor on top of a steel plate for safety. We sat down on the carpet, cross-legged, the tiny flame flickering between us.

The world outside had vanished. The traffic, the neighbors, the city—everything was drowned out by the relentless drumming of the rain. It was just us, inside our little box, bathed in warm, orange light.

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "It’s raining very hard," she whispered.

"It is," I agreed softly.

I looked at her. The candlelight softened her features, painting her skin in shades of gold and amber. Her eyes, usually so focused on her books, were now fixed on the flame. She looked ethereal.

"Yuri," I said.

She looked up. Her dark eyes met mine, and for once, she didn't look away. The air in the room suddenly felt heavy, charged with a static that had nothing to do with the storm.

I shifted closer. Just a few inches.

"You look..." I struggled for the word. "Different in this light."

"Different good or different bad?" she asked, a small, nervous smile playing on her lips.

"Beautiful," I breathed. "Always beautiful."

Her smile faltered, replaced by a look of vulnerability. She lowered her gaze to my lips, then quickly back to my eyes. Her breathing hitched.

My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I reached out and cupped her face. Her skin was warm now. She leaned into my touch slightly, her eyes fluttering shut.

"Hajur..." she whispered. It sounded like a plea.

I leaned in. Slowly. Giving her every chance to pull away.

She didn't. Instead, her hands moved up, clutching the fabric of my t-shirt at my chest.

I tilted my head and brushed my lips against hers.

It was barely a touch. A ghost of a kiss. Soft. Tentative. Testing the waters.

She gasped, a sharp intake of breath against my mouth.

Then, I pressed closer.

It wasn't like the movies. There were no fireworks. It was better. It was warm, and sweet, and smelled of rain and wax. Her lips were soft, trembling slightly beneath mine. For a moment, she froze, unsure of what to do, but then she relaxed, her lips moving awkwardly but eagerly against mine.

I pulled back just an inch, resting my forehead against hers. We were both breathing hard, sharing the same air.

"Yurika," I whispered, my voice rough.

She opened her eyes. They were shining, dilated and dark. She looked dazed.

"That was..." she trailed off, touching her lips with her fingertips.

"Our first," I finished for her.

She let out a shaky laugh. "We did everything backward. Marriage, living together, then dating, and now..."

"And now," I repeated.

I kissed her again. This time, there was less hesitation. My hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair, pulling her closer. Her arms went around my neck, holding on tight. The kiss deepened, growing hungrier, pouring out months of unspoken longing, awkwardness, and hidden affection.

When we finally broke apart, the candle had burned low.

The rain was still hammering down, but inside, the silence was thick with anticipation.

I looked at her, searching her face. "Yuri."

"Yes?"

"The bed is warmer than the floor."

She understood. Her cheeks turned a deep crimson, visible even in the dim light. She bit her lip, looking down, but she didn't say no.

She nodded. A barely perceptible movement.

I stood up and offered her my hand. She took it, rising gracefully. I blew out the candle.

The room plunged into darkness, but I knew exactly where she was. I guided her into the bedroom. The streetlights were out too, so the room was wrapped in absolute shadow.

We sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under our weight.

My hands found her waist. She was trembling.

"Are you scared?" I whispered, stroking her back gently.

"A little," she admitted, her voice shaking. "But... not of you."

I kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then the sensitive spot just below her ear. She shivered, her hands gripping my shoulders.

"We can stop," I murmured against her skin. "We can just sleep."

"No," she whispered firmly. "I don't want to just sleep."

She reached out and her fingers fumbled with the buttons of my shirt.

That night, nearly a year after our wedding, we finally had our suhagraat.

It wasn't about performance. It was about discovery. It was slow, clumsy, and incredibly tender. In the dark, stripped of our clothes and our defenses, we learned the map of each other's bodies.

I learned that she was ticklish near her ribs. She learned that I held my breath when she touched my chest.

There were moments of awkwardness—knees knocking together, tangled limbs—but instead of embarrassment, there were soft giggles and whispered apologies.

"I love you," I said it for the first time, my voice buried in her hair as I held her close.

She stiffened for a second, then melted. "I love you too, Hajur."

When we finally lay still, the storm outside had quieted to a steady drizzle. The room was cool, but under the blanket, tangled together skin-to-skin, we were burning warm.

She fell asleep with her head on my chest, her arm thrown possessively across my stomach.

I lay awake for a long time, listening to the rhythm of her heart beating against my own. I thought about the boy who wanted to run away from his wedding. I thought about the girl crying on the bus bench.

And I thanked every single god in the sky that I hadn't run away.

This was it. This was my life. And looking at the sleeping form of my wife in the shadows, I knew it was a damn good one.

Previous Chapters

Chapter 14: The General Knowledge of Love

The honeymoon phase in a marriage is one thing, but the "domestic routine" phase is a completely different beast. And honestly? I liked the routine better.

Two weeks had passed since she moved in. The "green box" had transformed. There were curtains fluttering in the breeze, a money plant thriving on the balcony (Yurika talked to it every morning), and a smell of laundry detergent and spices that permanently hung in the air.

We had fallen into a rhythm.

6:30 AM: Wake up. (Usually involved me untangling my limbs from hers. She was a cuddler in her sleep, clinging to me like a koala, but the moment she woke up, she’d turn shy again).

7:00 AM: Tea on the balcony.

8:30 AM: I leave for work. She hands me my tiffin box.

6:00 PM: I return. We cook together. We talk.

It was perfect. Almost too perfect.

Because about three weeks in, I noticed something. The sparkle she had during our weekend outings would dim during the weekdays. When I came home, the house was spotless—too spotless. The clothes were ironed. The dinner was ready.

She was bored.

One Tuesday evening, I came home to find her sitting on the balcony, staring blankly at the chaotic street below. She didn't hear me come in.

"Yuri?"

She jumped, nearly dropping the cup in her hand. "Oh! Hajur... you're early."

"Traffic was light," I lied. I sat down on the small plastic stool opposite her. "What were you thinking about?"

She hesitated, tracing the rim of her cup. "Nothing. Just... watching people. Everyone looks so busy here. Everyone has somewhere to go."

The subtext hit me like a brick. Everyone except me.

I looked at the shelf where I had stacked the Loksewa (Public Service Commission) books I bought her in the village months ago. They were sitting there, untouched, gathering a fine layer of Kathmandu dust.

"You know," I said casually, taking off my shoes. "I heard they announced the vacancy for the Kharidar level exams today."

She looked up. "Really?"

"Yeah. My colleague Ramesh was talking about it. He said the competition is tough this year."

She looked at the books, then looked away, shrinking into herself. "It must be. City people study in big coaching centers. They have internet and laptops."

"So?" I challenged.

"So... I’m just from the village, Hajur. I gaped my studies for two years. I probably forgot how to hold a pen."

I stood up, walked over to the shelf, and pulled down the thickest General Knowledge book. I blew the dust off it—drama intended—and dropped it on her lap.

"Open it," I commanded gently.

"Hajur?"

"Open page 50. Geography of Nepal."

She looked at me like I was crazy, but she opened the book.

"Ask me a question," I said, sitting on the floor by her feet. "Test me."

She smiled uncertainly. "Okay... um... What is the maximum depth of Rara Lake?"

I froze. Crap. "Uh... 150 meters?"

"167 meters," she corrected instantly, without looking at the answer key.

I blinked. "Okay, lucky guess. Ask another. History."

She flipped the pages, looking more interested now. "Who was the first Prime Minister of Nepal?"

"Bhimsen Thapa," I said confidently.

"Correct. And when did he build the Dharahara?"

"Uh... 18... something?"

"1832 B.S.," she said. "Or 1825 AD."

I stared at her. She wasn't reading the book. She was looking at me.

"You remember that?" I asked.

"I read it in Class 9," she shrugged, a small spark of pride returning to her eyes. "I have a good memory."

I took the book from her hands and placed it on the floor. I took her hands in mine.

"Yurika," I said seriously. "You are smarter than half the idiots in my office. You are not just going to cook rice and iron my shirts."

"But the coaching classes..."

"We don't need coaching. I have a laptop. We have internet. And you have a husband who is very good at... well, making tea while you study."

She bit her lip, her eyes watering slightly. "Do you think I can pass?"

"I don't think," I grinned. "I know. And when you become a government officer, remember your poor husband, okay? Don't leave me for a Section Officer."

She laughed, giving my hand a little squeeze. "I’ll think about it."

That weekend, our "green box" turned into a study war room.

We went to Bagbazar—the hub of books in Kathmandu. I bought her a new set of notebooks, pens (she liked the gel ones), and the latest question banks. She walked through the bookstores touching the spines of the books with reverence.

When we got home, we rearranged the room. The small foldable table became her desk. I set up my old laptop for her, showing her how to use YouTube to watch lecture videos.

"This teacher talks too fast," she complained, frowning at the screen.

"Pause and rewind," I showed her. "See? Magic."

She looked at me with pure wonder. "Magic."

Now, our routine changed.

When I left for work, she wasn't just waving goodbye. She was already at her table, pen in hand, hair tied up in a focused bun.

When I came home, the house wasn't perfectly clean anymore. Sometimes there were papers scattered on the floor. Sometimes dinner was just instant noodles because she lost track of time.

And I loved it.

One evening, I was lying on the bed, scrolling through my phone, while she sat at the table on the floor, mumbling facts to herself.

"The length of the Mechi River is..." she muttered.

"Yuri, come to sleep," I groaned. "It’s 11 PM."

"Wait, I need to finish the rivers section."

I rolled my eyes, got up, and walked up behind her. I wrapped my arms around her neck from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.

"The Mechi River isn't going anywhere," I whispered into her ear. "But your husband is very lonely."

She stiffened for a second, then relaxed into my hold, leaning her head back against my chest.

"You are a distraction," she murmured, but she closed the book.

"I am the motivation," I corrected, kissing her cheek. "There's a difference."

She turned in my arms, facing me. She looked tired, but happy. There was ink on her thumb.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"For what?"

"For not wanting a servant. For wanting... me."

My heart squeezed. I brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.

"I want the officer," I teased. "Think of the government perks. The pension."

She swatted my chest, laughing. "Greedy."

I caught her hand and pulled her up from the floor. "Come on. Bed. Tomorrow is a new chapter."

She let me lead her to the bed. We lay down, and she immediately found her spot, head on my chest, leg thrown over mine.

"Hajur?" she whispered in the dark.

"Hmm?"

"The length of the Mechi River is not fixed, but it forms the border for about how many kilometers?"

I laughed out loud, hugging her tighter. "Go to sleep, Yurika."

"It’s 80 kilometers," she whispered smugly.

"Goodnight, nerd."

"Goodnight, Hajur."

I lay there awake for a while, listening to her breathing slow down. I realized that my grandfather was right about one thing—marriage changes you. But he was wrong about the reason. It wasn't about having kids or carrying on the lineage.

It was about this. Having a partner who corrects your geography facts at midnight.

I kissed her hair and closed my eyes. 80 kilometers, I thought. I’ll remember that.

Previous Chapters

Chapter 14: The General Knowledge of Love

The honeymoon phase in a marriage is one thing, but the "domestic routine" phase is a completely different beast. And honestly? I liked the routine better.

Two weeks had passed since she moved in. The "green box" had transformed. There were curtains fluttering in the breeze, a money plant thriving on the balcony (Yurika talked to it every morning), and a smell of laundry detergent and spices that permanently hung in the air.

We had fallen into a rhythm.

6:30 AM: Wake up. (Usually involved me untangling my limbs from hers. She was a cuddler in her sleep, clinging to me like a koala, but the moment she woke up, she’d turn shy again).

7:00 AM: Tea on the balcony.

8:30 AM: I leave for work. She hands me my tiffin box.

6:00 PM: I return. We cook together. We talk.

It was perfect. Almost too perfect.

Because about three weeks in, I noticed something. The sparkle she had during our weekend outings would dim during the weekdays. When I came home, the house was spotless—too spotless. The clothes were ironed. The dinner was ready.

She was bored.

One Tuesday evening, I came home to find her sitting on the balcony, staring blankly at the chaotic street below. She didn't hear me come in.

"Yuri?"

She jumped, nearly dropping the cup in her hand. "Oh! Hajur... you're early."

"Traffic was light," I lied. I sat down on the small plastic stool opposite her. "What were you thinking about?"

She hesitated, tracing the rim of her cup. "Nothing. Just... watching people. Everyone looks so busy here. Everyone has somewhere to go."

The subtext hit me like a brick. Everyone except me.

I looked at the shelf where I had stacked the Loksewa (Public Service Commission) books I bought her in the village months ago. They were sitting there, untouched, gathering a fine layer of Kathmandu dust.

"You know," I said casually, taking off my shoes. "I heard they announced the vacancy for the Kharidar level exams today."

She looked up. "Really?"

"Yeah. My colleague Ramesh was talking about it. He said the competition is tough this year."

She looked at the books, then looked away, shrinking into herself. "It must be. City people study in big coaching centers. They have internet and laptops."

"So?" I challenged.

"So... I’m just from the village, Hajur. I gaped my studies for two years. I probably forgot how to hold a pen."

I stood up, walked over to the shelf, and pulled down the thickest General Knowledge book. I blew the dust off it—drama intended—and dropped it on her lap.

"Open it," I commanded gently.

"Hajur?"

"Open page 50. Geography of Nepal."

She looked at me like I was crazy, but she opened the book.

"Ask me a question," I said, sitting on the floor by her feet. "Test me."

She smiled uncertainly. "Okay... um... What is the maximum depth of Rara Lake?"

I froze. Crap. "Uh... 150 meters?"

"167 meters," she corrected instantly, without looking at the answer key.

I blinked. "Okay, lucky guess. Ask another. History."

She flipped the pages, looking more interested now. "Who was the first Prime Minister of Nepal?"

"Bhimsen Thapa," I said confidently.

"Correct. And when did he build the Dharahara?"

"Uh... 18... something?"

"1832 B.S.," she said. "Or 1825 AD."

I stared at her. She wasn't reading the book. She was looking at me.

"You remember that?" I asked.

"I read it in Class 9," she shrugged, a small spark of pride returning to her eyes. "I have a good memory."

I took the book from her hands and placed it on the floor. I took her hands in mine.

"Yurika," I said seriously. "You are smarter than half the idiots in my office. You are not just going to cook rice and iron my shirts."

"But the coaching classes..."

"We don't need coaching. I have a laptop. We have internet. And you have a husband who is very good at... well, making tea while you study."

She bit her lip, her eyes watering slightly. "Do you think I can pass?"

"I don't think," I grinned. "I know. And when you become a government officer, remember your poor husband, okay? Don't leave me for a Section Officer."

She laughed, giving my hand a little squeeze. "I’ll think about it."

That weekend, our "green box" turned into a study war room.

We went to Bagbazar—the hub of books in Kathmandu. I bought her a new set of notebooks, pens (she liked the gel ones), and the latest question banks. She walked through the bookstores touching the spines of the books with reverence.

When we got home, we rearranged the room. The small foldable table became her desk. I set up my old laptop for her, showing her how to use YouTube to watch lecture videos.

"This teacher talks too fast," she complained, frowning at the screen.

"Pause and rewind," I showed her. "See? Magic."

She looked at me with pure wonder. "Magic."

Now, our routine changed.

When I left for work, she wasn't just waving goodbye. She was already at her table, pen in hand, hair tied up in a focused bun.

When I came home, the house wasn't perfectly clean anymore. Sometimes there were papers scattered on the floor. Sometimes dinner was just instant noodles because she lost track of time.

And I loved it.

One evening, I was lying on the bed, scrolling through my phone, while she sat at the table on the floor, mumbling facts to herself.

"The length of the Mechi River is..." she muttered.

"Yuri, come to sleep," I groaned. "It’s 11 PM."

"Wait, I need to finish the rivers section."

I rolled my eyes, got up, and walked up behind her. I wrapped my arms around her neck from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.

"The Mechi River isn't going anywhere," I whispered into her ear. "But your husband is very lonely."

She stiffened for a second, then relaxed into my hold, leaning her head back against my chest.

"You are a distraction," she murmured, but she closed the book.

"I am the motivation," I corrected, kissing her cheek. "There's a difference."

She turned in my arms, facing me. She looked tired, but happy. There was ink on her thumb.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"For what?"

"For not wanting a servant. For wanting... me."

My heart squeezed. I brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.

"I want the officer," I teased. "Think of the government perks. The pension."

She swatted my chest, laughing. "Greedy."

I caught her hand and pulled her up from the floor. "Come on. Bed. Tomorrow is a new chapter."

She let me lead her to the bed. We lay down, and she immediately found her spot, head on my chest, leg thrown over mine.

"Hajur?" she whispered in the dark.

"Hmm?"

"The length of the Mechi River is not fixed, but it forms the border for about how many kilometers?"

I laughed out loud, hugging her tighter. "Go to sleep, Yurika."

"It’s 80 kilometers," she whispered smugly.

"Goodnight, nerd."

"Goodnight, Hajur."

I lay there awake for a while, listening to her breathing slow down. I realized that my grandfather was right about one thing—marriage changes you. But he was wrong about the reason. It wasn't about having kids or carrying on the lineage.

It was about this. Having a partner who corrects your geography facts at midnight.

I kissed her hair and closed my eyes. 80 kilometers, I thought. I’ll remember that.

Previous Chapters

Chapter 14: The General Knowledge of Love

The honeymoon phase in a marriage is one thing, but the "domestic routine" phase is a completely different beast. And honestly? I liked the routine better.

Two weeks had passed since she moved in. The "green box" had transformed. There were curtains fluttering in the breeze, a money plant thriving on the balcony (Yurika talked to it every morning), and a smell of laundry detergent and spices that permanently hung in the air.

We had fallen into a rhythm.

6:30 AM: Wake up. (Usually involved me untangling my limbs from hers. She was a cuddler in her sleep, clinging to me like a koala, but the moment she woke up, she’d turn shy again).

7:00 AM: Tea on the balcony.

8:30 AM: I leave for work. She hands me my tiffin box.

6:00 PM: I return. We cook together. We talk.

It was perfect. Almost too perfect.

Because about three weeks in, I noticed something. The sparkle she had during our weekend outings would dim during the weekdays. When I came home, the house was spotless—too spotless. The clothes were ironed. The dinner was ready.

She was bored.

One Tuesday evening, I came home to find her sitting on the balcony, staring blankly at the chaotic street below. She didn't hear me come in.

"Yuri?"

She jumped, nearly dropping the cup in her hand. "Oh! Hajur... you're early."

"Traffic was light," I lied. I sat down on the small plastic stool opposite her. "What were you thinking about?"

She hesitated, tracing the rim of her cup. "Nothing. Just... watching people. Everyone looks so busy here. Everyone has somewhere to go."

The subtext hit me like a brick. Everyone except me.

I looked at the shelf where I had stacked the Loksewa (Public Service Commission) books I bought her in the village months ago. They were sitting there, untouched, gathering a fine layer of Kathmandu dust.

"You know," I said casually, taking off my shoes. "I heard they announced the vacancy for the Kharidar level exams today."

She looked up. "Really?"

"Yeah. My colleague Ramesh was talking about it. He said the competition is tough this year."

She looked at the books, then looked away, shrinking into herself. "It must be. City people study in big coaching centers. They have internet and laptops."

"So?" I challenged.

"So... I’m just from the village, Hajur. I gaped my studies for two years. I probably forgot how to hold a pen."

I stood up, walked over to the shelf, and pulled down the thickest General Knowledge book. I blew the dust off it—drama intended—and dropped it on her lap.

"Open it," I commanded gently.

"Hajur?"

"Open page 50. Geography of Nepal."

She looked at me like I was crazy, but she opened the book.

"Ask me a question," I said, sitting on the floor by her feet. "Test me."

She smiled uncertainly. "Okay... um... What is the maximum depth of Rara Lake?"

I froze. Crap. "Uh... 150 meters?"

"167 meters," she corrected instantly, without looking at the answer key.

I blinked. "Okay, lucky guess. Ask another. History."

She flipped the pages, looking more interested now. "Who was the first Prime Minister of Nepal?"

"Bhimsen Thapa," I said confidently.

"Correct. And when did he build the Dharahara?"

"Uh... 18... something?"

"1832 B.S.," she said. "Or 1825 AD."

I stared at her. She wasn't reading the book. She was looking at me.

"You remember that?" I asked.

"I read it in Class 9," she shrugged, a small spark of pride returning to her eyes. "I have a good memory."

I took the book from her hands and placed it on the floor. I took her hands in mine.

"Yurika," I said seriously. "You are smarter than half the idiots in my office. You are not just going to cook rice and iron my shirts."

"But the coaching classes..."

"We don't need coaching. I have a laptop. We have internet. And you have a husband who is very good at... well, making tea while you study."

She bit her lip, her eyes watering slightly. "Do you think I can pass?"

"I don't think," I grinned. "I know. And when you become a government officer, remember your poor husband, okay? Don't leave me for a Section Officer."

She laughed, giving my hand a little squeeze. "I’ll think about it."

That weekend, our "green box" turned into a study war room.

We went to Bagbazar—the hub of books in Kathmandu. I bought her a new set of notebooks, pens (she liked the gel ones), and the latest question banks. She walked through the bookstores touching the spines of the books with reverence.

When we got home, we rearranged the room. The small foldable table became her desk. I set up my old laptop for her, showing her how to use YouTube to watch lecture videos.

"This teacher talks too fast," she complained, frowning at the screen.

"Pause and rewind," I showed her. "See? Magic."

She looked at me with pure wonder. "Magic."

Now, our routine changed.

When I left for work, she wasn't just waving goodbye. She was already at her table, pen in hand, hair tied up in a focused bun.

When I came home, the house wasn't perfectly clean anymore. Sometimes there were papers scattered on the floor. Sometimes dinner was just instant noodles because she lost track of time.

And I loved it.

One evening, I was lying on the bed, scrolling through my phone, while she sat at the table on the floor, mumbling facts to herself.

"The length of the Mechi River is..." she muttered.

"Yuri, come to sleep," I groaned. "It’s 11 PM."

"Wait, I need to finish the rivers section."

I rolled my eyes, got up, and walked up behind her. I wrapped my arms around her neck from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.

"The Mechi River isn't going anywhere," I whispered into her ear. "But your husband is very lonely."

She stiffened for a second, then relaxed into my hold, leaning her head back against my chest.

"You are a distraction," she murmured, but she closed the book.

"I am the motivation," I corrected, kissing her cheek. "There's a difference."

She turned in my arms, facing me. She looked tired, but happy. There was ink on her thumb.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"For what?"

"For not wanting a servant. For wanting... me."

My heart squeezed. I brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.

"I want the officer," I teased. "Think of the government perks. The pension."

She swatted my chest, laughing. "Greedy."

I caught her hand and pulled her up from the floor. "Come on. Bed. Tomorrow is a new chapter."

She let me lead her to the bed. We lay down, and she immediately found her spot, head on my chest, leg thrown over mine.

"Hajur?" she whispered in the dark.

"Hmm?"

"The length of the Mechi River is not fixed, but it forms the border for about how many kilometers?"

I laughed out loud, hugging her tighter. "Go to sleep, Yurika."

"It’s 80 kilometers," she whispered smugly.

"Goodnight, nerd."

"Goodnight, Hajur."

I lay there awake for a while, listening to her breathing slow down. I realized that my grandfather was right about one thing—marriage changes you. But he was wrong about the reason. It wasn't about having kids or carrying on the lineage.

It was about this. Having a partner who corrects your geography facts at midnight.

I kissed her hair and closed my eyes. 80 kilometers, I thought. I’ll remember that.

Previous Chapters

Chapter 13: The Necklace and the Crowd

Saturday in Kathmandu isn't just a holiday; it’s an event. The sun hits the city differently, less urgent, more golden.

I woke up expecting the pressure cooker whistle again, but the room was silent. I rolled over and froze. Yurika was still asleep. She was curled up in a ball, her breathing slow and rhythmic. One of her hands was resting on the empty space between us, palm open, as if reaching for something in her dreams.

I propped myself up on one elbow, careful not to make the mattress squeak. This was rare—seeing her unguarded. Her eyelashes were long, casting tiny shadows on her cheeks. A stray lock of hair had fallen across her nose, fluttering every time she exhaled.

Without thinking, I reached out. My finger hovered over her face for a second, trembling slightly. I gently tucked the hair behind her ear.

She stirred. Her nose scrunching up in a way that made my chest tighten. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and hazy. She blinked once, twice, then saw me looming over her.

"Ah!" She jolted back, pulling the blanket to her chin. "What... what time is it?"

"It’s 8:00," I whispered, smiling. "Good morning, sleeping beauty."

Her eyes went wide. "8:00? Oh no. The tea. The cleaning. I’m late!"

She tried to scramble out of bed, but I caught her wrist. Just a light grip, but it stopped her.

"Hey, relax," I said softly. "It’s Saturday. No office. No rush."

She looked at my hand on her wrist, then up at my face. A slow flush crept up her neck. I realized I was still holding her and quickly let go, clearing my throat.

"Go wash up," I said, voice slightly cracking. "I’ll make the tea today."

She stared at me as if I had said I was going to fly to the moon. "You?"

"Yes, me. I can boil water and add leaves, Mrs. Yurika. Go."

An hour later, we were getting ready for our grand shopping expedition. The bathroom door opened, and she stepped out.

I stopped buttoning my shirt.

She was wearing a maroon kurtha suruwal I hadn’t seen before. It fit her perfectly, hugging her waist slightly before flaring out. Her hair was damp and loose, falling over her shoulders. She looked... older. prettier.

"Is it okay?" she asked, tugging at the dupatta. "It’s a bit bright for just shopping."

"It’s... perfect," I managed to say. "You look beautiful."

She turned the shade of the kurtha. She quickly turned away to the small mirror I had bought yesterday. "I can't put this on," she mumbled, holding up a thin gold chain with a small pendant. "The hook is too small."

"I’ll do it."

The words left my mouth before I could process them. She froze, watching me in the mirror as I walked up behind her.

"Turn around," I said.

She turned her back to me, sweeping her heavy, damp hair to one side, exposing the nape of her neck. Her skin looked soft, vulnerable.

My hands felt like giant, clumsy paws. I took the necklace, bringing my arms around her neck. I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. The scent of her soap—something floral, like jasmine—filled my nose.

I fumbled with the tiny clasp. My fingers brushed against her neck, and I felt her shiver.

"Sorry," I whispered, leaning in closer to see better. My breath hitched as I realized how close my lips were to her shoulder. Just an inch.

She was holding her breath. I could see her chest rising and falling rapidly in the mirror reflection.

Click.

"Done," I exhaled, stepping back quickly as if I had been burned.

She turned around, clutching the pendant. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated. "Thank you... Hajur."

The way she said it—breathless and soft—made my knees weak.

"Let’s go," I said, grabbing the keys. "Before the market gets crowded."

We took a Microbus to Asan. If you think you know the definition of "crowded," you haven’t been to Asan Tole on a Saturday. It’s a sensory explosion—spices, fabrics, bells, shouting, motorbikes honking in alleys barely wide enough for pedestrians.

"Stay close," I yelled over the noise of a temple bell.

"I can't hear you!" she yelled back, looking overwhelmed.

A porter carrying a massive sack of rice came barreling down the lane. "Side! Side!"

I didn't think. I just wrapped my arm around her waist and pulled her flush against me, pressing us into the side of a shop shutter. The porter brushed past, inches from us.

She looked up at me, her hands instinctively clutching the front of my shirt. We were pressed together from chest to hips. I could feel her heart hammering against my chest—or maybe that was mine.

"I told you," I grinned down at her, not letting go of her waist. "Stay close."

She didn't pull away. She nodded, her cheeks pink. "Okay."

We moved through the market like a single organism after that. My hand stayed firmly on the small of her back, guiding her through the sea of people. Every time a bike zoomed too close, my grip tightened, pulling her safe. I felt surprisingly masculine, surprisingly needed.

Shopping with Yurika was an education.

"How much for the curtains?" I asked the shopkeeper.

"1200 per piece, brother. Fixed price."

"Okay, pack two—"

"Wait," Yurika’s voice cut in. She stepped in front of me, small but fierce. "800."

The shopkeeper laughed. "Sister, look at the quality. 1100. Last."

"850," she said calmly, picking up the fabric. "Or we go to the shop next door. I saw the same one there."

She started walking away. I stood there, confused. The shopkeeper sighed loudly. "Okay, okay! Come back! 900. Final."

She turned back, a triumphant little smirk playing on her lips. "Pack it."

I stared at her in awe. "Remind me never to argue with you."

She giggled, linking her arm through mine. "You earn the money, Hajur. I save it."

We bought the curtains (floral, of course). We bought a small foldable table. We bought a dustbin (blue). And finally, we bought a Money Plant in a small pot.

"For luck," she said, cradling the pot like a baby.

On the way back, we stopped for Pani Puri.

"I challenge you," she said, eyes sparkling. "Who can eat more?"

"Oh, you are on. I’m the Pani Puri champion of my college."

I was not the champion. I tapped out at 12. She ate 18. Eighteen!

"How?" I wheezed, my mouth on fire. "Where do you put it? You are so small!"

She was laughing so hard she was tearing up. "Village appetite," she winked.

There was a smudge of green chutney on the corner of her lip.

"Hold on," I said.

The laughter died down. I reached out with my thumb and gently wiped the corner of her mouth. Her breath hitched again. My thumb lingered there for a split second longer than necessary, tracing the curve of her lower lip.

Her eyes dropped to my lips, then back up to my eyes. The noise of the street faded away.

"Let’s go home," I whispered.

The ride back was in a cramped Tempo (electric rickshaw). We were squeezed into the back seat, knees knocking together with every bump.

She was exhausted. The sugar rush and the chaos had worn off. Her head started drooping.

"Come here," I murmured, sliding my arm around her shoulders.

She didn't hesitate this time. She leaned her head on my shoulder, her body relaxing completely against mine. Her hand found mine on her lap, fingers interlacing.

I sat there, smelling the dust of Kathmandu and the jasmine of her hair, feeling the warmth of her thigh pressed against mine. I felt a sense of peace I hadn't known I was missing. I wasn't just a guy with a job and a flat anymore. I was a husband.

Back at the flat, we spent the evening setting up. I stood on a wobbly stool to hang the curtains while she passed me the hooks.

"Careful," she said, holding my calves to steady me. Her hands were warm on my legs.

When the curtains were up, the room instantly transformed. The harsh streetlights were filtered out, leaving a soft, cozy glow. We set up the plant on the new table.

"It looks like a home now," she said softly, looking around.

We didn't cook dinner. We were too full from the street food. We just made tea and sat on the carpet, leaning against the bed frame.

The air between us had changed. The awkwardness of the "arranged marriage" was melting, replaced by a thick, sweet tension.

"Are you happy here?" I asked, staring into my tea cup. "In this small box?"

She put her cup down and turned to me. "It’s not the box, Hajur."

"Then what?"

She scooted closer. Her shoulder brushed mine. "It’s who is in the box."

I turned to look at her. Her eyes were searching mine, open and honest.

"I was scared," she admitted. "When you left the first time. I thought you hated me. I thought I was ugly."

"Yuri, no," I said, putting my cup down and turning fully toward her. I took both her hands in mine. "I was the stupid one. You are... you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And today? Today I realized I’m the luckiest idiot in Nepal."

She laughed, a wet, teary sound.

I raised her hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. She gasped softly.

Then, I leaned in. She didn't pull back. She closed her eyes, tilting her head up slightly.

I kissed her forehead. A long, lingering press of my lips against her skin.

I felt her shudder, and she leaned forward, burying her face in my neck. Her arms wrapped around my waist, holding me tight.

"Thank you," she mumbled into my shirt.

I wrapped my arms around her, resting my chin on her head. We stayed like that for a long time, just holding each other on the floor of our green room.

That night, there was no pillow wall.

When we turned off the lights, she didn't turn to the wall. She lay on her back. I moved closer, my arm brushing hers.

"Can I..." I started, my voice hoarse. "Can I hold you?"

"Yes," she whispered.

I slid my arm under her neck, pulling her close. She turned onto her side, draping an arm over my chest, her face resting against my shoulder. Our legs tangled together under the blanket.

It wasn't sexual. It was something deeper. It was the feeling of arriving home after a long, long journey.

"Goodnight, Hajur," she murmured, her breath warm against my neck.

I kissed the top of her head. "Goodnight, Yuri."

And as I fell asleep, holding my wife in my arms, I knew one thing for sure: I was never, ever letting her go again.

Previous Chapters

Chapter 13: The Necklace and the Crowd

Saturday in Kathmandu isn't just a holiday; it’s an event. The sun hits the city differently, less urgent, more golden.

I woke up expecting the pressure cooker whistle again, but the room was silent. I rolled over and froze. Yurika was still asleep. She was curled up in a ball, her breathing slow and rhythmic. One of her hands was resting on the empty space between us, palm open, as if reaching for something in her dreams.

I propped myself up on one elbow, careful not to make the mattress squeak. This was rare—seeing her unguarded. Her eyelashes were long, casting tiny shadows on her cheeks. A stray lock of hair had fallen across her nose, fluttering every time she exhaled.

Without thinking, I reached out. My finger hovered over her face for a second, trembling slightly. I gently tucked the hair behind her ear.

She stirred. Her nose scrunching up in a way that made my chest tighten. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and hazy. She blinked once, twice, then saw me looming over her.

"Ah!" She jolted back, pulling the blanket to her chin. "What... what time is it?"

"It’s 8:00," I whispered, smiling. "Good morning, sleeping beauty."

Her eyes went wide. "8:00? Oh no. The tea. The cleaning. I’m late!"

She tried to scramble out of bed, but I caught her wrist. Just a light grip, but it stopped her.

"Hey, relax," I said softly. "It’s Saturday. No office. No rush."

She looked at my hand on her wrist, then up at my face. A slow flush crept up her neck. I realized I was still holding her and quickly let go, clearing my throat.

"Go wash up," I said, voice slightly cracking. "I’ll make the tea today."

She stared at me as if I had said I was going to fly to the moon. "You?"

"Yes, me. I can boil water and add leaves, Mrs. Yurika. Go."

An hour later, we were getting ready for our grand shopping expedition. The bathroom door opened, and she stepped out.

I stopped buttoning my shirt.

She was wearing a maroon kurtha suruwal I hadn’t seen before. It fit her perfectly, hugging her waist slightly before flaring out. Her hair was damp and loose, falling over her shoulders. She looked... older. prettier.

"Is it okay?" she asked, tugging at the dupatta. "It’s a bit bright for just shopping."

"It’s... perfect," I managed to say. "You look beautiful."

She turned the shade of the kurtha. She quickly turned away to the small mirror I had bought yesterday. "I can't put this on," she mumbled, holding up a thin gold chain with a small pendant. "The hook is too small."

"I’ll do it."

The words left my mouth before I could process them. She froze, watching me in the mirror as I walked up behind her.

"Turn around," I said.

She turned her back to me, sweeping her heavy, damp hair to one side, exposing the nape of her neck. Her skin looked soft, vulnerable.

My hands felt like giant, clumsy paws. I took the necklace, bringing my arms around her neck. I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. The scent of her soap—something floral, like jasmine—filled my nose.

I fumbled with the tiny clasp. My fingers brushed against her neck, and I felt her shiver.

"Sorry," I whispered, leaning in closer to see better. My breath hitched as I realized how close my lips were to her shoulder. Just an inch.

She was holding her breath. I could see her chest rising and falling rapidly in the mirror reflection.

Click.

"Done," I exhaled, stepping back quickly as if I had been burned.

She turned around, clutching the pendant. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated. "Thank you... Hajur."

The way she said it—breathless and soft—made my knees weak.

"Let’s go," I said, grabbing the keys. "Before the market gets crowded."

We took a Microbus to Asan. If you think you know the definition of "crowded," you haven’t been to Asan Tole on a Saturday. It’s a sensory explosion—spices, fabrics, bells, shouting, motorbikes honking in alleys barely wide enough for pedestrians.

"Stay close," I yelled over the noise of a temple bell.

"I can't hear you!" she yelled back, looking overwhelmed.

A porter carrying a massive sack of rice came barreling down the lane. "Side! Side!"

I didn't think. I just wrapped my arm around her waist and pulled her flush against me, pressing us into the side of a shop shutter. The porter brushed past, inches from us.

She looked up at me, her hands instinctively clutching the front of my shirt. We were pressed together from chest to hips. I could feel her heart hammering against my chest—or maybe that was mine.

"I told you," I grinned down at her, not letting go of her waist. "Stay close."

She didn't pull away. She nodded, her cheeks pink. "Okay."

We moved through the market like a single organism after that. My hand stayed firmly on the small of her back, guiding her through the sea of people. Every time a bike zoomed too close, my grip tightened, pulling her safe. I felt surprisingly masculine, surprisingly needed.

Shopping with Yurika was an education.

"How much for the curtains?" I asked the shopkeeper.

"1200 per piece, brother. Fixed price."

"Okay, pack two—"

"Wait," Yurika’s voice cut in. She stepped in front of me, small but fierce. "800."

The shopkeeper laughed. "Sister, look at the quality. 1100. Last."

"850," she said calmly, picking up the fabric. "Or we go to the shop next door. I saw the same one there."

She started walking away. I stood there, confused. The shopkeeper sighed loudly. "Okay, okay! Come back! 900. Final."

She turned back, a triumphant little smirk playing on her lips. "Pack it."

I stared at her in awe. "Remind me never to argue with you."

She giggled, linking her arm through mine. "You earn the money, Hajur. I save it."

We bought the curtains (floral, of course). We bought a small foldable table. We bought a dustbin (blue). And finally, we bought a Money Plant in a small pot.

"For luck," she said, cradling the pot like a baby.

On the way back, we stopped for Pani Puri.

"I challenge you," she said, eyes sparkling. "Who can eat more?"

"Oh, you are on. I’m the Pani Puri champion of my college."

I was not the champion. I tapped out at 12. She ate 18. Eighteen!

"How?" I wheezed, my mouth on fire. "Where do you put it? You are so small!"

She was laughing so hard she was tearing up. "Village appetite," she winked.

There was a smudge of green chutney on the corner of her lip.

"Hold on," I said.

The laughter died down. I reached out with my thumb and gently wiped the corner of her mouth. Her breath hitched again. My thumb lingered there for a split second longer than necessary, tracing the curve of her lower lip.

Her eyes dropped to my lips, then back up to my eyes. The noise of the street faded away.

"Let’s go home," I whispered.

The ride back was in a cramped Tempo (electric rickshaw). We were squeezed into the back seat, knees knocking together with every bump.

She was exhausted. The sugar rush and the chaos had worn off. Her head started drooping.

"Come here," I murmured, sliding my arm around her shoulders.

She didn't hesitate this time. She leaned her head on my shoulder, her body relaxing completely against mine. Her hand found mine on her lap, fingers interlacing.

I sat there, smelling the dust of Kathmandu and the jasmine of her hair, feeling the warmth of her thigh pressed against mine. I felt a sense of peace I hadn't known I was missing. I wasn't just a guy with a job and a flat anymore. I was a husband.

Back at the flat, we spent the evening setting up. I stood on a wobbly stool to hang the curtains while she passed me the hooks.

"Careful," she said, holding my calves to steady me. Her hands were warm on my legs.

When the curtains were up, the room instantly transformed. The harsh streetlights were filtered out, leaving a soft, cozy glow. We set up the plant on the new table.

"It looks like a home now," she said softly, looking around.

We didn't cook dinner. We were too full from the street food. We just made tea and sat on the carpet, leaning against the bed frame.

The air between us had changed. The awkwardness of the "arranged marriage" was melting, replaced by a thick, sweet tension.

"Are you happy here?" I asked, staring into my tea cup. "In this small box?"

She put her cup down and turned to me. "It’s not the box, Hajur."

"Then what?"

She scooted closer. Her shoulder brushed mine. "It’s who is in the box."

I turned to look at her. Her eyes were searching mine, open and honest.

"I was scared," she admitted. "When you left the first time. I thought you hated me. I thought I was ugly."

"Yuri, no," I said, putting my cup down and turning fully toward her. I took both her hands in mine. "I was the stupid one. You are... you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And today? Today I realized I’m the luckiest idiot in Nepal."

She laughed, a wet, teary sound.

I raised her hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. She gasped softly.

Then, I leaned in. She didn't pull back. She closed her eyes, tilting her head up slightly.

I kissed her forehead. A long, lingering press of my lips against her skin.

I felt her shudder, and she leaned forward, burying her face in my neck. Her arms wrapped around my waist, holding me tight.

"Thank you," she mumbled into my shirt.

I wrapped my arms around her, resting my chin on her head. We stayed like that for a long time, just holding each other on the floor of our green room.

That night, there was no pillow wall.

When we turned off the lights, she didn't turn to the wall. She lay on her back. I moved closer, my arm brushing hers.

"Can I..." I started, my voice hoarse. "Can I hold you?"

"Yes," she whispered.

I slid my arm under her neck, pulling her close. She turned onto her side, draping an arm over my chest, her face resting against my shoulder. Our legs tangled together under the blanket.

It wasn't sexual. It was something deeper. It was the feeling of arriving home after a long, long journey.

"Goodnight, Hajur," she murmured, her breath warm against my neck.

I kissed the top of her head. "Goodnight, Yuri."

And as I fell asleep, holding my wife in my arms, I knew one thing for sure: I was never, ever letting her go again.

Previous Chapters

Chapter 12: The Longest Day

The next morning, I woke up to a sound I hadn’t heard in months: the sharp hiss of a pressure cooker.

I groggily reached for my phone—6:30 AM. In my bachelor days, I would have snoozed until 8:45, panicked, and run to the office without brushing my hair. But today, the smell of incense (agarbatti) and boiling tea filled the room.

I sat up. The space beside me was empty, the blanket neatly folded.

I walked into the kitchen rubbing my eyes. Yurika was there, looking fresh as a daisy. She had already showered, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, and was wearing a simple cotton kurta. She was struggling slightly with the gas knob.

"Good morning," I croaked.

She jumped a little, then turned and smiled. A genuine, morning smile. "Good morning. Tea?"

She handed me a cup. It was perfect—sweet, strong, ginger-spiced. Not the watery vending machine sludge I drank at the office.

"When did you wake up?" I asked, taking a sip.

"5:00. I couldn't sleep. The city is... noisy. Even in the morning."

I looked around. In just one hour, she had already organized the chaos. The spices I had thrown in a bag were now arranged in jars (where did she find jars?). The floor looked swept.

"You didn't have to do all this," I said. "You’re tired."

"I got bored," she shrugged. "And your kitchen was sad."

I laughed. "Fair point."

Then, reality hit me. "I have office today."

Her face fell slightly. "Oh. Today?"

"Yeah. No leave. I have to go at 9."

The panic in her eyes was subtle, but I saw it. She was in a new city, in a new building, knowing no one, and I was leaving her alone for nine hours.

"I’ll be back by 6," I reassured her quickly. "I’ll leave my spare key. Lock the door from inside. Do not open it for anyone. If the bell rings, look through the peep-hole. If it’s not me, don’t open it. If there’s an emergency, call me."

I sounded like a paranoid father giving instructions to a five-year-old.

She nodded solemnly. "Okay. Lock. Peep-hole. Call."

getting ready for work was... different. usually, i’d be running around in my boxers searching for a clean shirt. now, i felt the need to be decent. i took my clothes to the bathroom to change. when i came out, she was standing there holding my socks.

"they were on the floor," she said, handing them to me.

i felt a weird mix of embarrassment and gratitude. "thanks."

At 8:50 AM, I stood at the door. I didn't want to leave. I looked at her standing in the hallway of the green-walled flat. She looked small.

"I’ll call you at lunch," I promised.

"Go carefully," she said.

I walked down the stairs, and before I reached the bottom, I heard the click-clack of the bolt sliding shut. Good girl.

Work was a blur. I was physically at my desk, but mentally, I was in the flat.

Did the water run out? Did she figure out the TV remote? Is she bored? Is she scared?

My colleague, Ramesh, tapped my shoulder. "Oye, you married man. Why are you staring at your phone like it’s a love letter?"

"Shut up, Ramesh."

At 1:00 PM, I called her.

"Hello?" She picked up on the first ring.

"Did you eat?"

"Yes. I made rice and lentils. Did you eat?"

"Going now. What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Watching the neighbors from the window. The lady next door fights with her husband a lot."

I laughed. "Welcome to Kathmandu entertainment. Okay, stay safe. See you in the evening."

The clock moved painfully slow. When 5:30 PM finally hit, I practically sprinted out of the office. I stopped at a roadside stall and bought some fresh vegetables and—on a whim—a small mirror. We didn't have one yet, and I remembered seeing her try to comb her hair using the reflection in the window glass.

I climbed the stairs two at a time and rang the bell.

Silence. Then, the sound of footsteps. The peephole darkened for a second. Then the bolt slid back.

She opened the door, and the smell of tarkari (curry) hit me.

"You’re late," she said.

"Traffic," I panted. "I brought cauliflower. And this."

I handed her the mirror. Her eyes lit up. She took it and immediately looked at herself, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Dinner was amazing. It was just simple cauliflower and potatoes, but it tasted like home. Real home. We sat on the carpet again.

"So," I said, wiping my mouth. "About last night."

She looked up, spoon hovering mid-air. "What?"

"The name thing. You can't call me 'Hey' or 'Listen' or 'You' forever."

She blushed and looked down at her rice. "I can't call you by your name. It’s disrespectful."

"We are in Kathmandu, Yuri. Nobody cares about that here. Call me by my name."

She shook her head vigorously. "Nai. I can't. My tongue will fall off."

"Okay, then what? 'Jwai Sahab'? Please no."

She giggled. "No."

"Then?"

She bit her lip, thinking. Then, very quietly, almost whispering to the cauliflower, she said:

"Hajur."

Hajur.

It’s a common Nepali word. It means "Yes?" or "Sir" or can be used to address someone respectfully. It’s what my mom calls my dad. It’s what every traditional wife calls her husband.

But hearing it from her... it did something to my stomach. It felt heavy. Mature. Like we were officially a unit.

"Hajur?" I tested it.

She nodded, face burning red. "Hajur sounds... okay."

I smiled, leaning back against the green wall. "Okay. Hajur works."

We finished dinner in comfortable silence. I helped her clear the plates—something I never saw my dad do, but I wasn't going to let her do everything.

"I’ll wash," she insisted.

"I’ll dry," I countered.

We stood in the tiny kitchen, bumping elbows as we worked.

"Tomorrow is Saturday," I said. "My holiday."

"Really?" She looked excited.

"Yeah. We need to buy a lot of things. A curtain for the bedroom. A proper dustbin. Maybe a small table."

"And a plant?" she asked hopefully. "The balcony is empty."

"And a plant," I agreed.

We finished the dishes. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked at me.

"Do you want tea, Hajur?"

There it was. Smooth. Natural.

I grinned at her. "Yes, I would love some tea, Mrs. Yurika."

She rolled her eyes at "Mrs. Yurika" but turned to the stove to hide her smile. I watched her, thinking that I could get used to this. I could definitely get used to this.

Previous Chapters

Chapter 12: The Longest Day

The next morning, I woke up to a sound I hadn’t heard in months: the sharp hiss of a pressure cooker.

I groggily reached for my phone—6:30 AM. In my bachelor days, I would have snoozed until 8:45, panicked, and run to the office without brushing my hair. But today, the smell of incense (agarbatti) and boiling tea filled the room.

I sat up. The space beside me was empty, the blanket neatly folded.

I walked into the kitchen rubbing my eyes. Yurika was there, looking fresh as a daisy. She had already showered, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, and was wearing a simple cotton kurta. She was struggling slightly with the gas knob.

"Good morning," I croaked.

She jumped a little, then turned and smiled. A genuine, morning smile. "Good morning. Tea?"

She handed me a cup. It was perfect—sweet, strong, ginger-spiced. Not the watery vending machine sludge I drank at the office.

"When did you wake up?" I asked, taking a sip.

"5:00. I couldn't sleep. The city is... noisy. Even in the morning."

I looked around. In just one hour, she had already organized the chaos. The spices I had thrown in a bag were now arranged in jars (where did she find jars?). The floor looked swept.

"You didn't have to do all this," I said. "You’re tired."

"I got bored," she shrugged. "And your kitchen was sad."

I laughed. "Fair point."

Then, reality hit me. "I have office today."

Her face fell slightly. "Oh. Today?"

"Yeah. No leave. I have to go at 9."

The panic in her eyes was subtle, but I saw it. She was in a new city, in a new building, knowing no one, and I was leaving her alone for nine hours.

"I’ll be back by 6," I reassured her quickly. "I’ll leave my spare key. Lock the door from inside. Do not open it for anyone. If the bell rings, look through the peep-hole. If it’s not me, don’t open it. If there’s an emergency, call me."

I sounded like a paranoid father giving instructions to a five-year-old.

She nodded solemnly. "Okay. Lock. Peep-hole. Call."

getting ready for work was... different. usually, i’d be running around in my boxers searching for a clean shirt. now, i felt the need to be decent. i took my clothes to the bathroom to change. when i came out, she was standing there holding my socks.

"they were on the floor," she said, handing them to me.

i felt a weird mix of embarrassment and gratitude. "thanks."

At 8:50 AM, I stood at the door. I didn't want to leave. I looked at her standing in the hallway of the green-walled flat. She looked small.

"I’ll call you at lunch," I promised.

"Go carefully," she said.

I walked down the stairs, and before I reached the bottom, I heard the click-clack of the bolt sliding shut. Good girl.

Work was a blur. I was physically at my desk, but mentally, I was in the flat.

Did the water run out? Did she figure out the TV remote? Is she bored? Is she scared?

My colleague, Ramesh, tapped my shoulder. "Oye, you married man. Why are you staring at your phone like it’s a love letter?"

"Shut up, Ramesh."

At 1:00 PM, I called her.

"Hello?" She picked up on the first ring.

"Did you eat?"

"Yes. I made rice and lentils. Did you eat?"

"Going now. What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Watching the neighbors from the window. The lady next door fights with her husband a lot."

I laughed. "Welcome to Kathmandu entertainment. Okay, stay safe. See you in the evening."

The clock moved painfully slow. When 5:30 PM finally hit, I practically sprinted out of the office. I stopped at a roadside stall and bought some fresh vegetables and—on a whim—a small mirror. We didn't have one yet, and I remembered seeing her try to comb her hair using the reflection in the window glass.

I climbed the stairs two at a time and rang the bell.

Silence. Then, the sound of footsteps. The peephole darkened for a second. Then the bolt slid back.

She opened the door, and the smell of tarkari (curry) hit me.

"You’re late," she said.

"Traffic," I panted. "I brought cauliflower. And this."

I handed her the mirror. Her eyes lit up. She took it and immediately looked at herself, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Dinner was amazing. It was just simple cauliflower and potatoes, but it tasted like home. Real home. We sat on the carpet again.

"So," I said, wiping my mouth. "About last night."

She looked up, spoon hovering mid-air. "What?"

"The name thing. You can't call me 'Hey' or 'Listen' or 'You' forever."

She blushed and looked down at her rice. "I can't call you by your name. It’s disrespectful."

"We are in Kathmandu, Yuri. Nobody cares about that here. Call me by my name."

She shook her head vigorously. "Nai. I can't. My tongue will fall off."

"Okay, then what? 'Jwai Sahab'? Please no."

She giggled. "No."

"Then?"

She bit her lip, thinking. Then, very quietly, almost whispering to the cauliflower, she said:

"Hajur."

Hajur.

It’s a common Nepali word. It means "Yes?" or "Sir" or can be used to address someone respectfully. It’s what my mom calls my dad. It’s what every traditional wife calls her husband.

But hearing it from her... it did something to my stomach. It felt heavy. Mature. Like we were officially a unit.

"Hajur?" I tested it.

She nodded, face burning red. "Hajur sounds... okay."

I smiled, leaning back against the green wall. "Okay. Hajur works."

We finished dinner in comfortable silence. I helped her clear the plates—something I never saw my dad do, but I wasn't going to let her do everything.

"I’ll wash," she insisted.

"I’ll dry," I countered.

We stood in the tiny kitchen, bumping elbows as we worked.

"Tomorrow is Saturday," I said. "My holiday."

"Really?" She looked excited.

"Yeah. We need to buy a lot of things. A curtain for the bedroom. A proper dustbin. Maybe a small table."

"And a plant?" she asked hopefully. "The balcony is empty."

"And a plant," I agreed.

We finished the dishes. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked at me.

"Do you want tea, Hajur?"

There it was. Smooth. Natural.

I grinned at her. "Yes, I would love some tea, Mrs. Yurika."

She rolled her eyes at "Mrs. Yurika" but turned to the stove to hide her smile. I watched her, thinking that I could get used to this. I could definitely get used to this.

Previous Chapters

Chapter 11: The Green Room and the Dust

Kathmandu welcomed us the way it welcomes everyone: with a traffic jam at Kalanki and a mouthful of dust.

It was late evening when the bus finally groaned to a halt. The city was a chaotic symphony of honking horns, shouting khalasis, and the smell of diesel exhaust.

"We’re here," I said, nudging Yurika gently.

She woke up with a start, her eyes darting around. She looked out the window and her jaw literally dropped.

"So many cars..." she whispered. "Where are they all going?"

"Nowhere fast," I muttered, grabbing our bags.

Navigating the bus park with two suitcases and a bewildered wife was a mission. I felt fiercely protective. I held her hand tight—not for romance this time, but so she wouldn’t get swept away by the river of people. She gripped my hand back with both of hers, sticking to my side like a shadow.

We took a taxi. I haggled with the driver, trying to sound like a local who knew the rates, while Yurika watched me with wide eyes, impressed by my "negotiating skills" (even though I definitely overpaid by 200 rupees).

When the taxi pulled up to the house, it was dark. The streetlights were flickering.

"This is it," I said, pointing to a three-story concrete building.

We climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor. I fumbled with the keys, my heart beating fast. This was the moment of truth. What if she hated it? What if she wanted to go back to the village immediately?

I pushed the door open and flipped the switch.

The tube light flickered on, buzzing loudly, illuminating the room in all its questionable glory. The walls were painted a bright, parrot green. The floor was bare concrete with a simple carpet I had bought yesterday. There was a small kitchen corner with a gas cylinder and a stove I had set up, and a separate bedroom with a wooden bed frame and a mattress.

It wasn't much. But it was ours.

Yurika stepped in slowly. She took off her shoes at the door and walked around in her socks. She touched the green walls. She looked at the small window. She peeked into the kitchen.

She didn't say anything for a long time. I stood by the door, holding the bags, sweating nervously.

"It’s... small," I said defensively. "But the water comes in the morning. And the landlord is okay, mostly."

She turned to me, and her face broke into a massive smile.

"It’s a palace," she said.

"A palace?" I laughed. "It’s a green box, Yuri."

"It’s our green box," she corrected me. "No Sali. No Mom. No neighbors watching."

She walked over to the window and looked out at the jumble of rooftops and water tanks. "I’ve never lived in a building this high."

I put the bags down and exhaled. She liked it.

We were starving, but I had zero groceries.

"Welcome to city life," I said. "Tonight, we feast on the national food of Kathmandu."

"Dal bhat?" she asked.

"No. Buff Momos and Chowmein."

I ran down to the local shop and brought back two plates of steaming momos and a packet of spicy chowmein. We sat on the carpet in the main room because we didn't have a table or chairs yet.

It was strange. Back in the village, we always ate separately or with the whole family watching. This was the first time we were eating together, just the two of us, side by side.

She struggled with the momo sauce, finding it too spicy, her face turning red.

"Water! Water!" she gasped.

I scrambled to get my water bottle. "Careful, city chili is different from village chili."

She drank half the bottle, eyes watering, then looked at me and laughed. "Why is it so tasty though?"

We finished the food, talking about what we needed to buy. A mirror. A curtain. A pressure cooker. A dustbin. The list was endless. For a guy who used to live like a slob, talking about buying a dustbin felt surprisingly exciting.

Then came the night.

The elephant in the room was, well, the bed in the other room.

In the village, she had stubbornly slept on the floor. Here, there was no extra mattress. The floor was cold concrete.

I walked into the bedroom. She followed.

"Yuri," I started, trying to sound casual. "There is no floor bedding here. And the floor is cold."

She looked at the bed. Then she looked at the floor. Then she looked at me.

"I can sleep on the carpet in the hall," she suggested, though she sounded unsure.

"Don't be ridiculous," I said firmly. "You are not sleeping in the hall on our first night in Kathmandu."

"Then you?"

"I paid the rent," I joked. "I’m definitely not sleeping in the hall."

She giggled.

"Look," I said, my voice softening. "It’s a big bed. You stay on your side, I stay on mine. We can put a pillow wall in the middle if you want."

She stood there for a moment, twisting the corner of her shawl. Then she nodded. "Okay. No pillow wall needed."

My heart did a little flip.

We got ready for bed. I changed in the hall, she changed in the room. When I came in, she was already under the blanket, curled up on the far left edge, facing the wall.

I turned off the light and climbed in on the right side.

The room was pitch black, save for the faint glow of the streetlights outside filtering through the thin curtains. The sounds of the city—a distant dog barking, a motorcycle zooming by—were so different from the crickets of the village.

I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling I couldn't see. I was hyper-aware of her presence. The dip in the mattress. The sound of her breathing. The warmth radiating from her side of the bed.

"Are you asleep?" I whispered.

"No," she whispered back.

"Is the pillow okay?"

"Yes. It’s soft."

Silence again.

"Thank you," she said suddenly. Her voice was barely audible.

"For the pillow?"

"No," she said. "For bringing me. For... coming back."

I turned my head on the pillow to look at the back of her head.

"I’m sorry it took so long," I said honestly. "I was stupid."

"Yes, you were," she agreed.

I laughed. "Hey!"

She turned around to face me. In the darkness, I could just make out the outline of her face and the shine of her eyes. She was close. Much closer than I expected.

"But you are here now," she whispered.

My heart was hammering so loud I was sure she could hear it. I wanted to reach out and touch her face, but I didn't want to break the spell.

"Goodnight, Yuri," I said.

"Goodnight... Ji—" She stopped.

"Don't call me Jiju," I whispered. "I'm not your brother-in-law."

"Then what?"

"Figure it out," I smiled.

She didn't reply, but I saw her pull the blanket up to hide her face. A few minutes later, her breathing evened out.

I fell asleep to the sound of Kathmandu traffic and the rhythm of my wife breathing beside me, thinking that maybe, just maybe, this arranged marriage wasn't a tragedy after all.

Chapter 11: The Green Room and the Dust

​Kathmandu welcomed us the way it welcomes everyone: with a traffic jam at Kalanki and a mouthful of dust.

​It was late evening when the bus finally groaned to a halt. The city was a chaotic symphony of honking horns, shouting khalasis, and the smell of diesel exhaust.

​"We’re here," I said, nudging Yurika gently.

​She woke up with a start, her eyes darting around. She looked out the window and her jaw literally dropped.

​"So many cars..." she whispered. "Where are they all going?"

​"Nowhere fast," I muttered, grabbing our bags.

​Navigating the bus park with two suitcases and a bewildered wife was a mission. I felt fiercely protective. I held her hand tight—not for romance this time, but so she wouldn’t get swept away by the river of people. She gripped my hand back with both of hers, sticking to my side like a shadow.

​We took a taxi. I haggled with the driver, trying to sound like a local who knew the rates, while Yurika watched me with wide eyes, impressed by my "negotiating skills" (even though I definitely overpaid by 200 rupees).

​When the taxi pulled up to the house, it was dark. The streetlights were flickering.

​"This is it," I said, pointing to a three-story concrete building.

​We climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor. I fumbled with the keys, my heart beating fast. This was the moment of truth. What if she hated it? What if she wanted to go back to the village immediately?

​I pushed the door open and flipped the switch.

​The tube light flickered on, buzzing loudly, illuminating the room in all its questionable glory. The walls were painted a bright, parrot green. The floor was bare concrete with a simple carpet I had bought yesterday. There was a small kitchen corner with a gas cylinder and a stove I had set up, and a separate bedroom with a wooden bed frame and a mattress.

​It wasn't much. But it was ours.

​Yurika stepped in slowly. She took off her shoes at the door and walked around in her socks. She touched the green walls. She looked at the small window. She peeked into the kitchen.

​She didn't say anything for a long time. I stood by the door, holding the bags, sweating nervously.

​"It’s... small," I said defensively. "But the water comes in the morning. And the landlord is okay, mostly."

​She turned to me, and her face broke into a massive smile.

​"It’s a palace," she said.

​"A palace?" I laughed. "It’s a green box, Yuri."

​"It’s our green box," she corrected me. "No Sali. No Mom. No neighbors watching."

​She walked over to the window and looked out at the jumble of rooftops and water tanks. "I’ve never lived in a building this high."

​I put the bags down and exhaled. She liked it.

​We were starving, but I had zero groceries.

​"Welcome to city life," I said. "Tonight, we feast on the national food of Kathmandu."

​"Dal bhat?" she asked.

​"No. Buff Momos and Chowmein."

​I ran down to the local shop and brought back two plates of steaming momos and a packet of spicy chowmein. We sat on the carpet in the main room because we didn't have a table or chairs yet.

​It was strange. Back in the village, we always ate separately or with the whole family watching. This was the first time we were eating together, just the two of us, side by side.

​She struggled with the momo sauce, finding it too spicy, her face turning red.

​"Water! Water!" she gasped.

​I scrambled to get my water bottle. "Careful, city chili is different from village chili."

​She drank half the bottle, eyes watering, then looked at me and laughed. "Why is it so tasty though?"

​We finished the food, talking about what we needed to buy. A mirror. A curtain. A pressure cooker. A dustbin. The list was endless. For a guy who used to live like a slob, talking about buying a dustbin felt surprisingly exciting.

​Then came the night.

​The elephant in the room was, well, the bed in the other room.

​In the village, she had stubbornly slept on the floor. Here, there was no extra mattress. The floor was cold concrete.

​I walked into the bedroom. She followed.

​"Yuri," I started, trying to sound casual. "There is no floor bedding here. And the floor is cold."

​She looked at the bed. Then she looked at the floor. Then she looked at me.

​"I can sleep on the carpet in the hall," she suggested, though she sounded unsure.

​"Don't be ridiculous," I said firmly. "You are not sleeping in the hall on our first night in Kathmandu."

​"Then you?"

​"I paid the rent," I joked. "I’m definitely not sleeping in the hall."

​She giggled.

​"Look," I said, my voice softening. "It’s a big bed. You stay on your side, I stay on mine. We can put a pillow wall in the middle if you want."

​She stood there for a moment, twisting the corner of her shawl. Then she nodded. "Okay. No pillow wall needed."

​My heart did a little flip.

​We got ready for bed. I changed in the hall, she changed in the room. When I came in, she was already under the blanket, curled up on the far left edge, facing the wall.

​I turned off the light and climbed in on the right side.

​The room was pitch black, save for the faint glow of the streetlights outside filtering through the thin curtains. The sounds of the city—a distant dog barking, a motorcycle zooming by—were so different from the crickets of the village.

​I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling I couldn't see. I was hyper-aware of her presence. The dip in the mattress. The sound of her breathing. The warmth radiating from her side of the bed.

​"Are you asleep?" I whispered.

​"No," she whispered back.

​"Is the pillow okay?"

​"Yes. It’s soft."

​Silence again.

​"Thank you," she said suddenly. Her voice was barely audible.

​"For the pillow?"

​"No," she said. "For bringing me. For... coming back."

​I turned my head on the pillow to look at the back of her head.

​"I’m sorry it took so long," I said honestly. "I was stupid."

​"Yes, you were," she agreed.

​I laughed. "Hey!"

​She turned around to face me. In the darkness, I could just make out the outline of her face and the shine of her eyes. She was close. Much closer than I expected.

​"But you are here now," she whispered.

​My heart was hammering so loud I was sure she could hear it. I wanted to reach out and touch her face, but I didn't want to break the spell.

​"Goodnight, Yuri," I said.

​"Goodnight... Ji—" She stopped.

​"Don't call me Jiju," I whispered. "I'm not your brother-in-law."

​"Then what?"

​"Figure it out," I smiled.

​She didn't reply, but I saw her pull the blanket up to hide her face. A few minutes later, her breathing evened out.

​I fell asleep to the sound of Kathmandu traffic and the rhythm of my wife breathing beside me, thinking that maybe, just maybe, this arranged marriage wasn't a tragedy after all.

​

Chapter 7: The Voice on the Line

My hands were sweating. I was holding a brand-new smartphone, the screen glowing in the dim light of my shared Kathmandu apartment. My roommates were out, thankfully. I stared at the number I had saved—technically the number of the phone I gave to my Sali, but in my head, it was her number.

I pressed call. It rang. Once. Twice.

"Hello?" A chirpy voice. My little Sali.

"Hello, Sali? It’s Jiju."

"Jiju!" She screamed so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. "Didi! Didi! Jiju ka phone aaya hai!"

My heart was hammering against my ribs like I had just run uphill for an hour. There was a shuffling sound, some hushed whispers, and then… silence. A breathing silence.

"Hello?" I whispered, my throat dry.

"Hello."

Her voice. It was so soft, so low, I almost missed it. It was the first time I was hearing her voice over a phone. It sounded different—closer, somehow.

"It’s me," I said, feeling like an idiot. "Did you… did you eat?"

"Hmm. Just now. Did you?"

"Yeah. I had… noodles."

Silence again. But this time, it wasn't the awkward, painful silence of the bedroom back in the village. This was a heavy, expectant silence. The kind where you want to say a thousand things but don't know where to start.

"Are you studying?" I asked.

"Yes. Mom told me to sleep, but I was reading the GK book you gave."

"Good. Read well."

"When are you coming?" she asked. The question came out fast, like she had been holding it in since the moment she picked up.

"Soon," I promised, clutching the phone tighter. "I’m looking for a room. A proper one. Once I find it, I’ll come."

"Okay."

"Okay. Goodnight, Yuri."

I bit my tongue. I had never called her that to her face.

There was a pause. Then, a very faint, shy giggle. "Goodnight."

The call ended, but I stared at the screen for another ten minutes, smiling like a maniac.

Chapter 8: The Bachelor’s Struggle

Life in Kathmandu shifted gears. Before, I was just working to survive. Now, I was working with a mission.

I became the most boring guy in my friend group. Weekend plans? Cancelled. Friday night drinks? No thanks. I needed to save every rupee.

My current living situation was a disaster—four guys in two rooms, clothes everywhere, dirty dishes piling up for days. I couldn't bring Yurika here. She was neat; she folded clothes like a professional. She would have a heart attack if she saw this place.

I spent my lunch breaks scouring the city for a "Family Flat." In Kathmandu, landlords look at bachelors with suspicion, but the moment I said, "I’m bringing my wife," their expressions changed. Suddenly, I was a responsible citizen.

Finally, after two months of hunting, I found it. It wasn't a palace. It was a one-bedroom-hall-kitchen (1BHK) on the outskirts of the ring road. The walls were painted a questionable shade of green, and the water supply was erratic, but it had a small balcony that looked out over the neighbors' rooftops.

I paid the advance immediately.

That night, I called her. We had been talking every night for two months. The conversations had grown from "Did you eat?" to "My boss is annoying" and "The neighbor's goat ate my homework."

"I found a room," I told her.

"Really?" Her excitement crackled through the speaker.

"Yes. It has a kitchen. You can cook whatever you want. No more chow mein from the market."

She laughed. I loved that sound. "When?"

"Next week. Tell Mom I’m coming to take you."

Chapter 9: The Second Arrival

The bus ride back to the village felt different this time. The dread was gone, replaced by a nervous energy that made it impossible to sit still.

When I reached the Sadarmukam, I didn't wait for them to come to me. I took a jeep halfway and walked the rest, practically jogging.

When I reached the courtyard of my home, my mother was sifting rice. She looked up, surprised. "You’re early!"

I touched her feet quickly, my eyes darting around. "Where is she?"

Mom smirked. "In her room. Studying, as always."

I didn't even drop my bag. I walked to the room—our room. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open.

She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by books, her hair tied up in a messy bun. She looked up, startled.

For a second, we just stared at each other. She looked the same, yet completely different. The shy, terrified girl was gone. In her place was someone whose eyes lit up the moment they landed on me.

"You came," she breathed.

"I promised, didn't I?"

I walked in. This time, there was no hesitation. I sat down next to her on the floor. She didn't shy away.

"Pack your bags," I said, grinning. "We’re going to Kathmandu."

Chapter 10: The Long Bus Ride

The farewell was emotional, of course. My mom cried. My sister cried. The little Sali cried the hardest because she wasn't coming with us this time.

"I'll send you chocolates," I promised the little one, patting her head. "And ribbons."

We boarded the bus early in the morning. This time, I made sure to book the double seat on the cleaner side of the bus.

As the bus rumbled out of the district, Yurika sat stiffly next to me. She had never travelled this far from home. She looked out the window, watching the familiar hills roll away.

"Are you scared?" I asked softly.

She turned to me. "A little. Is Kathmandu very big?"

"Huge," I said. "Crowded. Noisy. Dusty."

She looked worried.

"But," I added, "it has me."

She smiled, looking down at her lap.

About two hours into the journey, the winding roads took their toll. She started dozing off, her head bobbing up and down.

I shifted slightly, making space. "You can sleep," I whispered.

Slowly, hesitantly, she let her head rest on my shoulder.

I froze for a second, then relaxed. The scent of her hair—coconut oil and something flowery—filled my senses. Her hand was resting on her bag in her lap. Slowly, I moved my hand and covered hers.

She didn't pull away. Instead, her fingers curled around mine, holding on tight.

The bus driver was blasting loud folk songs, the road was full of potholes, and the person behind me was kicking my seat. But as we sped toward the chaotic city, with my wife sleeping on my shoulder and her hand in mine, I realized something.

My life wasn't ruined. It had just begun.

Arranged Marriage , Awkward Couple

Chapter 1: The reluctant Groom

It started the way most disasters do—with a family meeting.

I was twenty-three, fresh out of my final semester in Kathmandu, and drunk on the idea of freedom. But when I returned to my village, my mother, grandfather, and grandmother had a different curriculum prepared. They wanted a wedding. Immediately.

"We want to see your children before we die," my grandfather would say, emotional blackmail dripping from every word. "Can’t you do this much for us?"

I fought back. I argued. At one point, I even contemplated running away. But my mother, the one person I thought was on my side, turned the tables. "It is your grandfather’s last wish," she said. "If not now, then when?"

Defeated and feeling utterly betrayed, I stopped fighting. "Fine," I told her, not even looking at the photos she held out. "Do whatever you want. Whoever you like."

And just like that, my fate was sealed with a girl from a faraway village I hadn’t even met.

The wedding was a blur of noise, red vermilion, and congratulations that felt like condolences. I saw her for the first time at the mandap. She was twenty. Objectively, she was beautiful. Subjectively, she was the symbol of my ruined life.

That night—the suhagraat—was the longest of my life. I stood at the door of my bedroom, paralyzed by a mix of shyness, fear, and resentment. I walked in only for the sake of formality. She was sitting on the bed, weeping silently.

I froze. I didn't know how to comfort a stranger. So, like a coward, I turned around and walked out, sleeping in the next room. A few days later, I fabricated a job interview in Kathmandu and fled the village, leaving behind a wife whose voice I hadn't even heard.

Chapter 2: The Stranger with a Name

Eight months passed. I worked hard, secured a job, and lived the bachelor life I had fought for. But then came Dashain. The biggest festival in Nepal meant I had to go home.

As the bus wound its way through the hills toward my district, a heavy knot formed in my stomach. I wished I had invented another excuse. But as the bus rolled into the Sadarmukam (district headquarters), I saw them waiting: my mother, my little sister, and her.

This was the first time I really looked at her. She stood quietly, head bowed. I handed a packet of Melody chocolates to my sister, avoiding eye contact with my wife, and we began the long, one-hour trek to our village.

My mother broke the silence. "Do you even know your wife's name?"

I stumbled. I mumbled a terrible excuse, but my mother saw right through me.

"Yurika," Mom said, shaking her head. "Her name is Yurika."

Yurika. It was a pretty name.

Mom continued, telling me she had finished her +2 but stopped studying due to family issues. "She’s interested in Loksewa (Public Service)," Mom hinted. "Why don’t you take her to Kathmandu with you?"

"I’ll see," I dismissed it instantly. My mind was made up. I wasn't taking a stranger to the city.

When we reached the village, kids swarmed us asking for chocolate. I asked my sister for the packet I gave her, but she grinned sheepishly. "Bhabi and I ate them all on the way."

I looked at Yurika. She looked terrified, regretting the chocolate binge. For the first time, I didn't feel annoyed; I felt amused. I handed my sister a 100-rupee note to buy treats for the village kids and walked home.

Chapter 3: The Silent Language

Days turned into a routine of avoidance. I slept in my room; she slept with my sister. My mother nagged me to change the arrangement, unaware that we hadn't exchanged a single word in eight months.

Then came the trip to her Sasural (in-laws) to bring her back after the festival. I didn't want to go, but tradition forced my hand.

To my surprise, her village treated me like a deity. "Jwai Sahab" (Son-in-law) echoed everywhere. I had never tasted such respect. But the real blessing was her little sister—my Sali. When we walked back to my village, the little Sali insisted on coming with us. She became our bridge.

I couldn't talk to Yurika directly—my throat would close up. So, I talked through the child.

"Ask Didi if she's hungry," I’d whisper to the little one.

We stopped for food. They ordered chow mein and samosas. I sat with my tea, watching Yurika eat. She ate the chow mein with such delight, completely focused. She looks cute when she eats, I thought, surprising myself.

The next morning back at home, I overslept. I heard my mother yelling from the kitchen, "Go wake that Kumbhakarna up!"

Panic set in. I heard footsteps. I pulled the blanket over my head, pretending to be asleep. The footsteps stopped right by my bed. Silence.

I waited. Nothing.

Slowly, I peeled back the blanket. She was sitting on a stool right behind me, staring. When our eyes met, I saw a flicker of suppressed laughter on her face. Then, without a word, she got up and left.

I felt like an idiot, but the ice had cracked.

Chapter 4: The Ribbon and the Belt

A few days later, I couldn't find my belt. I yelled for Mom. No answer.

A knock on the door. "Come in," I said.

Nobody entered. I opened the door to find my belt hanging on the knob. Mom wasn't home. It was Yurika.

As I left for the market, I saw her sitting in the courtyard, my grandmother combing her hair. Grandma handed me money. "Bring something for Yuri, your sister, and Sali."

Yuri. The nickname sounded sweet.

"Jiju, bring me a ribbon!" the little Sali chirped. Yurika said nothing, just blushed.

That evening, I returned with ribbons and sweets. Mom asked, "Did you bring anything for Bahu?"

I froze. I hadn't. Yurika’s face fell. The guilt was instant.

I wanted to talk to her. I scolded myself daily. She is your wife, you fool. Just say hello. But every time I tried, my courage vanished.

I tried to use the Sali again. "Tell Didi to make tea."

But the little one returned saying, "No milk."

"Black tea is fine," I said.

Minutes later, the Sali brought the tea. Mission failed.

Chapter 5: "Hmm"

One evening, I walked into my room and found her fixing my bedsheets. She panicked and tried to rush out.

"Wait," I said.

She froze.

"Hmm?" she whispered.

It was the first sound she had ever directed at me.

I handed her a stack of Loksewa books I had bought at the market. "How are your preparations going?"

She stared at the books, then nodded silently. She didn't speak, but she took them. It felt like a massive victory.

A few days later, I found her in her room. I pretended to look for a rough copy, but really, I was just observing. Her Nepali handwriting was beautiful—neat and tidy, unlike my chicken scratch.

"This room is small for three people," I blurted out. "You can shift to the big room. My room."

She looked at me, eyes wide. "Hah??"

That night, she knocked on my door, holding her bedding. My sister teased us mercilessly until I pushed her out and locked the door.

The silence was deafening. She immediately started making a bed on the floor.

"Take the bed," I said. "I'll sleep on the floor."

"No," she said firmly. "I am used to the floor."

She was stubborn. She won.

As I worked on my laptop late into the night, I glanced down at her. She was fast asleep. She looks cute even when she sleeps, I admitted to myself.

The next day, the dynamic shifted. My clothes were washed and folded in the wardrobe before I even asked. At night, I walked in to find her reading aloud from her books. She went silent when I entered, but I liked that she was there.

"Do you want to study further?" I asked her later.

"I don't know," she said softly.

We were roommates. We were strangers. But we were finally becoming a couple.

Chapter 6: The Departure

The vacation ended too soon. The day came to return to Kathmandu.

"Take her with you," Mom pleaded again.

"I can't, Mom. Not yet. I live in a shared flat. Give me a few months to settle, get my own place, and I promise I'll come back for her."

At the bus park, the atmosphere was heavy. My sister, the little Sali, and Yurika stood in a row. I touched the elders' feet. I gave money to the little girls.

But for Yurika? I had nothing. I just gave her a weak smile and boarded the bus.

The bus engine roared to life, but we didn't move. Five minutes passed. I looked out the window. They were sitting on a bench nearby. Yurika was looking at the ground, her shoulders shaking.

She was crying.

Something inside me snapped. I grabbed my bag and ran off the bus.

She looked up, eyes red and swollen. The moment she saw me, she broke. She didn't care about the crowd; she ran straight into my chest.

It was the first time I had ever held her. She felt small, warm, and trembling. She cried like a child.

"Look at me," I whispered, pulling back slightly. "It's just a few months. Study hard. I will come back for you."

I realized she didn't have a phone. I tried to give her mine, but she refused. So I handed it to the little Sali.

"Take care of her," I told the little one, who was also crying now.

I hugged them both and ran back to the bus just as it started moving.

The first month back in Kathmandu was agonizing. The bachelor life I had fought so hard for suddenly felt empty. I missed the silence of the room. I missed her reading. I missed her face.

When my first salary came in, I didn't buy clothes or party with friends. I went straight to a shop, bought a mobile phone, and dialed the number I had left with my Sali.

I had a lot of talking to catch up on.

Chapter 7: The Voice on the Line

My hands were sweating. I was holding a brand-new smartphone, the screen glowing in the dim light of my shared Kathmandu apartment. My roommates were out, thankfully. I stared at the number I had saved—technically the number of the phone I gave to my Sali, but in my head, it was her number.

I pressed call. It rang. Once. Twice.

"Hello?" A chirpy voice. My little Sali.

"Hello, Sali? It’s Jiju."

"Jiju!" She screamed so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. "Didi! Didi! Jiju ka phone aaya hai!"

My heart was hammering against my ribs like I had just run uphill for an hour. There was a shuffling sound, some hushed whispers, and then… silence. A breathing silence.

"Hello?" I whispered, my throat dry.

"Hello."

Her voice. It was so soft, so low, I almost missed it. It was the first time I was hearing her voice over a phone. It sounded different—closer, somehow.

"It’s me," I said, feeling like an idiot. "Did you… did you eat?"

"Hmm. Just now. Did you?"

"Yeah. I had… noodles."

Silence again. But this time, it wasn't the awkward, painful silence of the bedroom back in the village. This was a heavy, expectant silence. The kind where you want to say a thousand things but don't know where to start.

"Are you studying?" I asked.

"Yes. Mom told me to sleep, but I was reading the GK book you gave."

"Good. Read well."

"When are you coming?" she asked. The question came out fast, like she had been holding it in since the moment she picked up.

"Soon," I promised, clutching the phone tighter. "I’m looking for a room. A proper one. Once I find it, I’ll come."

"Okay."

"Okay. Goodnight, Yuri."

I bit my tongue. I had never called her that to her face.

There was a pause. Then, a very faint, shy giggle. "Goodnight."

The call ended, but I stared at the screen for another ten minutes, smiling like a maniac.

Chapter 8: The Bachelor’s Struggle

Life in Kathmandu shifted gears. Before, I was just working to survive. Now, I was working with a mission.

I became the most boring guy in my friend group. Weekend plans? Cancelled. Friday night drinks? No thanks. I needed to save every rupee.

My current living situation was a disaster—four guys in two rooms, clothes everywhere, dirty dishes piling up for days. I couldn't bring Yurika here. She was neat; she folded clothes like a professional. She would have a heart attack if she saw this place.

I spent my lunch breaks scouring the city for a "Family Flat." In Kathmandu, landlords look at bachelors with suspicion, but the moment I said, "I’m bringing my wife," their expressions changed. Suddenly, I was a responsible citizen.

Finally, after two months of hunting, I found it. It wasn't a palace. It was a one-bedroom-hall-kitchen (1BHK) on the outskirts of the ring road. The walls were painted a questionable shade of green, and the water supply was erratic, but it had a small balcony that looked out over the neighbors' rooftops.

I paid the advance immediately.

That night, I called her. We had been talking every night for two months. The conversations had grown from "Did you eat?" to "My boss is annoying" and "The neighbor's goat ate my homework."

"I found a room," I told her.

"Really?" Her excitement crackled through the speaker.

"Yes. It has a kitchen. You can cook whatever you want. No more chow mein from the market."

She laughed. I loved that sound. "When?"

"Next week. Tell Mom I’m coming to take you."

Chapter 9: The Second Arrival

The bus ride back to the village felt different this time. The dread was gone, replaced by a nervous energy that made it impossible to sit still.

When I reached the Sadarmukam, I didn't wait for them to come to me. I took a jeep halfway and walked the rest, practically jogging.

When I reached the courtyard of my home, my mother was sifting rice. She looked up, surprised. "You’re early!"

I touched her feet quickly, my eyes darting around. "Where is she?"

Mom smirked. "In her room. Studying, as always."

I didn't even drop my bag. I walked to the room—our room. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open.

She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by books, her hair tied up in a messy bun. She looked up, startled.

For a second, we just stared at each other. She looked the same, yet completely different. The shy, terrified girl was gone. In her place was someone whose eyes lit up the moment they landed on me.

"You came," she breathed.

"I promised, didn't I?"

I walked in. This time, there was no hesitation. I sat down next to her on the floor. She didn't shy away.

"Pack your bags," I said, grinning. "We’re going to Kathmandu."

Chapter 10: The Long Bus Ride

The farewell was emotional, of course. My mom cried. My sister cried. The little Sali cried the hardest because she wasn't coming with us this time.

"I'll send you chocolates," I promised the little one, patting her head. "And ribbons."

We boarded the bus early in the morning. This time, I made sure to book the double seat on the cleaner side of the bus.

As the bus rumbled out of the district, Yurika sat stiffly next to me. She had never travelled this far from home. She looked out the window, watching the familiar hills roll away.

"Are you scared?" I asked softly.

She turned to me. "A little. Is Kathmandu very big?"

"Huge," I said. "Crowded. Noisy. Dusty."

She looked worried.

"But," I added, "it has me."

She smiled, looking down at her lap.

About two hours into the journey, the winding roads took their toll. She started dozing off, her head bobbing up and down.

I shifted slightly, making space. "You can sleep," I whispered.

Slowly, hesitantly, she let her head rest on my shoulder.

I froze for a second, then relaxed. The scent of her hair—coconut oil and something flowery—filled my senses. Her hand was resting on her bag in her lap. Slowly, I moved my hand and covered hers.

She didn't pull away. Instead, her fingers curled around mine, holding on tight.

The bus driver was blasting loud folk songs, the road was full of potholes, and the person behind me was kicking my seat. But as we sped toward the chaotic city, with my wife sleeping on my shoulder and her hand in mine, I realized something.

My life wasn't ruined. It had just begun.

Chapter 1: The reluctant Groom

It started the way most disasters do—with a family meeting.

I was twenty-three, fresh out of my final semester in Kathmandu, and drunk on the idea of freedom. But when I returned to my village, my mother, grandfather, and grandmother had a different curriculum prepared. They wanted a wedding. Immediately.

"We want to see your children before we die," my grandfather would say, emotional blackmail dripping from every word. "Can’t you do this much for us?"

I fought back. I argued. At one point, I even contemplated running away. But my mother, the one person I thought was on my side, turned the tables. "It is your grandfather’s last wish," she said. "If not now, then when?"

Defeated and feeling utterly betrayed, I stopped fighting. "Fine," I told her, not even looking at the photos she held out. "Do whatever you want. Whoever you like."

And just like that, my fate was sealed with a girl from a faraway village I hadn’t even met.

The wedding was a blur of noise, red vermilion, and congratulations that felt like condolences. I saw her for the first time at the mandap. She was twenty. Objectively, she was beautiful. Subjectively, she was the symbol of my ruined life.

That night—the suhagraat—was the longest of my life. I stood at the door of my bedroom, paralyzed by a mix of shyness, fear, and resentment. I walked in only for the sake of formality. She was sitting on the bed, weeping silently.

I froze. I didn't know how to comfort a stranger. So, like a coward, I turned around and walked out, sleeping in the next room. A few days later, I fabricated a job interview in Kathmandu and fled the village, leaving behind a wife whose voice I hadn't even heard.

Chapter 2: The Stranger with a Name

Eight months passed. I worked hard, secured a job, and lived the bachelor life I had fought for. But then came Dashain. The biggest festival in Nepal meant I had to go home.

As the bus wound its way through the hills toward my district, a heavy knot formed in my stomach. I wished I had invented another excuse. But as the bus rolled into the Sadarmukam (district headquarters), I saw them waiting: my mother, my little sister, and her.

This was the first time I really looked at her. She stood quietly, head bowed. I handed a packet of Melody chocolates to my sister, avoiding eye contact with my wife, and we began the long, one-hour trek to our village.

My mother broke the silence. "Do you even know your wife's name?"

I stumbled. I mumbled a terrible excuse, but my mother saw right through me.

"Yurika," Mom said, shaking her head. "Her name is Yurika."

Yurika. It was a pretty name.

Mom continued, telling me she had finished her +2 but stopped studying due to family issues. "She’s interested in Loksewa (Public Service)," Mom hinted. "Why don’t you take her to Kathmandu with you?"

"I’ll see," I dismissed it instantly. My mind was made up. I wasn't taking a stranger to the city.

When we reached the village, kids swarmed us asking for chocolate. I asked my sister for the packet I gave her, but she grinned sheepishly. "Bhabi and I ate them all on the way."

I looked at Yurika. She looked terrified, regretting the chocolate binge. For the first time, I didn't feel annoyed; I felt amused. I handed my sister a 100-rupee note to buy treats for the village kids and walked home.

Chapter 3: The Silent Language

Days turned into a routine of avoidance. I slept in my room; she slept with my sister. My mother nagged me to change the arrangement, unaware that we hadn't exchanged a single word in eight months.

Then came the trip to her Sasural (in-laws) to bring her back after the festival. I didn't want to go, but tradition forced my hand.

To my surprise, her village treated me like a deity. "Jwai Sahab" (Son-in-law) echoed everywhere. I had never tasted such respect. But the real blessing was her little sister—my Sali. When we walked back to my village, the little Sali insisted on coming with us. She became our bridge.

I couldn't talk to Yurika directly—my throat would close up. So, I talked through the child.

"Ask Didi if she's hungry," I’d whisper to the little one.

We stopped for food. They ordered chow mein and samosas. I sat with my tea, watching Yurika eat. She ate the chow mein with such delight, completely focused. She looks cute when she eats, I thought, surprising myself.

The next morning back at home, I overslept. I heard my mother yelling from the kitchen, "Go wake that Kumbhakarna up!"

Panic set in. I heard footsteps. I pulled the blanket over my head, pretending to be asleep. The footsteps stopped right by my bed. Silence.

I waited. Nothing.

Slowly, I peeled back the blanket. She was sitting on a stool right behind me, staring. When our eyes met, I saw a flicker of suppressed laughter on her face. Then, without a word, she got up and left.

I felt like an idiot, but the ice had cracked.

Chapter 4: The Ribbon and the Belt

A few days later, I couldn't find my belt. I yelled for Mom. No answer.

A knock on the door. "Come in," I said.

Nobody entered. I opened the door to find my belt hanging on the knob. Mom wasn't home. It was Yurika.

As I left for the market, I saw her sitting in the courtyard, my grandmother combing her hair. Grandma handed me money. "Bring something for Yuri, your sister, and Sali."

Yuri. The nickname sounded sweet.

"Jiju, bring me a ribbon!" the little Sali chirped. Yurika said nothing, just blushed.

That evening, I returned with ribbons and sweets. Mom asked, "Did you bring anything for Bahu?"

I froze. I hadn't. Yurika’s face fell. The guilt was instant.

I wanted to talk to her. I scolded myself daily. She is your wife, you fool. Just say hello. But every time I tried, my courage vanished.

I tried to use the Sali again. "Tell Didi to make tea."

But the little one returned saying, "No milk."

"Black tea is fine," I said.

Minutes later, the Sali brought the tea. Mission failed.

Chapter 5: "Hmm"

One evening, I walked into my room and found her fixing my bedsheets. She panicked and tried to rush out.

"Wait," I said.

She froze.

"Hmm?" she whispered.

It was the first sound she had ever directed at me.

I handed her a stack of Loksewa books I had bought at the market. "How are your preparations going?"

She stared at the books, then nodded silently. She didn't speak, but she took them. It felt like a massive victory.

A few days later, I found her in her room. I pretended to look for a rough copy, but really, I was just observing. Her Nepali handwriting was beautiful—neat and tidy, unlike my chicken scratch.

"This room is small for three people," I blurted out. "You can shift to the big room. My room."

She looked at me, eyes wide. "Hah??"

That night, she knocked on my door, holding her bedding. My sister teased us mercilessly until I pushed her out and locked the door.

The silence was deafening. She immediately started making a bed on the floor.

"Take the bed," I said. "I'll sleep on the floor."

"No," she said firmly. "I am used to the floor."

She was stubborn. She won.

As I worked on my laptop late into the night, I glanced down at her. She was fast asleep. She looks cute even when she sleeps, I admitted to myself.

The next day, the dynamic shifted. My clothes were washed and folded in the wardrobe before I even asked. At night, I walked in to find her reading aloud from her books. She went silent when I entered, but I liked that she was there.

"Do you want to study further?" I asked her later.

"I don't know," she said softly.

We were roommates. We were strangers. But we were finally becoming a couple.

Chapter 6: The Departure

The vacation ended too soon. The day came to return to Kathmandu.

"Take her with you," Mom pleaded again.

"I can't, Mom. Not yet. I live in a shared flat. Give me a few months to settle, get my own place, and I promise I'll come back for her."

At the bus park, the atmosphere was heavy. My sister, the little Sali, and Yurika stood in a row. I touched the elders' feet. I gave money to the little girls.

But for Yurika? I had nothing. I just gave her a weak smile and boarded the bus.

The bus engine roared to life, but we didn't move. Five minutes passed. I looked out the window. They were sitting on a bench nearby. Yurika was looking at the ground, her shoulders shaking.

She was crying.

Something inside me snapped. I grabbed my bag and ran off the bus.

She looked up, eyes red and swollen. The moment she saw me, she broke. She didn't care about the crowd; she ran straight into my chest.

It was the first time I had ever held her. She felt small, warm, and trembling. She cried like a child.

"Look at me," I whispered, pulling back slightly. "It's just a few months. Study hard. I will come back for you."

I realized she didn't have a phone. I tried to give her mine, but she refused. So I handed it to the little Sali.

"Take care of her," I told the little one, who was also crying now.

I hugged them both and ran back to the bus just as it started moving.

The first month back in Kathmandu was agonizing. The bachelor life I had fought so hard for suddenly felt empty. I missed the silence of the room. I missed her reading. I missed her face.

When my first salary came in, I didn't buy clothes or party with friends. I went straight to a shop, bought a mobile phone, and dialed the number I had left with my Sali.

I had a lot of talking to catch up on.