Arranged Vows

The hospital cafeteria smelled of filter coffee and formalin—a strange blend of comfort and sterility. Arjun Mehta sat across from Dr. Rajiv Kapoor, a quiet plate of idli untouched between them. “You’re not eating,” Rajiv observed mildly, lifting his steaming cup of coffee. “I’m not hungry,” Arjun murmured, eyes fixed on the glow of his phone. His inbox was a blur of surgery requests, follow-up reports, and urgent messages. Rajiv set his cup down and leaned back, studying the young man who had once been his brightest student. “Arjun,” he said quietly, “you’ve always wanted to pay me back for my guidance and support, haven’t you?” Arjun looked up at him, surprised, but his answer was immediate. “Of course, sir. If not for you, I wouldn’t even be a doctor today.” Rajiv’s smile deepened, touched with both warmth and mischief. “Then marry my daughter, Anahita.” The surgeon’s fingers stilled mid-scroll. Silence stretched between them. “Excuse me?” Rajiv chuckled softly. “I’m not dying, don’t worry. No melodrama. No pressure. Just… a wish. I believe you’d take care of her the way you take care of your patients—quietly, but completely.” Arjun opened his mouth, closed it again. He had never been in love, never even tried. His life was held together by long shifts and steel discipline. But Rajiv Kapoor was not just a mentor—he was the man who had shaped his very being. Two weeks later, in a simple ceremony attended only by close family, Arjun Mehta married Anahita Kapoor. He did not promise her love. He promised presence. He promised respect. And in the quiet days that followed, under one roof, their story began—not with fireworks, but with the slow, steady bloom of trust.