Arranged Vows

The hospital cafeteria smelled of filter coffee and formalin. Arjun Mehta sat across from Dr. Rajiv Kapoor, a quiet plate of idli untouched between them. “You’re not eating,” Rajiv said mildly, lifting his coffee. “I’m not hungry,” Arjun replied, eyes on his phone. His inbox was flooded with surgery requests and patient updates. Rajiv nodded, then put his cup down. “I want to ask you something personal.” Arjun looked up. Silence hung for a moment too long. “I want you to marry my daughter, Anahita.” The surgeon’s fingers stilled mid-scroll. “Excuse me?” “I’m not dying,” Rajiv added with a soft smile. “No drama. No pressure. Just a thought. I think you'd take care of her the way you take care of your work—quietly, but completely.” Arjun opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had never been in love. Never even tried. But Rajiv Kapoor wasn’t just anyone. He had taught Arjun more than medicine—he had taught him dignity. “Alright,” Arjun said finally, softly. Two weeks later, in a simple ceremony with just close family, Arjun Mehta married Anahita Kapoor. He didn’t promise love. He promised presence. He promised respect. And in the months to come, under one roof, their story would quietly unfold—not with fireworks, but with the slow, tender blooming of trust.