Dawn’s gentle light filtered through the kitchen windows, painting the Mehta home in soft gold. Outside, the monsoon clouds still loitered, but the rain had eased to a light drizzle against the terrace tiles. Inside, the kitchen was already alive with warmth and the promise of a new day.
Anahita Kapoor Mehta moved with quiet purpose. Her damp hair, freshly washed, clung to her neck in dark strands. She hummed a gentle tune as she reached for a well-worn steel kadhai, its surface bearing the marks of countless meals. Today she was preparing poha—flattened rice gently sautéed with mustard seeds, turmeric, onions, and a sprinkling of peanuts for crunch. The aroma of cumin seeds sizzling in hot oil rose like a comforting embrace.
At the dining table, Arjun Mehta sat reading the morning newspaper. Even after a night’s rest, his eyes held the weariness of endless surgeries and late-night consults. The headlines barely registered; his mind drifted instead to the peaceful hush of this home—so different from the urgent beeps and hurried footsteps of the hospital.
Without looking up, he said quietly, “Light on peanuts.”
Anahita glanced over her shoulder, caught his eye, and smiled. “Got it.” She ladled the warm poha into a plate and placed it before him, alongside a glass of warm lemon water.
“Thank you,” Arjun said, folding the paper and setting it aside. His voice was soft but sincere.
She settled on the chair opposite him, a glass of water in hand. The table glowed with muted colors: yellow poha flecked with green cilantro, the steel plate reflecting the morning light.
For a few moments, they simply shared the meal. Arjun’s spoon moved steadily, methodical. Anahita watched him with gentle curiosity.
When he paused after the last bite, she reached across the table and tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear—a gesture so natural it made his heart flutter. Days ago, he would have panicked at any touch. Now, he felt only warmth.
“Your turn to speak,” she teased. “What’s on your schedule today?”
He cleared his throat. “I need to visit the hospital—collect some reports and meet a patient’s family.”
She nodded. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
He hesitated, then added, “Be careful when you go out. The streets are still wet.”
Her smile widened. “I have my yellow rain boots. I’m all set.”
He stood and gathered their dishes. “See you later, Anahita.”
She watched him don his jacket and pick up his bag, then called after him with a playful lilt, “I love the way you say ‘See you later.’ Promising.”
He paused in the doorway. Their eyes met—hers bright with affection, his cautious but genuine—and for a heartbeat, the air between them buzzed with new possibility. He offered a small smile in return before stepping into the gentle drizzle.
Three hours later, Arjun returned to find the sky clearing into a pale, hopeful blue. The rain-soaked garden glistened, each leaf and flower sparkling with droplets like scattered jewels.
Anahita stood barefoot on the stone path, her kurta damp at the hem and her hair braided loosely down her back. She reached out to brush rainwater from a cluster of bright marigolds when he approached.
“Come see,” she whispered.
He followed her into the lush greenery. The scent of wet earth rose to greet him as she guided him toward a jasmine vine heavy with blossoms. He bent low; she lifted a small umbrella over his head so he could lean in to smell the flower without getting wet.
He inhaled deeply. “It’s… beautiful.”
She laughed softly. “I knew you’d appreciate it.”
They walked together to the small fountain at the garden’s center. Water cascaded over smooth stones, creating a calming murmur amid the vibrant greens.
“You know,” Anahita said, her voice thoughtful, “my father once told me that gardens are like hearts. They need both rain and pruning to thrive.”
Arjun paused, intrigued. “He told you that?”
She nodded, eyes on the dancing water. “He said relationships—especially new marriages—are gardens too.”
He absorbed her words, watching raindrops ripple across the fountain’s surface. Then, gently, he mirrored her morning gesture and tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her cheeks coloring.
They stood side by side, sharing the quiet magic of the moment. Arjun felt an unfamiliar tenderness stirring within him—an urge to protect this fragile peace.
After a thoughtful silence, Anahita turned to him. “Promise me one thing.”
He met her gaze. “Anything.”
“Promise we’ll keep coming here. Even after the monsoon ends.”
He swallowed, then nodded. “I promise.”
Her smile was radiant as she slipped her hand into his. Together, they walked back to the house, raindrops still falling softly around them, sealing their vow.
That afternoon, Arjun drove Anahita to Rajiv Medical College—the very hospital where he had interned years before. The white building loomed familiar, its corridors echoing with memories.
Anahita waited at the entrance, a canvas bag slung over her shoulder and curiosity bright in her eyes.
“I wanted to see your world,” she said as he parked.
He nodded, then led her inside.
The reception area buzzed with activity. Doctors and nurses paused to greet Arjun with respectful smiles. He introduced Anahita warmly.
“Arjun, this is Nurse Meena,” he said, gesturing to a kindly face. “Nurse Meena—my wife, Anahita.”
Nurse Meena’s eyes lit up. “Congratulations! She’s beautiful.”
Anahita blushed. “Thank you.”
They moved through the corridors, past rooms where patients and families waited. Arjun requested a file at the records office; Anahita observed how he efficiently managed forms and charts.
“I always admired this place,” she said quietly when they slipped into a less crowded hallway. “You seem at home here.”
He allowed himself a small smile. “It shaped me.”
She waited, then asked softly, “Do you ever miss it?”
He paused. “Sometimes. But I’m happy here too.”
She beamed. “I’m glad.”
They retrieved the necessary documents and made their way to the exit. A child’s laughter echoed as a balloon slipped free and floated up the hall. Anahita’s face lit up.
“That sound… it’s joyful.”
Arjun found himself smiling, the weight of responsibility momentarily lifted. “Yes. It is.”
Back in the car, Anahita leaned over and squeezed his hand. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
Arjun glanced at her, warmth spreading through his chest. “Thank you for coming with me.”
As they drove home through streets washed clean by the monsoon, Arjun realized that this marriage, once merely a promise, was quietly transforming into something richer. And for the first time, he felt the hint of anticipation rather than avoidance when he thought of home.
Write a comment ...