Chapter 10
Armaan
I drove through the quiet streets of Rajmer, the city lights casting a warm glow through the windshield.
Viya sat in the passenger seat beside me, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.
She had changed into a simple kurti and jeans, her hair falling loose around her shoulders.
She looked beautiful in that effortless way that seemed to come naturally to her.
I could feel the tension radiating from her body. She was nervous. About what, I was not entirely sure. About being alone with me? About the presentation tomorrow? About this strange situation we found ourselves in?
Probably all of it.
I made an effort to understand her today—not just as a bride, but as a person. If I’m going to let her go after a year, I need to know exactly how to ensure she’s taken care of.
I turned onto a side street and pulled into the parking lot of a small ice cream parlor I had been coming to since I was a child. It was not fancy or trendy. Just a simple, family run shop that made the best kulfi and ice cream in the entire city.
"We are here," I said, turning off the engine.
Viya looked at the brightly lit storefront, her eyes widening slightly.
"Rajmer Kulfi House? I have heard about this place but never been here."
"Then you have been missing out."
I got out of the car and walked around to open her door. She seemed surprised by the gesture, hesitating for just a moment before accepting my offered hand and stepping out.
Her hand was small and soft in mine. I held it perhaps a moment longer than necessary before letting go.
We walked into the shop, and the owner, an elderly man named Mohan uncle, looked up from behind the counter. His weathered face broke into a wide smile when he saw me.
"Armaan beta! It has been so long. I thought you forgot about us."
I smiled back.
"How could I forget the best ice cream in Rajmer, Mohan uncle?"
His eyes shifted to Viya, and his smile grew even wider, taking on a knowing quality that made me slightly uncomfortable.
"And who is this lovely young lady?"
I felt Viya stiffen beside me. I could practically feel her panic. What should I say? How should I introduce her?
"This is Viya," I said simply. "She works at my company."
It was not a lie. But it was not the whole truth either.
Mohan uncle nodded, though the twinkle in his eyes suggested he did not quite believe that was all there was to it.
"Well, any friend of Armaan's is welcome here. What would you like, beta?"
Viya stepped forward and studied the display case with the intensity she probably usually reserved for debugging code. There were at least twenty different flavors, each one looking more tempting than the last.
"I cannot decide," she said softly, biting her lower lip in concentration.
The gesture was absurdly endearing.
"Try the mango kulfi," I suggested. "It is their specialty."
She looked up at me, then back at the display case.
"What are you getting?"
"Pistachio."
She nodded decisively.
"Then I will get mango kulfi."
Mohan uncle prepared our order with practiced efficiency, serving the kulfi in traditional clay cups. I paid despite Viya's half hearted protest, and we took our ice cream to one of the small tables by the window.
Viya took her first bite and closed her eyes, a soft sound of pleasure escaping her lips.
"Oh my god. This is incredible."
I found myself smiling as I watched her. She looked so genuinely happy, so completely in the moment. There was no fear in her expression now, no nervousness. Just pure enjoyment.
"I told you it was the best."
She took another bite, savoring it slowly.
"I cannot believe I have lived in Rajmer my whole life and never tried this."
"Well, now you know where to come when you need ice cream."
She smiled at that, a real smile that lit up her entire face. It was the first time I had seen her smile like that, without reservation or fear. It did something strange to my chest, made it feel tight and warm at the same time.
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. I watched the way she carefully scraped every last bit of kulfi from the clay cup, not wanting to waste a single drop. The way she closed her eyes after each bite, as though she wanted to memorize the taste.
"Can I ask you something?" I said finally.
She looked up, suddenly guarded again.
"Okay."
"Earlier, when I asked about your painting. You said life got busy. But that was not the real reason, was it?"
She stiffened, her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth. For a moment, I thought she would deflect again, give me another carefully neutral answer.
But then she set the spoon down and looked at me directly.
"My aunt did not think it was a productive use of time. She said I should focus on studies and housework. Painting was considered frivolous."
The matter of fact way she said it made my jaw tighten. No anger in her voice. No resentment. Just acceptance of something that should never have been acceptable.
"Do you miss it?"
She considered the question carefully.
"Sometimes. When I see colors together in an interesting way, or when the light falls on something just right, I think about how I would paint it. But I have not actually picked up a brush in years."
"You should start again."
She looked surprised.
"What?"
"You should start painting again. If it is something you loved, something that made you happy, you should do it."
She shook her head slightly, a sad smile on her lips.
"It is not that simple."
"Why not? You have your own income now. You can buy whatever supplies you need. And our house has plenty of space. There is a room on the third floor with excellent natural light. It is just being used for storage right now, but it could easily be cleared out."
Our house. The words had slipped out automatically, but I found I did not want to take them back.
Viya was staring at me like I had said something in a foreign language.
"You would let me use a room in your house for painting?"
"It is your house too now," I said quietly. "And yes. You should use the space however you want."
She did not respond. She just looked down at her empty kulfi cup, her expression unreadable.
We finished our ice cream and walked back to the car. The drive home was quieter than the drive there, but it was a different kind of quiet. Less tense. More thoughtful.
When we pulled into the driveway, I noticed Viya looking up at the house with something like wonder in her eyes.
"It is so big," she said softly. "I still cannot believe I live here now."
"You will get used to it."
"Will I?"
There was something in her voice. Not quite a question. Not quite a statement. Just uncertainty about everything that had happened, everything that was still to come.
I wanted to tell her yes. I wanted to promise her that she would be happy here, that this arrangement would not be as terrible as she feared. But I could not make promises I did not know if I could keep.
So I just got out of the car and walked around to open her door.
We entered the house together. It was late enough that Mamta had already gone to bed, and Dadi had not yet returned from her satsang. The house was quiet and dark except for the soft lights we had left on in the hallway.
We climbed the stairs side by side, our footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. When we reached our bedroom door, Viya paused.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For the ice cream. And for listening."
"You do not need to thank me."
"I do, though. You did not have to do any of this."
I looked at her standing there in the dim hallway light, her eyes serious and searching.
I wanted to tell her that I was doing it because I wanted to, not because I had to.
That somewhere between the forced marriage and the guilt and the complicated mess we were in, I had started to actually care about her wellbeing. About her happiness.
But those words felt too big, too complicated to say out loud.
"Get some rest," I said instead. "You have a big presentation tomorrow."
She nodded and pushed open the door. I followed her inside.
We moved around each other in careful silence as we prepared for bed. She disappeared into the bathroom to change while I loosened my tie and unbuttoned my shirt. When she emerged in her pajamas, her face freshly washed and her hair braided for sleep, I took my turn in the bathroom.
By the time I came out, she was already in bed, lying on her side at the very edge of the mattress like she had the night before. Curled up small, taking as little space as possible. As though she was afraid of encroaching on territory that was not hers.
I turned off the main lights, leaving only the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Then I climbed into bed on my side.
The space between us felt like an ocean.
I turned onto my side so I was facing her. She had her eyes closed, but I could tell from her breathing that she was not asleep yet.
"Viya?"
Her eyes opened slowly. She turned her head slightly to look at me.
"Yes?"
"You are going to do great tomorrow. Your ideas are solid, and you clearly know what you are talking about. Just present it the way you explained it in the meeting today, and you will be fine."
A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
"You are just saying that because you have to."
"I am saying it because it is true."
She studied my face for a long moment, as though trying to determine if I was being sincere. Whatever she saw there seemed to satisfy her, because her smile grew a little wider.
"Thank you. That helps."
"Good night, Viya."
"Good night."
She turned back onto her other side, facing away from me. I reached over and turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.
I lay there in the dark, listening to her breathing gradually slow and deepen as she fell asleep. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting silver patterns across the ceiling.
I found myself thinking about the way she had looked at the ice cream parlor, so happy and carefree. The way she had carefully savored every bite. The way she had smiled when she talked about painting, even though it was something she had given up.
She deserved more than what life had given her. More than what I was giving her.
This marriage was supposed to be temporary. A formality. A means to an end.
But lying there in the dark, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, I found myself wondering what would happen if it became something more. Something real.
The thought should have terrified me. Should have sent me running in the opposite direction.
Instead, it settled over me like a quiet possibility. Like something that could maybe, eventually, become true.
I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling, knowing sleep would be a long time coming.
Because somewhere between the wedding and now, something had shifted. Something I had not anticipated and did not know how to handle.
I had started to care about the woman sleeping beside me.
And I had no idea what to do about it.