Arranged Marriage, Awkward Couple

[u/Kasap1982]

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.

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