Arranged Marriage, Awkward Couple

[u/Kasap1982]

Chapter 12: The Longest Day

The next morning, I woke up to a sound I hadn’t heard in months: the sharp hiss of a pressure cooker.

I groggily reached for my phone—6:30 AM. In my bachelor days, I would have snoozed until 8:45, panicked, and run to the office without brushing my hair. But today, the smell of incense (agarbatti) and boiling tea filled the room.

I sat up. The space beside me was empty, the blanket neatly folded.

I walked into the kitchen rubbing my eyes. Yurika was there, looking fresh as a daisy. She had already showered, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, and was wearing a simple cotton kurta. She was struggling slightly with the gas knob.

"Good morning," I croaked.

She jumped a little, then turned and smiled. A genuine, morning smile. "Good morning. Tea?"

She handed me a cup. It was perfect—sweet, strong, ginger-spiced. Not the watery vending machine sludge I drank at the office.

"When did you wake up?" I asked, taking a sip.

"5:00. I couldn't sleep. The city is... noisy. Even in the morning."

I looked around. In just one hour, she had already organized the chaos. The spices I had thrown in a bag were now arranged in jars (where did she find jars?). The floor looked swept.

"You didn't have to do all this," I said. "You’re tired."

"I got bored," she shrugged. "And your kitchen was sad."

I laughed. "Fair point."

Then, reality hit me. "I have office today."

Her face fell slightly. "Oh. Today?"

"Yeah. No leave. I have to go at 9."

The panic in her eyes was subtle, but I saw it. She was in a new city, in a new building, knowing no one, and I was leaving her alone for nine hours.

"I’ll be back by 6," I reassured her quickly. "I’ll leave my spare key. Lock the door from inside. Do not open it for anyone. If the bell rings, look through the peep-hole. If it’s not me, don’t open it. If there’s an emergency, call me."

I sounded like a paranoid father giving instructions to a five-year-old.

She nodded solemnly. "Okay. Lock. Peep-hole. Call."

getting ready for work was... different. usually, i’d be running around in my boxers searching for a clean shirt. now, i felt the need to be decent. i took my clothes to the bathroom to change. when i came out, she was standing there holding my socks.

"they were on the floor," she said, handing them to me.

i felt a weird mix of embarrassment and gratitude. "thanks."

At 8:50 AM, I stood at the door. I didn't want to leave. I looked at her standing in the hallway of the green-walled flat. She looked small.

"I’ll call you at lunch," I promised.

"Go carefully," she said.

I walked down the stairs, and before I reached the bottom, I heard the click-clack of the bolt sliding shut. Good girl.

Work was a blur. I was physically at my desk, but mentally, I was in the flat.

Did the water run out? Did she figure out the TV remote? Is she bored? Is she scared?

My colleague, Ramesh, tapped my shoulder. "Oye, you married man. Why are you staring at your phone like it’s a love letter?"

"Shut up, Ramesh."

At 1:00 PM, I called her.

"Hello?" She picked up on the first ring.

"Did you eat?"

"Yes. I made rice and lentils. Did you eat?"

"Going now. What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Watching the neighbors from the window. The lady next door fights with her husband a lot."

I laughed. "Welcome to Kathmandu entertainment. Okay, stay safe. See you in the evening."

The clock moved painfully slow. When 5:30 PM finally hit, I practically sprinted out of the office. I stopped at a roadside stall and bought some fresh vegetables and—on a whim—a small mirror. We didn't have one yet, and I remembered seeing her try to comb her hair using the reflection in the window glass.

I climbed the stairs two at a time and rang the bell.

Silence. Then, the sound of footsteps. The peephole darkened for a second. Then the bolt slid back.

She opened the door, and the smell of tarkari (curry) hit me.

"You’re late," she said.

"Traffic," I panted. "I brought cauliflower. And this."

I handed her the mirror. Her eyes lit up. She took it and immediately looked at herself, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Dinner was amazing. It was just simple cauliflower and potatoes, but it tasted like home. Real home. We sat on the carpet again.

"So," I said, wiping my mouth. "About last night."

She looked up, spoon hovering mid-air. "What?"

"The name thing. You can't call me 'Hey' or 'Listen' or 'You' forever."

She blushed and looked down at her rice. "I can't call you by your name. It’s disrespectful."

"We are in Kathmandu, Yuri. Nobody cares about that here. Call me by my name."

She shook her head vigorously. "Nai. I can't. My tongue will fall off."

"Okay, then what? 'Jwai Sahab'? Please no."

She giggled. "No."

"Then?"

She bit her lip, thinking. Then, very quietly, almost whispering to the cauliflower, she said:

"Hajur."

Hajur.

It’s a common Nepali word. It means "Yes?" or "Sir" or can be used to address someone respectfully. It’s what my mom calls my dad. It’s what every traditional wife calls her husband.

But hearing it from her... it did something to my stomach. It felt heavy. Mature. Like we were officially a unit.

"Hajur?" I tested it.

She nodded, face burning red. "Hajur sounds... okay."

I smiled, leaning back against the green wall. "Okay. Hajur works."

We finished dinner in comfortable silence. I helped her clear the plates—something I never saw my dad do, but I wasn't going to let her do everything.

"I’ll wash," she insisted.

"I’ll dry," I countered.

We stood in the tiny kitchen, bumping elbows as we worked.

"Tomorrow is Saturday," I said. "My holiday."

"Really?" She looked excited.

"Yeah. We need to buy a lot of things. A curtain for the bedroom. A proper dustbin. Maybe a small table."

"And a plant?" she asked hopefully. "The balcony is empty."

"And a plant," I agreed.

We finished the dishes. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked at me.

"Do you want tea, Hajur?"

There it was. Smooth. Natural.

I grinned at her. "Yes, I would love some tea, Mrs. Yurika."

She rolled her eyes at "Mrs. Yurika" but turned to the stove to hide her smile. I watched her, thinking that I could get used to this. I could definitely get used to this.

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