No Conditions, Whatsoever

Trouble in Paradise?

Reminder: Pray.

Author's PoV:

The evening breeze drifted lazily into the small balcony, rustling the potted tulsi leaves and the modest curtain Feiha had stitched herself. The sun had melted into a soft amber haze, casting a golden hue across the sky, like a page from a poetry book Ayan had no patience to read but would listen to her recite for hours.

They sat side by side on a slightly wobbly jute charpai Ayan had bought on a whim from a roadside vendor. A small round table stood between them with two steaming cups of chai and a plate of leftover biscuits.

Feiha wore a soft cotton kurti and a loose braid, wisps of her hair escaping to dance against her cheek. Ayan, in his faded white kurta and pyjamas, looked like a painting half-finished—beautiful, with a hint of chaos in the way his collar was always a little crumpled and his sleeves rolled unevenly.

"You know," Ayan said, gently nudging her knee with his, "this balcony might be the best part of this apartment."

Feiha smiled, wrapping her hands around her cup. "Might be the only good part of this apartment."

Ayan gasped dramatically. "Feiha Begum, that hurts. What about the charming, handsome man you share it with?"

She sipped her chai, eyes twinkling. "Oh, him? He’s alright. Bit noisy."

He clutched his chest. "Noisy? I bring energy and charisma into your otherwise quiet life!"

She chuckled, and he watched her in that moment, her laughter lighting up her face, like she belonged in a world where people whispered poetry instead of shouting sales pitches.

"You're nervous about going back to classes tomorrow, aren't you?" he asked, softer now.

Feiha nodded, looking out at the dusky skyline. "A little. It’s hard switching from being someone’s wife to being a student again."

"You’re still you," Ayan said, resting his cup on the table and turning toward her. "You can be both. The brilliant girl who argues about Victorian literature and the girl who makes the best masala chai in the world. Lucky for me."

Feiha looked down, a faint pink rising to her cheeks. She was still getting used to his compliments—honest, impulsive, and somehow always catching her off guard.

"You always say things like that," she mumbled, "and then just sip your tea like it means nothing."

"But I do sip my tea like it’s everything," he teased, picking up his cup dramatically. "Because it is. You made it."

She glanced at him, her smile small, soft, but unmistakably warm. “Ayan…”

"Yes?"

"You're very annoying."

"And yet, you married me." He grinned. "Feiha, admit it—you had a crush on me too."

"I did not," she said immediately, taking another sip to hide her face.

"Liar. You used to watch me from the library window when I’d come to campus."

"You were loud. Everyone noticed you."

"You noticed me the most."

Feiha didn’t reply. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it felt like a pause between heartbeats, filled with the hum of the city outside and the quiet clink of their cups.

Ayan leaned back, looking up at the darkening sky. "I want to make this work, you know," he said suddenly. "This whole… us thing. Not just the marriage, but the life we’re building. I know it’s not much now. Just one room and a wobbly charpai. But someday—"