It has been one year since that horrific accident stole so much from me. My left leg was gone forever, replaced now by an artificial one that still feels foreign with every step. My brother has healed completely, strong and whole again. But in that single cruel moment, I lost everything else—my parents, my closest friends, my boyfriend Suraj… all of them vanished from my life like smoke.
During those long hospital days, so many came to see me—Vicky, Kiara, Aryan, Tara, Suraj. They brought flowers, forced smiles, whispered promises. But Suraj slowly stopped talking to me. One day Tara told me the truth with cruel honesty: "Your leg is gone now, so Suraj doesn't love you anymore." Those words cut deeper than any surgery. The pain was unbearable.
Gradually everyone drifted away. Calls from Kiara became rare, then stopped. The rest simply disappeared. Now I live quietly with my grandfather and grandmother in their village home, far from the city noise I once loved.
A few village children come to me for tuition. Their innocent laughter and curious questions bring small sparks of light into my days.
Then one afternoon, my grandfather's old friend arrived with a wide smile. "Good news!" he announced. A suitable boy had been found—Abhijit. He owned a dairy business, came from a respectable family, and was ready for marriage. They had already spoken to Nikita—wait, they meant me. My name is Nikita. They said I had agreed.
I rushed to my room, locked the door, collapsed on the bed, and cried until my throat burned. "Why, God?" I whispered again and again. "I always hated arranged marriage. I grew up in Indian culture but dreamed of love, not this. Why are you forcing this on me?"
The next day they came—Abhijit and his parents. I was made to wear a saree, served tea and sweets with trembling hands. Abhijit was neither very dark nor fair, village-style short hair, a neat moustache framing his serious face. He barely spoke. He only looked at me once—quietly, steadily—then let his parents ask the questions: what cooking I knew, how far I had studied, how the accident happened.
I admitted honestly—I knew almost nothing about cooking. His mother's expression changed slightly, a flicker of disappointment. They left soon after. My grandparents waited anxiously like parents awaiting exam results. Later the phone call came: "We like the girl."
The wedding date was fixed quickly. Time blurred.
On the wedding day I wore a heavy red lehenga, red lipstick painted carefully, flowers and clips woven into my hair in a round, traditional style. The rituals passed in a haze of music, blessings, and firelight.
Then came the night—the "First Night" ritual. The bed was decorated with jasmine and rose petals, the room freshly painted, windows open to let in the cool night breeze. Outside, a full moon glowed. A mango tree stood close to the window, its leaves whispering in the wind.
I sat on the edge of the bed, heart pounding, terrified. In my mind I imagined the worst: that Abhijit would see me only as an object, a duty, someone to use for sex without care or consent. Tears threatened again.
He entered, locked the door softly, and approached. "From today this is our room too," he said gently. "It's small, a bit messy… please adjust for a while."
I nodded, barely audible.
"Your clothes are in that cupboard," he added.
"I want to change out of this lehenga," I said. "Where is the washroom?"
He explained there was no attached bathroom—only one downstairs. "If you go out now, everyone will hear. Please, just for tonight, stay inside."
Anger flared. "I don't care about your village rules."
He went silent, hurt flickering in his eyes.
I tried to stand. My balance faltered—the artificial leg betrayed me. I stumbled toward the door. Instantly his hand caught mine, steady and warm. "Careful… let me help you down from the bed at least."
I glared, furious and vulnerable. "I need to change."
"Please don't go," he said softly.
"How can I change if you don't leave?"
He hesitated, then took a cloth and tied it over his eyes like a blindfold. "Don't worry. I can't see anything."
Surprised, I agreed.
I sat at the small dressing table. He asked quietly, "Can I help?"
"…Okay. Just remove the flowers and clips from my hair."
One by one he gently unpinned them. His fingers brushed my scalp lightly. "Wow… your hair is so soft, so silky. I've never seen anything like this in our village."
"I use good shampoo and conditioner," I murmured.
I changed quickly into a soft nightdress while he stayed blindfolded. Then he removed his punjabi, slipped into a simple t-shirt, and joined me on the bed—on his side, respectful distance between us.
We lay staring at the ceiling in silence.
After a while he spoke. "Can I ask you something?"
Before he could finish I cut in sharply. "If this is about sex, then no. I won't let you treat me like some free object for your pleasure whenever you want. I'm not like the girls here. I'll say no clearly if I have to."
He laughed softly, surprised. "No, no… you misunderstood, Nikita. I just wanted to ask about your childhood. Mumbai… is it really so beautiful?"
The mention of Mumbai lit something inside me. Excitement bubbled up.
"Yes… very beautiful. Tall shining buildings, roads full of luxury cars and bikes, parties, friends everywhere. I miss it so much. Your village can never compare."
He smiled in the dark. "Who said our village isn't beautiful, madam? Tomorrow I'll show you."
He told me more—after graduation he had received a private job offer in the city but refused. "I'm my parents' only son. I have responsibilities. And honestly… I love this village. I started my dairy business right here."
I asked curiously, "Do you drink alcohol?"
He chuckled. "No, madam. Never."
Then seriously he said, "I feel drinking lets us lose control over our own brain. I don't like losing myself like that."
I was impressed. "I never thought of it that way. When I used to drink, it was just to feel cool, modern… western. But you should at least taste it once—it's actually nice." I laughed lightly.
"Okay," he replied playfully, "since you say so, I'll try one day."
I turned to my side, thinking quietly: Abhijit is responsible… and intelligent.
Next morning I remembered—I had to cook at least one dish for the post-wedding ritual. I knew nothing, but he helped me in the kitchen.
After lunch, I was sitting in my room listening to music.
He came to my room. "Let's go."
"Where?"
"I'll show you our village."
I agreed but said, "I'm not wearing saree. Shalwar kameez is fine."
"Wear whatever makes you comfortable."
He brought out his bike. I sat behind, one hand lightly on his shoulder. We rode through dusty village paths. Children ran behind us, waving excitedly. I waved back, smiling despite myself.
The path opened to rice fields—endless green stretching under a wide blue sky. White birds soared and settled among the crops. The wind carried the scent of earth and growing things. It was breathtaking.
He stopped at an ancient terracotta temple, its walls carved with intricate, weathered stories. A giant banyan tree stood beside it, home to hundreds of parrots. Beyond, the Ganga flowed peacefully.
"Come," he said. "There's a beautiful ghat nearby."
We walked down stone steps to the water. He dipped his feet in. I followed, letting the cold current wash over my one real foot and the artificial one. Tiny waves lapped gently. A strange peace settled over me.
"How does our village feel now?" he asked.
"A little… nice," I admitted.
He asked about the small pieces of my old life—my favorite food, the flowers that made me smile, the places I dreamed of. Softly, I told him: pizza, sunflowers, and the endless calm of the mountains
Then playfully I said, "You should cut that moustache and grow your hair longer. You'd look good."
We talked until a flock of parrots landed in the banyan, chattering in their secret language. The sun hung low, painting the river red and gold. A small wooden boat drifted past.
"Have you ever been on a boat?" he asked.
"No."
He called the boatman over. I stood, wobbling. He held my hand firmly as I stepped in. The boat rocked gently, then glided across the water.
Cool breeze touched my face. Tall trees lined both banks. Colorful birds flashed through branches. Slowly dusk arrived—moon and stars appeared.
"Look," he whispered. "Fireflies."
Darkness gathered, and suddenly thousands of tiny golden lights danced along the riverbanks. One landed in my hair. I didn't notice.
Abhijit reached carefully, caught it between his palms, and said, "Close your eyes… open your hand."
I obeyed. He placed the glowing insect in my palm. When I opened my eyes, I gasped. "Wow… this is amazing."
It flew away, twinkling.
"Still think our village isn't beautiful?" he teased.
"Yes… very beautiful," I said softly.
He looked at me in the moonlight. "But nothing is more beautiful than your sweet smile."
Heat rose to my cheeks. I felt shy, unexpectedly happy.
We rode home under the stars. Inside my heart I thought: Today I lived a colorful, beautiful moment I would never have known if I had stayed in Mumbai.