Haven Of Love

The air in our house felt heavier than usual, filled with all the unspoken requirements explaining the way I should live my life since childhood.

My mother, Anjali Kapoor, sat in front of me with a gentle yet firm stare right into my eyes. My father, Rajesh Kapoor, on the other hand, stood by the window with his back erect, his hands clasped behind him; which was a sure sign something big was about to explode.

I already knew. The way my mother had been more friendly than usual for the past week, the way my father had asked more questions about my future, Nikhil, my younger brother, who always sided with me, had acted suspiciously quiet for the whole of the morning.

And when that happened, like in almost every other drama, my mother pronounced that one line that sent all my painstakingly built world crashing down.

"We have found a match for you, Meera."

For one moment, I simply just stared, with unblinking eyes, as if my mind refused to process the words. A match. For me. the room blurred at the edges, my mother expectant gaze sharpening in contrast. My pules pounded in my ears. No. I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady. "Who?" As if I had heard it incorrectly.

"Arrange marriage?" My voice came out sharper than I had intended it to be.

"What does that even mean, Ma?"

"You really do know what it means, beta," she said, her tone placating.

"There has been a really good proposal from a very good and respectable family; the Mehra family."

The name did not just spring to my mind for any reason. The Mehras were the kinds of people who graced business magazines and society columns.

Old money, old traditions, old ways of thinking.

And they wanted me?

"No," I said firmly, shaking my head as I pushed my chair back.

"I am not getting married. Not now; not like this."

My father turned from the window, his face unreadable.

"Meera, sit down."

His voice bore the burden of finality, yet I did not sit.

"Papa, I-"

"This is not up for debate."

I inhaled sharply, my chest tightening as frustration boiled within me. How could they? My fingers coiled into fist in my lap, nails digging into my skin grounded me against the rising tide of anger.

"So, no takesy-backsies? I asked, my voice laced with sarcasm. You have already decided my future for me? Without, I don't know, even asking me?"

My mother exhaled, her expression composed but strained. My father barely looked up from his news paper.

"This is how it's done, meera", he said, his tone dismissive.

I let out a hollow laugh. "Right. Tradition how very convenient.

Anjali sighed, fixing her hand onto mine, but I moved away.

"We are asking you, beta. But some things are just meant to be accepted and not questioned."

I laughed, though there was no humor in it. "Right. Just like that. You expect me to marry a man I don't even know?"

"A good man, Meera," my father said.

"He understands responsibility. Arjun Mehra, the eldest son of Raghav Mehra, has just returned to India after years of studying and working abroad; he is ready to settle down."

If my house simmered with expectation, then life for his must have been one big expectation.

The firstborn to one of the wealthiest and most influential business families in India, Arjun's path was set long before he was even born to be the perfect heir.

Every choice, every move he made was ruled by duty-his vocation, his education, even the way he carried himself.

Whereas in my case, he had grown up within an environment where emotions were spurious, in Arjun's life, it was about tradition, and laws thereof, binding one in it yet again.

The Battle Begins

My parents did not see me for days during which time I refused to speakA about the terrible plan of a marriage that was in waiting for me.

Instead, I ramped up my work, taking on more design projects than I usually did, as if I could distract myself from the reality that was closing in around me. Nikhil finally managed to break through my walls.

With a feigned indifference, Nikhil stood in my room, arms crossed against the doorframe.

"So you're going to sulk forever, huh?" Glaring at him, I said, "I'm not sulking." With a smirk, he remarked, "Sure.

And Ma and Papa are not trying to marry you off like it's the nineteenth century." I sighed, rubbing my temples.

"It's ridiculous, Nikhil.

They think they can just-just hand me over to some strange man."

"Well, technically, he's not a stranger. He's Arjun Mehra." My look asked,

"What's suppose to mean anything to me?" Nikhil shrugged.

"I mean, yeah. He's rich, successful, and apparently has the emotional range of a brick wall." Interested, I replied, "Oh?"

"I asked around. People say he's cold. Always in control.

Basically, a robot." Snorting, I said, "Perfect. A dead statue to match my prison." Nikhil sighed as he dropped on my bed.

"Look, I get it, it sucks. But what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," I admitted as I stared down at my sketchbook.

"I just... I can't do this, Nikhil." "Then don't." I gave him a dry look.

"You make it sound simple." "Because it is." He sat up, his expression suddenly serious. "If you don't want this, fight back. Harder."

I wanted to. Jesus, I wanted to. But how do you fight a battle that's already lost?

The First Collision

When the families said we had to meet, I categorically refused. It was the same with him.

Which - strangely enough - made me hate him a little less.

But we had greatly miscalculated our parents.

And then one evening, I found, without a moment's notice, sitting in an irresistible restaurant, my parents on either side, my rage boiling just beneath my carefully neutral appearance.

From there, he walked in.

Arjun Mehra.

He was tall, composed, with sharp features that expressed nothing, and in an awesome nice suit.

Our eyes met.

A silent war had begun.