She is my wife

His pov

I was exploring the shrine when I heard it. The noise. It came from the direction where I had left her barely a moment ago.

That was enough.

I turned immediately, already moving before the thought fully formed, my steps quick but controlled as I made my way back through the narrow stone passage. The temple had been quiet when I stepped away—too quiet, almost peaceful. This was not that.

Voices carried now. Too many. Too sharp. And then I heard the question before I saw her.

“Who is your father? Speak up.” Voice of a women. I slowed—not out of hesitation, but precision. There’s a difference between arriving and arriving at the right moment. The latter tends to matter more.

By the time the hall came into view, the situation had already arranged itself into something unpleasantly familiar.

She stood in the centre of it.

Surrounded—not physically trapped, but effectively so. A loose circle of people had formed, their attention fixed on her in that particular way that leaves no room to breathe. She held the robe close around her, her silence drawing more attention than any answer could have.

I waited for her to answer. She didn’t. Behind me, someone scoffed. “Or perhaps she’s here with someone.”

Another voice followed, louder, uglier. “These hidden temples are always where such things happen.”

Ah.

So that was the direction this was going. A lone women standing in lost shrine wearing a robe which is clearing not her attracts far more questions than any normal situation demands.

 I exhaled slowly.

Her reaction was immediate—even from a distance, I could see the way her grip tightened, the slight shake of her head that never quite found its way into words. She was trying to deny it, but silence rarely convinces people who are already entertained by their own conclusions.

“Tell us—who are you even here with?” a voice more sharp this time.

There it was.

The moment. I stepped forward. That was enough.

“With me,” I said.

The words were calm, almost effortless, but they cut cleanly through everything else in the room. Conversations stopped mid-breath, attention snapping fully toward me. And then I looked at her.

Because that mattered more than anything else in that moment.

There was a shift.

Small. Almost invisible.

But I saw it—the slightest easing in her shoulders, the fraction of tension that slipped the moment she realized she wasn’t standing alone anymore.

One of the men frowned, looking me over like he was trying to decide whether I was worth the trouble. “With you?”

I could have answered.

But the man from earlier clearly had a stronger commitment to making poor decisions. “Looks more like the two of them were using the temple for something shameless—”

He didn’t get to finish.

I moved.

One step closed the distance, and my hand came up, catching his jaw firmly, my grip locking just enough to still him completely. His words died in his throat, replaced by a sudden and very welcome silence.

“Finish that sentence,” I said quietly, my voice level, almost conversational, “and you will regret having a mouth to speak.”

I tilted his head slightly, forcing his gaze up to meet mine.

It’s always interesting—how quickly arrogance fades when it’s required to stand without an audience. Man like him knows how to accuse women for not behaving the way this society, especially men want them to, but don’t know how to hold themselves to the same standards they so loudly demand. The room went still.

An older aunt stepped forward then, suspicion sharpening across her face like she had just been handed a mystery she intended to solve personally. “Leave him,” she said, her tone sharp enough to cut through the room, her gaze shifting past me to the girl. “And who are you?”

For a brief second, everything held—my grip on the man’s jaw, the tension in the air, the weight of every eye in the room pressing in.

Then I let his jaw go. The release was deliberate, unhurried. I had already made my point; I did not need to repeat it.

He stepped back quickly, his attention suddenly very devoted to avoiding mine.

A wise adjustment.

I straightened, dusted off my composure, and offered the room something simple.

“I am Aditya.”

 No hesitation. Just enough confidence to suggest that asking further questions would be mildly unnecessary.

Naturally, the aunt was not impressed.

“And her?”

Of course.

I didn’t look at her immediately, but I could feel it—the tension radiating off her, the kind that said she was currently reconsidering every life choice that had led her to this exact moment. She was silent, which, under normal circumstances, would have been fine.

This was not normal circumstances.

If she spoke, there was a strong chance this entire carefully balanced situation would collapse like a poorly built tent.

So, I did. My hand came to rest on her shoulder, steady, grounding, and just authoritative enough to make it look like I had been doing this for years.

“She is my wife,” I said.

A pause.

Then, because commitment is important, “Barkha.”

Now, in my defense, it was a solid choice.

It sounded believable. It sounded like something I would say. It sounded like something people would accept without asking too many questions.

What I did not account for—well, what I absolutely did account for but chose to ignore—was her reaction.

I did not look at her.

I value my life.

I didn’t need to look to know her reaction. I could feel it. The sudden stillness. The sharp intake of breath. The way her entire presence seemed to turn toward me like a storm gathering direction.

Wife.

Yes, that would have gone over well.

I kept my gaze ahead.

If I looked at her now, there was every chance she would forget this convenient inability to speak and correct me in front of everyone. And most probably ruin this temporary husband existence. I clearly remembered her sharp answer from earlier.

The groom’s mother narrowed her eyes. “I have never seen either of you.”

“We are from a neighbouring kingdom,” I replied evenly, as if we were discussing something far less interesting than the fact that I had just acquired a wife without prior notice. “We came for darshan after our journey.”

A neat answer. Clean. Respectable.

The groom himself seemed inclined to accept it, perhaps because he stood beside his own bride and understood the quiet logic of such explanations.

But not everyone was convinced.

A lady looked toward her, curiosity sharpening into suspicion. “Then why does she say nothing?”

There it was. Another excellent question.

I didn’t hesitate.

“She cannot speak.” Now they have no question to ask further.

Outrage is not always loud.

Sometimes, it is a very specific kind of silence.

I felt it then—sharp, immediate, directed entirely at me. If anger could burn, I would have lost the side of my face nearest to her by now.

I still didn’t look. But I know if I would, I will see a look of pure disbelief and attempted murder.

“She slipped on the rocks outside and was shaken badly,” I continued, smoothly layering the lie before she could dismantle it with a single, very capable sentence.

For a moment, nothing.

And then the room shifted.

A ripple of laughter—awkward, uncertain, but enough. Enough to loosen the tension, enough to give them something easier to believe than scandal.

But this laughter must have fuelled her anger. At this point, I could practically hear the outrage forming beside me. It had a presence. A temperature. Possibly a weapon.

“Poor thing,” the aunt said, immediately abandoning suspicion in favour of sympathy.

Remarkable transformation.

Another woman shook her head. “And you brought her here in this condition?”

“She wanted Lord Shiva’s blessings before we returned,” I said, inclining my head slightly, as if this was a perfectly normal sequence of events and not something I had assembled in the last thirty seconds.

That did it.

Just like that, the entire room shifted. Suspicion melted into approval, and I was suddenly no longer a potential problem but a devoted husband making a religious visit with his injured, speechless wife.

Honestly, I impressed even myself sometimes.

Before anyone could find a new angle to question, I reached for her hand. Not cautiously, not like I was asking permission, but like this was routine, like this was something I had done a hundred times before.

My fingers slipped through hers easily.

Her hand was cold.

Tense.

I didn’t slow down. If I gave her a moment, she might pull away, or worse, turn back and try to correct the story I had very carefully constructed. Neither of those outcomes appealed to me.

But she didn’t pull away. Which, under the circumstances, felt like a victory.

“Come,” I said quietly.

We walked past the wedding party, who now looked at us with a mixture of sympathy and admiration, which I fully accepted. The old aunt looked mildly disappointed that there was no longer a mystery to solve, which I also accepted.

Her hand stayed in mine—tense, smaller than I had expected, but steady enough that I allowed myself a brief, silent approval. She glanced down at where our fingers were interlocked, as if trying to understand when exactly this had become acceptable.

It hadn’t.

It had simply become necessary.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her gaze shift again—this time to my forearm. The scratches from earlier dragged faintly across my skin, still fresh, still stinging in that dull, persistent way. The daldal had not been particularly forgiving, and neither, it seemed, had she been. Fair.

We stepped through the broken archway and out into the rain-soaked jungle, the noise of the temple fading behind us.

I kept my face neutral.

Through the broken archway, the air shifted, lighter somehow, the weight of the temple loosening with every step we took into the open. Only then—only when I was reasonably certain we were out of immediate danger—did I glance at her.

And there it was.

The glare.

Sharp. Undeniably deserved.

I exhaled, almost amused. Yes, I had expected that.

I was just about to say something—something reasonable, something that might, at the very least, reduce the likelihood of being pushed into the nearest river—when a voice cut through the space behind us.

“Wait.”

Everything stopped.

Not gradually. Not reluctantly.

Instantly.

Her hand stiffened in mine, and for a fraction of a second, I felt it—the same drop, the same tightening, as if the ground beneath us had shifted without warning.

We turned at the same time.

And for one brief, terrible heartbeat, our eyes met.

The same thought passed between us, clear as if it had been spoken aloud.

Did she figure it out?

I didn’t release her hand.

If anything, my grip tightened slightly—not enough to alarm, just enough to steady.

Then I turned back toward the voice, my expression already settling into something calm, unreadable, as if nothing about this situation had ever been uncertain.

The old woman stood beside the bride, her expression nothing like I had expected. No suspicion. No accusation. Just a soft, knowing smile that immediately made me question whether she knew more than she was letting on.

“At least take Lord Shiva’s blessings before leaving.”

Ah. Not danger. Worse. Ritual.

I felt the breath leave her beside me, subtle but unmistakable. I gave the smallest nod in acknowledgment, the kind that suggested compliance rather than relief.

There was no graceful way to refuse without inviting the exact attention we had just escaped.

So we turned back.

Together.

The sanctum was quieter now, the earlier tension dissolved into something far older, far steadier. Water still slipping through the broken roof above, falling in a continuous silver stream over the Shivling, tracing familiar paths over the dark stone and the fresh bilva leaves placed upon it.

It was… oddly grounding.

For a moment, the noise outside—the questions, the lies, the improvisation—seemed distant, almost irrelevant.

We stepped forward and stopped side by side.

Hands folded.

Heads bowed.

A posture I had performed a thousand times without thought suddenly felt… deliberate.

Aware.

I could still feel her beside me—tense, controlled, present in a way that made the silence heavier, not lighter.

Strange.

I let my head dip slightly, eyes lowering to the stone, and for a brief second, I allowed the moment to exist without calculation. No strategy. No next move. Just stillness.

It didn’t last long.

It never does.

The groom, still standing nearby, leaned slightly closer, his amusement very poorly concealed.

“If she keeps falling like this,” he murmured under his breath, “it’s going to be very difficult for you.”

I huffed out a quiet breath—half laugh, half resignation.

“I tell her to walk properly,” I replied smoothly, glancing sideways, “she just doesn’t listen.”

That was a mistake.

Because before I could even finish enjoying my own wit, her fingers shot out and pinched my arm.

Hard.

I jerked slightly—just enough to betray that I had not expected physical retaliation inside a temple.

The bride let out a soft laugh behind her veil.

“Oh, she definitely listens,” she said, amused. “She simply chooses not to.”

That earned the bride a look from her that could have been filed under betrayal.

I, meanwhile, was reconsidering my life choices.

The group had shifted now—whatever suspicion had existed earlier was gone, replaced with something far more dangerous.

Familiarity.

The bride stepped a little closer to her, lowering her voice into that effortless intimacy that seems to appear exclusively among women in temples.

“What does he do?”

I saw it happen.

The pause.

The flicker in her eyes.

She looked at me—quick, questioning—clearly about to speak before remembering, rather dramatically, that she was currently incapable of speech thanks to someone’s excellent decision-making.

I kept my face neutral. This was, after all, not my problem. Except it became my problem when she suddenly straightened and made a gesture.

A sword.

Or… something very enthusiastic about cutting. It took me exactly one second to understand. And, annoyingly, it made me want to smile.

The bride, however, looked mildly confused, trying to interpret whether she was threatening someone or describing me.

“I am a soldier,” I said smoothly, saving us both.

All eyes shifted to me.

The groom’s expression changed immediately—recognition, then understanding. He placed a hand on my shoulder, his tone turning sincere.

“That explains the rage,” he said, before adding quickly, “I apologize for earlier. On his behalf—and to you as well.”

She nodded, accepting it with far more grace than I would have managed.

The bride turned back to her, eyes softening. “Oh, he’s a soldier… then you must miss him often.”

She looked at me. Then at the bride.

And nodded.

It was a small movement, but there was something about it that lingered longer than it should have.

I chose not to think about that. Naturally, that was when things got worse.

A younger girl—likely the groom’s sister—leaned forward, entirely too excited.

“Then what do you do when you miss him?”

I sensed trouble.

She hesitated for a moment, then—because clearly, she had decided subtlety was no longer required—began gesturing again.

This time… writing. Letters. I remembered mentioning to him that we write letters to our families.

The bride’s face lit up instantly. “Ohhh,” she said, nudging her lightly, “so you’re one of those wives.”

She blinked, clearly not liking the sound of that.

The younger girl immediately asked, “What does that mean?”

The bride grinned. “The kind who acts strong while he’s away and then writing pages of complaints.”

The women nearby laughed knowingly.

She looked like she was about to object—violently—but of course, she couldn’t.

So, I helped.

“She does complain.”

Her head snapped toward me so fast I was genuinely impressed.

I met her gaze with entirely unnecessary calm.

The groom laughed. “About what?”

“That I take too long to reply,” I said, without hesitation.

The bride gasped. “I knew it!”

Her expression shifted into something between outrage and disbelief. She shook her head emphatically, clearly trying to deny it through sheer force of will.

“She counts the days,” I added helpfully. That did it. The laughter grew louder, and her face warmed instantly. The audacity, apparently, had limits.

She pinched me again.

This time at the waist. Less subtle. More effective.

I inhaled sharply. “I’m sorry,” I said immediately, because survival instincts are real.

The groom burst out laughing. The bride was laughing so hard she had to hold her veil. “Oh, this is adorable.”

I disagreed.

Strongly.

The groom nudged me. “Brother, you’re finished. She remembers everything.”

I exhaled, shaking my head slightly before looking at her again.

“Yes,” I said, with complete sincerity, “that is my greatest problem.”

And for a brief, unexpected second, everything softened.

The group erupted into laughter.

Even I laughed this time, low and unguarded, because honestly, she wasn’t wrong.

The old woman, still watching near the Shivling, smiled deeply.

“Good,” she said. “A marriage with laughter lasts longer than one with silence.”

That landed more quietly than the laughter had.

Neither of us responded.

But for the first time since I had said those words, she is my wife, standing beside her in a temple, surrounded by laughter that wasn’t ours but somehow included us—

Didn’t feel entirely like a lie.

Naturally, the universe refused to let the moment stay quiet for long.

“So,” the groom said, clearly delighted with himself, “how long have you been married?”

Ah.

There it was. The question that requires coordination. I glanced at her. She glanced at me. And in that very brief exchange, an entire conversation happened.

Do you have an answer? Do you? Absolutely not. Wonderful.

I turned back with a calm I did not entirely feel.

“Not very long,” I said, keeping it vague. A safe answer. A dangerous choice. Because vague answers invite curiosity.

“How long is not very long?” the bride pressed, smiling like she already knew we were about to say something ridiculous.

I opened my mouth— And she beat me to it. She held up three fingers.

Then, after a dramatic pause, added two more. Five.

I blinked.

Five? Five what? Days? Months? Years? Lifetimes?

I looked at her.

She looked entirely confident. Of course she did.

“Five… months,” I clarified smoothly, because I had no intention of committing to five years of imaginary marriage I would have to defend for the next ten minutes.

She nodded immediately, as if that had been her plan all along.

Of course.

The young girl clapped her hands softly. “Newly married! I knew it.”

The groom grinned. “That explains everything.” I wasn’t entirely sure what everything was, but I had a feeling I was about to find out.

The young girl beamed with excitement and said, “So, tell us the story!”

No.

Absolutely not.

But refusing was not an option. So I did what any reasonable person would do. I committed.

“We were… introduced,” I began carefully, “but she decided she didn’t like me.”

Her head snapped toward me again. I ignored it.

“She was very clear about it,” I added, because if I was going to suffer, I was going to do it properly.

The women laughed. The bride leaned closer to her. “Really? Why?”

She pointed at me. Then made a face. An incredibly accurate face, I might add. Rude.

“Apparently,” I said, keeping my tone even, “I talk too much.”

The groom laughed loudly. “That seems correct.”

I chose to ignore that.

“And yet,” I continued, “she still married me.”

The groom tilted his head. “So, what changed?”

I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I looked at her. Properly this time.

She was watching me now, eyes narrowed slightly, clearly trying to predict what I was about to say—and possibly preparing to physically retaliate again.

Understandable.

“She realized,” I said slowly, “that I am extremely patient.”

She stared at me.

“Patient?” the younger girl repeated, giggling. “With her?”

I nodded solemnly. “Especially with her.”

That earned me another pinch. I had begun to expect those.

The bride laughed, turning to her. “And what did you think of him?”

She rolled her eyes—dramatically—then made a gesture that could only be described as resigned acceptance of poor life decisions.

The women laughed again.

“She didn’t have a choice,” I translated helpfully.

Her glare sharpened.

I smiled.

The bride sighed dreamily. “Still, the first few months… everything feels new.” She looked at her again. “Are you happy?”

The question landed differently. For a moment, even the laughter softened. She looked at the bride. Then—unexpectedly—at me. And then she nodded.

Once.

It wasn’t exaggerated this time. I didn’t react. Externally. Internally was a different matter entirely.

“Good,” the old woman said from behind them, her voice warm with quiet certainty. “Then keep laughing. That is what carries a marriage through everything else.”

The groom stretched slightly, clapping his hands once. “Well, soldier, you’re doing well so far.”

“I am surviving,” I corrected.

He laughed. “Same thing.”

I almost agreed.

Beside me, her hand brushed lightly against mine again—not held this time, not intentional enough to comment on, but not entirely accidental either.

I didn’t move away. Which, in retrospect, might have been my second mistake of the day. The first, of course, had been calling her my wife.

Everything after that… Had simply been consequences.

I was already weighing the cleanest way to leave when I felt it.

A slight tug—so subtle it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else.

Her fingers brushed the edge of my sleeve and pulled, just enough to claim my attention without drawing a single eye. I glanced down, then at her. She didn’t look at me directly; instead, her gaze flickered toward the archway and returned, steady but quiet in its insistence.

A message, unmistakable in its clarity.

We are leaving. Now.

For once, we were in complete agreement.

I turned back to the group, allowing a hint of polite regret to settle into my expression. “We should go,” I said, my tone even, composed. “It’s getting late, and we still have a long way to travel.”

The groom’s brow creased faintly. “So soon? You should stay. Visit us tonight, have dinner, leave in the morning.”

It was a generous offer—warm, sincere—and entirely impossible.

Before I could respond, I sensed the shift beside me. I glanced at her just in time to catch the sharp glare she sent my way, followed by a decisive shake of her head.

That was not a suggestion.

That was a refusal.

I suppressed the curve of a smile.

“I would have,” I replied smoothly, turning back to the groom, “if I were alone.”

I let the words settle just long enough before meeting his gaze with quiet intent.

Understanding came instantly.

His expression softened, shifting from hospitality to awareness. He nodded once, the unspoken logic settling easily between us. Travel was one thing; and keeping a woman safe in unfamiliar surroundings was another entirely.

“Of course,” he said. “Another time, then.”

“Another time. We should go.”

“She gets angry very easily,” I added lightly, because restraint had never been my strongest instinct, “and has a talent for turning it into a full spectacle.” because clearly, I had no intention of making this easier for myself

That, it seemed, was my second mistake.

Beside me, she went utterly still.

Then she turned.

And the look she gave me carried the distinct impression that I had just committed a grave and very public offense.

Laughter rippled through the group.

She did not join them.

Her hand moved—quick, precise, familiar—aimed directly for my arm. But this time, I was prepared. My hand closed around her wrist before she could follow through, stopping her with ease.

She froze.

Our eyes met.

I held her gaze, unhurried, deliberate, and let the faintest hint of challenge settle into my expression.

That is true.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then I saw it—the shift, the recognition dawning despite her resistance.

Because she remembered.

The daldal. The outrage. Her expression flickered through offense and irritation before settling, reluctantly, into acknowledgment.

I released her wrist slowly.

The bride laughed, delighted by the exchange. “Oh, he knows you too well already!”

The groom shook his head with an amused grin. “You’re in trouble.”

“I am aware,” I replied calmly.

She withdrew her hand at once, straightening with an air of exaggerated composure, as though none of it had occurred.

The groom clasped my hand firmly, the gesture warm and unforced. “Take care.”

“You too.”

I inclined my head toward the others, already stepping back into departure. “We should go.”

We exchanged final courtesies—nods, faint smiles, the quiet civility of departure—and this time, no one stopped us.

The moment we crossed the broken archway and the temple sounds faded behind us, the air shifted. It grew quieter, freer, stripped of watchful eyes and polite expectations.

I allowed myself a single breath.

It lasted barely a second.

Because she tore her hand out of mine with unmistakable force. I looked down at the sudden absence, then back at her.

Ah.

There it was. She turned fully toward me, her eyes bright with anger, unrestrained now that there was no one left to witness it.

“How dare you announce me as your wife?” she took a pause and continued with exaggerated expression “who is mute!”

The accusation landed exactly where she intended it to.

I considered offering a careful explanation.

I chose not to.

Tilting my head slightly, I studied her with mild, almost academic curiosity, as though weighing something far less volatile than the storm gathering in her expression.

“Do you have a problem,” I asked, my voice even, thoughtful in its calm, “with being my wife… or with being mute?”

She stepped closer, the distance between us collapsing in a single decisive movement.

“Both.”