"I believe in love. The kind that binds two people with no ties otherwise, for a life time."
“You talk rubbish. I know where all of this is coming from. You know what? You ought to stop reading those novels and watching stupid romantic movies. This world is too wild and you, are so naïve! Grow up, my darling."
“Well I don’t know about that. All I know is, that feels right, right now. And I am going with that. If tomorrow I wake up and realize that love is unreal. I might have a good reason to believe that.”
“That’s deep! Tell me more. Do you believe in love at first sight or first love?”
"I do not know."
"Don’t tell me, you have never been in love before?"
"Uhuh.. that’s a no."
Raises her eyebrow, "why? "
"Love happens. May be it is not the right time…may be I have not come across someone…"
"Oh, come on!"
"Don’t ask me. I don’t know why. My guy friends tell me, I won’t have a boyfriend."
"Why?"
"They know better."
"That’s rubbish."
"I do like hanging out with boys and I have quite a lot of friends that are boys."
"But no boyfriend?"
"No. I get so comfortable being friends, I stay friends with them."
"And none of you crosses the yellow line?" she sighs.
"Actually, I have never felt like it. May be it is true for them too."
"I don’t get it. You want to be in love and even then you are not."
"Well, I’d love to fall in love does not mean I am desperate. I will wait for the right moment."
"Yeah? hmm. Why do you like love marriage over arranged?"
She opens her mouth as if to say something and then closes it.
Silence.
After a while, she finally speaks.
"Well, Love marriage means marrying the person you are in love with. And you already know him. So basically, I like the idea of being next to the person you are in love with, every single day, that’s a divine gift. In arranged marriage, I fear there are many risks. Not being compatible, different priorities, and what if you eventually find out you married the wrong person? I don’t buy arranged marriages. You had a love marriage. I mean, look at you, you guys are so happy together. I want the same for me."
She looks at her friend with surprise, as if to sink in what she had just said in one breath.
"Where are you going to find a guy to love when you won’t meet him, give him a chance."
"Are you even listening? I said I’d want a love marriage."
"Well then, find a boyfriend and we shall talk."
She stares at the wall, not knowing what to say.
"You have to grow up. Love does not come by wishing. If it has to happen it will."
"It would have happened by now. Okay I get it. You don’t think, it is weird? meeting a guy for a probable marriage. What do you talk about? The whole idea is so weird, and.. and how do you tell him you don’t like him. What if he does not like me?"
"You think too much. It is not for you to worry. Just think that you are meeting a stranger who you have not befriended yet. I believe you are good at making friends."
"That’s what they say. But.."
"Keep your worries at bay. Uncle said he received a proposal. How about starting off with that?"
"Arggh…I don’t know."
"I will tell you. Meet him this weekend and you will find out. Do you have his number?"
"Yeah, he texted a month back."
"And?"
"Nothing."
"You did not reply?"
She nods her head sideways. "I was prepping for my GREs, I forgot."
"What? You are unbelievable."
"I don’t know him, okay?"
"Give me your phone."
"Why?"
"To correct something, you messed up."
She is unwilling however hands over the phone.
Her friend copies the number from the text and calls the boy.
Two rings and she disconnects.
"Why would you do that?"
"Let’s see if he is still interested" and winks.
"You messed up even more. What next?"
"He will call back, wait."
The silence in the room became heavy, thick with the kind of tension that makes your skin itch. Ten minutes crawled by. Then twenty. Aava stared at the black screen of her phone as if she could force it to life with her mind.
"He’s not calling," Aava whispered, half-hoping she was right.
"Wait for it," her friend insisted, leaning in. "A guy like that? He’s curious now. You poked the bear."
At the thirty-minute mark, the phone suddenly convulsed on the table. The sharp, digital trill felt like an electric shock. Aava’s heart didn’t just race—it hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that made her breath hitch.
"Pick up!" her friend hissed, eyes wide.
"I can't. My hands are shaking."
"Don’t be a coward, Aava. Pick. It. Up!"
With a trembling finger, Aava swiped the green icon and pressed the cold glass to her ear. She opened her mouth, but her throat felt like it was filled with sand. She managed a frail, breathless sound that was barely a word.
"H-hello?"
A deep, unfamiliar voice crackled through the line. "Hello? Is this Puja?"
The name hit Aava like a bucket of cold water. The high-wire tension snapped instantly. She wasn't talking to a "destined" love or a mysterious suitor; she was talking to a stranger looking for a girl named Puja.
"Wrong number," Aava said. Her voice was suddenly clear, bolstered by a massive, soaring sense of relief.
She disconnected the call and looked at her friend. For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other. Then, the absurdity of the last thirty minutes—the sweating, the pacing, the dramatic buildup for a man named Varun who hadn't actually called—hit them both at once.
Aava collapsed against the sofa cushions, a hysterical giggle bubbling up. "Puja! He wanted Puja!"
They erupted into fits of laughter, the kind that makes your stomach ache. The "divine sign" they were waiting for had turned out to be a telemarketing error or a wrong digit.
"Forget it," Aava gasped, wiping a tear from her eye. "He’s definitely not calling. He’s probably found someone who actually knows how to use a phone."
"Mhm," her friend agreed, still snickering. "Poor Puja. She’s missing out on a very dramatic afternoon."
The laughter from the "Puja" incident had barely faded when the phone buzzed again the following morning. This time, there was no dramatic buildup, no thirty-minute wait. It was just a direct, unfamiliar number.
Aava took a breath, steadied her voice, and answered.
"Hello? This is Varun speaking. I had a missed call from this number yesterday? May I know who I’m speaking with?"
His voice was deeper than she’d imagined—steady and professional. Aava felt a familiar prickle of heat rise to her cheeks.
"Umm... Hi, Varun. It’s Aava here."
"Oh! Hi, Aava," his tone shifted instantly, sounding warmer, perhaps even a bit relieved. "How are you?"
"Fine, thanks. And you?"
"I’m good. I got your number from your father. I hope... I hope he mentioned me?"
"Yeah," Aava said, her brevity betraying her nerves. "He did."
"I actually texted you a while back," Varun said, a hint of a challenge in his voice. "But I never got an answer. I figured you were either very busy or very uninterested."
"I was prepping for my GREs," Aava blurted out, the truth sounding like a flimsy excuse even to her own ears. "I... I forgot."
A short silence followed. "I see. Well, since we’ve finally managed to connect, would you be open to meeting for lunch tomorrow? At 12?"
"12?" Aava’s mind raced through her Tuesday schedule. "Umm..."
"It’s fine if you’re busy," he added quickly, his confidence wavering for the first time. "I don’t want to be a nuisance."
"No," she interrupted. "No, 12 sounds good."
After they hung up, the conversation moved to text—a safer, quieter territory.
Varun: Where are you located now?
Aava: At New Baneshwor.
Varun: Okay. Where would you like to meet? Somewhere close to you?
Aava: The Bakery Cafe or Coffee Station?
Varun: Bakery sounds nice. A few minutes passed. Aava saw the "typing..." bubble appear and disappear three times. Finally, a longer message popped up:
Varun: How will I recognize you? You look like a different person in every photo you’ve posted on Facebook.
Aava stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the glass. A different person? Was that a compliment on her versatility or a critique of her filters? She felt a strange jolt, the realization that this stranger had been scrolling through her digital life while she sat in silence.
Almost immediately, as if sensing he’d crossed a line, another text arrived:
Varun: I waited quite a long time to hear back from you... so I spent some time on your profile. I hope you don't mind.
Aava felt a flicker of power. He had been the one waiting. He was the one who had "stalked" her. She leaned into the challenge.
Aava: I’ll be wearing a blue top and glasses. Let’s see if you can find the 'real' me among those profiles.
Varun: Great! Challenge accepted. See you then.
Aava: Wait! how will I recognize you?
Varun: Well, I have your number. I’ll just call you when I’m outside.
Aava: See you!
Aava set the phone down, her heart doing a slow, heavy thud. The game had officially moved from her daydreams into the real world.
Tuesday arrived with a hollow ache in Aava’s stomach—the familiar companion of a fast. To keep her mind off the hunger and the nerves, she arrived at The Bakery Cafe early. Too early.
By 12:10, the "early bird" pride had soured into a prickly irritation. She stood by the entrance, her eyes darting between the two crossroads, checking her watch every thirty seconds. 12:15. 12:20. The sun was climbing, and the humid street air began to wilt her ironed blue top. Five more minutes, she promised herself, gripping her bag. If he’s not here by 12:30, I’m telling Dad I tried and leaving.
At 12:26, a bike roared up the curb, scattering a few pigeons. It skidded to a halt inches from her. Aava jumped back, a sharp "Hey!" dying on her lips as the rider killed the engine and pulled off his helmet.
"Aava! Sorry, sorry," Varun panted, his hair a mess from the helmet. "The traffic at the intersection was a nightmare. I didn't think it would be this bad at noon."
Aava felt a surge of annoyance. I've been standing here like a statue for forty minutes, she thought, but the sight of his genuine breathlessness softened her. He hadn't even looked at her Facebook profile enough to recognize her, yet here he was, calling her name with a lopsided, apologetic grin.
"It’s fine," she lied, smoothing her hair. "Let’s just go inside."
They found a small table on the patio. The shade was a relief, but the smell of momo and garlic drifting from the kitchen made Aava’s stomach do a somersault. Varun didn't seem to notice. He was scanning the menu with the intensity of a man who hadn't eaten in days. When the waiter arrived, Varun ordered a plate of chicken momo without hesitation.
"And for you?" Varun asked, finally turning his full attention to her.
"Just a cappuccino, please," Aava said quietly.
As the waiter disappeared, Aava studied him. Varun seemed entirely at ease, leaning back in his chair, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was lunchtime and she was only drinking foam. When the momo arrived, he dug in, talking between bites about his morning at the office.
Is he for real? Aava wondered, watching a stray drop of chutney on his plate. Does he not notice I’m not eating? Or does he just not care?
Paradoxically, his lack of "gentlemanly" fuss felt... comfortable. There was no forced small talk about her diet, no performative guilt. He was just hungry, straightforward, and oddly nonchalant.
Suddenly, he checked his watch and stood up. "I have to run. I’m on a strict lunch break and the office is all the way in Siphal."
Aava blinked, startled by the abruptness. "Oh. Right."
"It was really nice meeting you, Aava," he said, offering that same lopsided smile.
"Same here. Bye, Varun."
She watched him stride back to his bike. She was left with a half-empty coffee, a lingering scent of exhaust fumes, and a very confusing knot in her chest. He was either the most inconsiderate man she’d ever met, or the most refreshing.
Aava’s walk back to her apartment was a blur of conflicting thoughts. The meeting had been… brief. Efficient. Almost transactional. It wasn't the cinematic "love at first sight" she’d defended to her friend, yet it wasn't the disaster she’d feared. He was a nice guy, she supposed, but his sudden departure had left a vacuum where a connection should have been.
She’d gone into the lunch hoping for a "one and done"—a story to tell her father to get him off her back. But as she turned the key in her door, she realized she wanted to see him again. She just refused to be the one to ask.
That evening, the decision was taken out of her hands. Her phone rang; it was her father, his voice sounding uncharacteristically bright.
"Aava? I just heard from Varun’s family. He said 'yes.'"
Aava froze. "He said... what?"
"He told them he likes you. They’re very happy. We should talk about next steps."
After she hung up, Aava stared at her reflection in the hallway mirror. The audacity of this guy, she thought, a mix of annoyance and amusement swirling in her chest. He barely looked up from his momos, and now he’s telling our parents "Yes"? As in, "Yes, I’ll marry her"? Or just "Yes, she’ll do"?
He was officially an enigma. Was he "good" interesting or "creepy" interesting? She pulled out her phone. She needed to know.
Aava: So, I heard you told your family "Yes." Since you’ve already decided you like me, who exactly do I look like today? One of my Facebook photos?
Varun: You look different.
Aava: That’s a very vague answer, Varun. Different how?
Varun: Just... different.
Aava: Different as in "I should delete those photos," or different as in "I’m glad I met you"?
Varun: I think I’d need to meet you again to decide that. Are you free Saturday?
Aava felt a small, victorious smile tug at her lips. She waited a full minute before typing back.
Aava: Maybe. What’s the plan?
Varun: Let’s go for a movie. I’ll pick you up on my bike.
Aava: Absolutely not. "Good girls" don’t go to dark movies with strangers on a first—well, second—date. And I’m definitely not hopping on your bike.
Varun: Wait... what? Do you actually need permission from home? Or are you just making this difficult?
Aava: I’m saying that if a gentleman wants to see a "good girl" again, he should find a more appropriate venue.
A long pause followed. Then:
Varun: Fair enough. How about a park instead? Have you been to the Garden of Dreams?
Aava remembered the Garden—the neo-classical pavilions, the hidden corners, the quiet escape from the Kathmandu chaos. It was romantic. It was exactly what she wanted.
Aava: I’ve been there. It’s nice.
Varun: Fine. And if you’re so worried about being a "good girl," I can call your mother and ask for her permission to pick you up?
Aava huffed, a mock-scowl on her face. He knew exactly how to push her buttons, teasing her traditional side while simultaneously challenging it. She wasn’t sure if she loved his quirks or hated them yet, but as she typed her reply, she knew one thing for certain: she wasn't bored.
Aava: Don't you dare call my mother. I'll meet you at the chowk at 2:00. Don't be late this time.
Between the DMs and the occasional phone calls, Varun had slowly begun to occupy the empty spaces in Aava’s day. He was soft-spoken on the phone but surprisingly bold in text. Her friend noticed the change immediately; Aava had become a creature of mysterious giggles and sudden blushes. Yet, a sliver of doubt remained. Was he "intriguing" or just... quiet?
Aava decided on a backup plan. She tucked a paperback into her bag before leaving for their second date. If Varun spent this meeting staring at his food again, she’d at least have a literary escape.
To her relief, Varun was already at the junction when she arrived, killing the engine of his bike just as she approached. No forty-minute wait this time.
"Look at you, being a gentleman," she teased.
"I’m a fast learner," he replied, patting the back of the seat.
Aava hesitated. She wasn't the type to hop onto a stranger’s bike, but Varun had already challenged her "good girl" persona, and her parents had practically sanctioned this meeting. It was an exception. She climbed on, struggling with the eternal passenger’s dilemma: hold the dusty metal rails or rest her hands on his shoulders?
Varun sensed the tension through the seat. "Don’t worry," he shouted over his shoulder, a grin audible in his voice. "No potholes today, and I promise not to slam the brakes like a teenager. You can hold my waist or my shoulders—I won’t bite."
Aava laughed, the awkwardness evaporating in the breeze. The twenty-five-minute ride was a blur of wind and half-heard sentences, but by the time they reached the Garden of Dreams, the physical proximity had done its job. The ice wasn't just cracked; it was melting.
The Man in the Grass
They found a shaded patch of grass and sat down. Aava took a moment to really look at him. On Facebook, he was a mystery: a flute player, a volunteer, a man who experimented with his style. She’d been particularly struck by a black-and-white photo of him with long, wavy hair and a single, handsome curl dangling over his forehead.
The Varun sitting across from her, however, had buzzed his hair down to the scalp. He was wearing faded corduroy pants and a T-shirt that looked like it had been through a disastrous encounter with a bottle of dye. He was completely unbothered, utterly unapologetic about his lack of "date" attire. Aava found herself strangely charmed. In a world of curated appearances, his "take me as I am" energy was magnetic.
They talked for hours. The "usual stuff"—work, dreams, the GRE—flowed into deeper waters. When the closing announcement echoed through the gardens, they both blinked in surprise. The sun had dipped low, and the three-hour "test" had turned into an entire afternoon.
"I’m starving," Varun admitted as they walked toward the gates.
"Me too," Aava said, her stomach rumbling in agreement.
They wandered into the Roadhouse Cafe in Thamel. It was a place of warm wood and soft lighting—a "proper" date spot. When the waiter arrived, Aava ordered a vegetable pizza. Varun didn't even glance at the meat options.
"So," he said, leaning forward once the waiter left. "Is today a special occasion, or do you always avoid meat?"
Aava breathed a sigh of relief. He had noticed. "I'm a vegetarian. But please, feel free to order whatever you want."
"I eat everything," Varun said firmly. "But I like veg pizza just fine. I'm here for the company, not the pepperoni."
The Book and the Burn
As they waited, his eyes fell on her bag. "Do you always carry a library with you? What are you reading?"
Aava felt a flush of heat creep up her neck. She’d forgotten about her "insurance policy." She decided to be honest. "I do love to read, but this is the first time I’ve brought a book to a date."
"Why today?"
She channeled her inner wit. "Well, last time we met, you were so busy eating your momos that you hardly said a word. I thought I’d bring some backup company just in case you got hungry again."
"Ouch," Varun laughed, clutching his chest. "I felt that one. So, what’s the backup company’s name?"
"It’s a book on cosmic connections," she said, pulling it out. "Compatibility, zodiac signs, that sort of thing."
Varun’s eyes twinkled with mischief. "And here I thought I was being forward by asking for a second date. You’re already over here checking our star charts."
"It’s a total coincidence!" Aava protested, her fake laugh sounding a little too loud. "It just happened to be my current read. Completely unplanned."
As they rode back later that night, Aava leaned a little more comfortably into the wind. He was a man of few words, but the words he chose were the right ones. He listened, he remembered, and his comebacks were sharp enough to keep her on her toes.
She didn't just like him a little. She was officially hooked.
............................................................................................................................................................
The 6:00 AM park run was Varun’s "Cto5K" mission, and Aava was his reluctant recruit. She hadn’t laced up running shoes since a bitter morning years ago when her coach had canceled her 5K race at the last minute. The disappointment had soured her on running, but she was no couch potato. She walked everywhere and hiked for work, her legs conditioned for steady climbs, not the frantic pace of a sidewalk sprint.
"You’re doing great," Varun panted, his buzzed head gleaming with sweat as he kept pace beside her.
"I’m… reconsidering… my life choices," Aava wheezed, her lungs burning in the crisp morning air.
Varun laughed, reaching out to give her shoulder a supportive squeeze. "Just one more lap. Then coffee."
The "Wolf" and the Best Friend
Aava wasn't ready to be "thrown to the wolves" Varun’s rowdy circle of friends without a buffer. She insisted on a trade: he had to survive her best friend first.
They met at a small rooftop cafe, the kind of place where the air felt still and the conversation flowed easily. Aava watched nervously as her best friend began the subtle interrogation. But just as Varun was starting to hold his own, the world shifted.
It started as a low rumble, a sound felt in the teeth before the ears. Then, the floor lurched. The hanging lights began to swing in wide, violent arcs.
"Earthquake!" someone shouted.
In the chaos of scraping chairs and panicked gasps, Varun didn’t hesitate. He didn't run for the door; he reached across the table, his hand clamping firmly over Aava’s. He pulled her and her friend toward the reinforced doorframe, shielding them with his own frame as the building groaned.
It lasted only twenty seconds, but in the silence that followed, the air was charged. Varun didn't let go of Aava’s hand until the shaking in her knees stopped.
"Well," her best friend exhaled, smoothing her hair with a shaky hand. "That was… one way to make an impression."
Part of the Pack
After surviving a tremor, meeting "the wolves" felt easy. Varun’s friends were exactly as he’d described: loud, boisterous, and fiercely loyal. They didn't "vet" Aava; they folded her into the group from Day One, treating her like the missing piece of their puzzle.
Aava’s life began to shift its axis. She had always been the girl who was home by 9:00 PM, tucked away in the safety of her routine. Now, she found herself sitting in dimly lit cafes or around plastic tables at 8:30 PM, lost in the roar of laughter and inside jokes.
Returning home after 10:00 PM felt scandalous and exhilarating all at once. As she walked to her door, the night air cool on her face, she realized she wasn't just "falling in love" with a man. She was falling in love with a version of herself she hadn't known existed, the version that stayed out late, ran in the mornings, and didn't mind a little shaking of the earth.
She wasn't just Aava anymore. She was part of the team.
............................................................................................................................................................
One month. That was all it took for the "naive" girl who argued for soulmates and the "unapologetic" man who ate momo in silence to become a "We." In the whirlwind of their culture, they had moved from strangers to fiances in the blink of an eye.
Aava’s life was now tethered to Varun’s. Her weekends were no longer her own; if he was hiking a ridge in the valley, she was there, breathless but smiling. If she had a field trip for work, she suddenly found herself "feeling under the weather" or inventing a deadline just to catch an early bus back to him. The girl who loved her routine had traded it all for the thrill of his company.
One Saturday, after an outing with Varun’s office crew, the company taxi began dropping people off one by one. Aava’s apartment was several stops before Varun’s. As the van slowed near her street, she began to gather her things, but Varun’s hand settled on her arm.
"Aava, let’s go," he said, his voice low and certain.
She blinked, her heart skipped. "But my stop is—"
"I know. Come with me."
Aava obliged, her pulse thrumming with a mix of excitement and old-fashioned guilt. She had never been to his apartment. They were engaged, yes, but they weren't married. In the eyes of the neighbors and the aunties, this was a scandal in the making. But as she followed him up the stairs, she realized that her trust in him was stronger than her fear of the "yellow line" she used to worry about crossing.
The apartment was exactly like him: functional, unpretentious, and slightly chaotic.
"The engagement photos are back," he said, opening his laptop and plugging in a USB drive.
They sat close together on the bed,his only furniture. The blue light of the screen illuminating their faces. The photos were beautiful, captured moments of contrast. He was glancing over her ever so slighlty, and her silent and her head always hanging low. Aava was not her real self that day.
Varun’s thumb traced the heavy gold band on his finger as he looked at a close-up shot. A small, knowing smirk played on his lips. "I didn't realize it at the ceremony," he whispered. "But I saw it on the way home. You managed to hide an 'XOXO' in the engraving. It looks like a simple pattern to anyone else, but I know what it says."
Aava felt a flush of pride. It had been her little rebellion, a secret romantic code etched into a traditional ring. But the mention of the jewelry sparked a dormant fire in her.
"Oh, so you noticed that?" she said, pulling back and crossing her arms. "Are we still ignoring the fact that you didn't even help pick my ring? You just let the families handle it! I spent weeks planning a secret message for yours, and you couldn't be bothered to—"
She was mid-sentence, her hands beginning to gesture wildly as she worked herself into a proper "rebellious" rant, when Varun moved.
He didn't argue. He didn't offer a logical explanation or a witty comeback. He simply reached out, cupped her face, and pulled her toward him.
The kiss was soft, tasting of coffee and the quiet promise of a lifetime. It was her first kiss—the kind she used to read about in those novels her friend told her to stop reading. The room went silent. The anger over the ring evaporated, replaced by the realization that she didn't need a "perfect" love marriage or a "proper" arranged one.
She just needed him.
Aava pulled back just an inch, her breath shaky, her heart finally realizing that the "rubbish" she believed in was real after all.
"I guess," she whispered against his lips, "you got me a flower ring"
Varun grinned, the same lopsided smile from the cafe. "I knew you’d see it my way eventually."
