The day my parents decided to marry me to a man in a wheelchair, I cried all night.
The day my parents arranged my marriage with a man in a wheelchair, I cried all night.
The day my father and mother arranged my marriage with a man in a wheelchair, Raghav Mehta, I cried all night. I was only 23, and he was 10 years older than me. I had thought I would marry a strong, handsome man who could hold my hand and walk the streets of Jaipur, not someone who would have to rely on wheels for the rest of his life. But my family owed a great deal to the Mehta family. Raghav, saving my father and mother from the ordeal, proposed. I clucked my tongue, nodded, and said to myself: “Well, it’s fate.”
The wedding ceremony was simple under a small pavilion in the courtyard, not as grand as I had imagined those weddings to be. He was wearing a gray suit, sitting in a wheelchair, his eyes shining with joy; while I bowed my head, not daring to look directly at anyone. All day, I wondered, was this the end of my life?

That night, I sat in the bridal room, delirious. Raghav came in the car and offered me hot turmeric milk.

“Drink it, I’m tired.”

I took the glass of milk, and I was surprised to hear his soft voice. He told me to take a bath first. When I got out, he was already sitting next to the bed, a file in his hand.

“Come here, I want to show you something.”

I sat down. He opened the file. It was filled with house plans, furniture designs, and some sketches of bougainvillea on the balcony.

“I know you like bougainvillea. I’ve commissioned someone to design a new house in Gopalpura, and we’ll move there in a few months. I want you to live in a place you love.”

I looked at him with wide eyes. Then I noticed Raghav’s face was calm, his eyes deep and gentle. He looked at me and smiled:

— Both my legs are paralyzed, but I can still work and give you a full life. If you don’t like this marriage, just tell me, and I’ll sign the divorce papers immediately. I married you not to bind you, but simply… to have the chance to love you.

I suddenly burst into tears. No one had ever said such words to me in my life.

That night, he didn’t even touch me. He just leaned against the headboard, reading a book, occasionally turning to cover me with a blanket. I turned back to the wall, but my tears soaked my pillow.

In the days that followed, he remained as gentle as ever. Every morning, a neat tray of breakfast was placed in front of my room door, and he didn’t bother me while I was sleeping. He hired a tutor to help me learn English and enrolled me in an online course in graphic design—something I’d dreamed of but never had the chance to learn. In the evenings, he took his wheelchair to the terrace to water the plants; I stood watching from a distance, a strange pain in my chest.

Then one day, he took me to dinner. When I reached the gate, I saw a magnificent bougainvillea trellis in front of the house, completed that very afternoon. I burst into tears.

—How did you know I loved bougainvillea so much?—I asked, sobbing.

He smiled, the yellow light shining on his face making him even more tender:

— Because I always listen to you, even when you’ve never spoken.

On the second wedding night, he asked:

— Are you scared?
I shook my head slightly. He gently placed his hand on my cheek, then kissed my forehead and my eyelids. His kisses were warm, gentle, yet intense. I’d thought a man in a wheelchair would be weak, but on the contrary, his arms were strong, his breath warm in my ears, making my heart pound. All that night, he exhausted me—not because of pain or force, but because he loved me with all the sincerity and longing that had been buried within me for so long.

I never imagined that the man I once considered a “burden of fate” would become my entire sky.

Now, every morning when I wake up, I find him making me hot filter coffee; bougainvillea vines on the balcony sway in the Rajasthan sun. Raghav sits there, smiling, his eyes sparkling with a love I may never be able to repay in this lifetime.