My name is Lalita, twenty-six years old, born into a poor family in the coastal region of Odisha. My father died early, my mother was constantly ill, and I had to leave my studies after tenth grade and work as a laborer. After years of struggle, I finally landed a job as a maid for one of Mumbai’s wealthiest families—the Malhotra family.

My husband—Arnav Malhotra—is the family’s only son. He’s handsome, educated, and calm, but there’s always an invisible distance around him. I worked there for almost three years, quietly bowing my head, never daring to imagine I could enter his world. And yet one day, Savita Malhotra called me into the living room, placed the marriage certificate in front of me, and promised:

“Lalita, if you agree to marry Arnav, the villa on the banks of Pawna Lake in Lonavala will be yours. It’s a wedding gift from the family.”

I was stunned. How could a maid like me compare to their beloved son? I thought they were joking, but their eyes were serious. I couldn’t understand why they chose me; all I knew was that my mother was seriously ill, and the cost of treatment was an unimaginable burden. My mind told me to refuse, but my fragile heart and my concern for my mother made me nod.

The wedding was even more grand than I had imagined. I wore a red lehenga embroidered with gold, sitting next to Arnav in an ivory sherwani, and still thinking I was dreaming. But his eyes looked at me cold and distant, as if hiding a secret I hadn’t yet touched.

On the wedding night, the room was filled with roses. Arnav wore a white shirt, his face like a statue, but his eyes were sad and calm. When he approached, my whole body trembled. It was at that moment that the harsh reality dawned.

Arnav wasn’t like other ordinary men… He had a congenital defect that prevented him from fully fulfilling his role as a husband. At that moment, everything became clear: the reason I was given the villa; why a poor girl was allowed into a wealthy family—not because I was special, but because they wanted a “nominal” wife for Arnav.
Tears welled up—it wasn’t clear whether it was out of self-pity or pity. Arnav sat down next to me, his voice soft:
“I’m sorry, Lalita. You don’t deserve this. I know you’ve sacrificed a lot, but my mother… she needs a family to feel safe. I can’t go against her wishes.”

In the yellow light, I saw his eyes were moist. It turned out that the cold man was also deeply hurt. He was no different from me—we were both victims of fate.

Over the next few days, our lives became strange. There was no sweetness between the couples, only respect and partnership. Arnav was very kind: in the morning he would ask me questions, in the afternoon he would take me for walks on the Pavana Lake so I could watch the clouds float over the Lonavala hills, and in the evening we would eat and talk. He treated me like a partner, not a servant as before. This was what struck me as strange: my heart was melting, but my mind kept reminding me that this marriage could never be “complete” in the traditional sense.

Once, I inadvertently overheard Mrs. Savita telling her personal doctor: she had a heart condition and didn’t have much time left. She feared that if she left, Arnav would be alone forever. She chose me because she saw that I was gentle, hardworking, and not ambitious; she believed I would stay with Arnav and not leave him because of that shortcoming.

Knowing the truth made my heart uneasy. I thought I’d been made a “scapegoat” in exchange for the villa, but it turned out I’d been chosen for love and trust. That day, I told myself: No matter what happens in this marriage, I won’t leave Arnav.

One rainy night in Mumbai, Arnav suddenly suffered a severe pain attack. I panicked and rushed him to Kokilaben Dhirubhai Ambani Hospital. While unconscious, he held my hand tightly and whispered:
“If you get tired someday, just leave. Consider this villa as compensation. I don’t want you to suffer because of me…”
I burst into tears. How long had he captured my heart? I held his hand tight:
“No matter what, I won’t leave. You’re my husband—my family.”

After that crisis, Arnav woke up. Seeing me still there, his eyes were teary, but warm. We don’t need a “perfect” marriage. We have understanding—the ability to share—and a quiet, abiding love.

The villa by Pawna Lake is no longer a “prize,” but a true home. I plant flowers on the veranda; Arnav sets up his easel in the living room. Every night, we sit next to each other, listening to the sound of the Lonavala rain, and talk about our little dreams.

Perhaps, happiness isn’t perfection, but finding someone who wants to love and be with, despite their flaws. And I found that happiness… right from that shivering wedding night years ago.