My Cruel Love
Maya slowly calmed down, and Arman gently let go of her hands and face. She looked up at him, confused and still a little dazed.
"How… how did we get here?" she whispered. "Last night we were in the car. There was that awful storm—"
Arman nodded. "Yeah. You fainted during the thunderstorm. The car broke down, and it wasn't safe to wait there. I saw this house nearby and brought you here. The couple who live here think we're married—that's the only reason they let us stay. And listen, I didn't touch you. I swear. If I had... you would've known. I'm not that kind of guy."
He gestured toward a stool, where a wet cloth and a basin of water sat. "I was sitting right there all night, taking care of you. You had a fever. And at one point... you mistook me for your father. You held onto me and fell asleep."
Maya followed his gaze and saw the cloth. A hazy memory flickered — Arman holding her, helping her drink water. She looked away, cheeks flushing.
A knock came at the door.
"Sir? Are you awake? Someone's here for you!" the woman called from outside.
"We're up, ma'am. Coming," Arman replied.
Then he turned to Maya. "Look, they think we're a married couple. I didn't say anything—but I didn't correct them either. So… don't call me 'sir' in front of them, alright?"
Maya gave a quiet nod. "Someone's here for us?" she asked.
"Yeah," Arman said, standing. "It's Abir. I messaged him last night. No signal, so the call didn't go through, but once the network came back, he tracked my location."
He started to leave, then paused. "Also, fix yourself up a bit before coming out. There are people outside."
With that, he stepped out and gently pulled the door shut behind him.
Maya stared after him, only now noticing—Arman was wearing a lungi, a traditional South Asian wraparound men wear like a skirt. The way he walked in it, awkwardly holding the fabric so it wouldn't fall, made her stifle a laugh. Moments later, she giggled out loud.
Last night, the woman of the house had helped change Maya's clothes while she was unconscious. Her saree had been hurriedly tucked in around her waist. Now she carefully adjusted it, wrapping the long fabric gracefully and covering her head lightly with the pallu—the saree's flowing end. Then she stepped outside.
Abir was already there, talking to Arman and a local man. The ground was still damp from the night's storm. As soon as Abir saw her, he laughed.
"Well, well! Maya, you actually look like a wife now!"
Arman's jaw tightened. "Of course she does. She is my wife."
Abir blinked. "Wait, what? You two are—?"
He stopped when Arman gave him a sharp look that could cut glass. Seconds later, Abir's phone buzzed. He glanced down.
A text from Arman.
"They think Maya and I are married. That's why they let us stay here. So keep your mouth shut."
Before Abir could say a word, the woman of the house arrived with tea. She had clearly overheard.
"Son, what were you saying just now? They're husband and wife?"
Abir gave a sheepish smile. "Oh Aunty, I was just teasing him. They got married recently. I was just joking that their stormy night was like a honeymoon!"
Arman shot him a deadly look.
Maya blushed crimson.
The woman chuckled softly. "Alright, enough teasing. Sit down, have some tea. Maya dear, how are you feeling? You had a fever last night."
She placed her hand gently on Maya's forehead. "Much better now. The fever's gone."
Abir looked surprised. "You had a fever?"
"She did," Arman muttered, still glaring. "And we're taking her to the doctor now."
The older man of the house said, "Leaving so soon? Stay, have some breakfast."
"I wish we could," Arman said kindly. "But I have to get to work. And she needs to see a doctor."
They all sipped their tea quietly. Then Arman stood up.
"Maya, let's go. People at home will be worried."
The woman noticed Arman's wet shirt. "Son, your clothes are still damp?"
"I'm not really used to lungis, Aunty," he smiled awkwardly.
She laughed. "Alright, wait. I'll pack your wife's things."
As she went inside, Abir finally burst into laughter. "You in a lungi! You looked like a lost tourist."
Embarrassed, Arman had already changed into his wet jeans and shirt.
A few minutes later, the woman returned with a small bag for Maya. She stroked Maya's head affectionately.
"You'll visit again, won't you? Take care of yourself, my dear. If I had a daughter… she'd be just like you."
Tears welled up in her eyes. The old man shook his head. "You're too kind to folks like us."
"Uncle," Maya said softly, "If it weren't for you two, we would've been in real danger last night. We'll never forget your kindness."
Arman added, "We'll come again. And Aunty, next time I'll bring something for you—something from your son. And you won't say no."
With heartfelt goodbyes, they left.
Back at the roadside, they found Arman's car—damaged, just as he'd feared. A large tree had crashed onto it during the storm. Thank God he'd carried Maya away in time.
Two days later...
Maya, fully dressed for work, opened her locker to grab her sketchbook. She wanted to use one of her old designs today—ones she'd never shown anyone before. As she searched, her hand brushed a wooden box.
Curious, she opened it.
Inside was a broken watch. She held it gently, puzzled. Then something else caught her eye.
She reached for it—but suddenly, a hand grabbed it away.
Arman.
He had come into her room to discuss something for work, but seeing Maya holding the box… and the item in her hand…
His face changed.
Because what she was holding—was a nameplate. One stitched onto a dress he would never forget.
It belonged to Mayaboti.
To be continued...