Siddharth’s Point of View

If you’d asked me a few months ago what luxury meant, I would have said — “owning a hospital.”
Now I know better.

Luxury is watching Gatha smile first thing in the morning.
Luxury is hearing her laugh after weeks of worry.
Luxury is walking into the kitchen and seeing her argue with Dadi over whether she’s eaten enough fruit.

After I found out about her pregnancy, something changed in me. The tiredness, the stress, the court hearings — they all started to matter a little less.

Because now, there was someone else we were living for.

The Morning Routine

Every morning began the same way.
I’d wake up early, pack her books, and check the list Dadi made — milk, dry fruits, coconut water, one boiled egg.

She’d groan, half-asleep.
“Do I have to drink coconut water every day?”

“Yes,” I’d say, tying her hair in a loose ponytail. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re my doctor,” she’d tease. “So I get to overrule you sometimes.”

I’d grin. “Not when I’m this kind of doctor. I’m officially in charge of your snacks and happiness.”

She’d roll her eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but secretly she loved it.

College Days

I never thought I’d be the guy who drops his wife to college every morning — but here I was.
Her fourth year had begun, and though she was brilliant, I could tell the long hours tired her easily now.

So I made it my daily mission.

I’d lift her carefully into the passenger seat, fold her wheelchair, place it in the back, and drive through the campus gates like I was chauffeuring royalty.

Students would wave, whisper, and smile. Some teased lightly — “Doctor Thakur and his queen are here!”
And honestly? I didn’t mind.

I used to tell her, “When you walk into college, they don’t see your wheelchair, Gatha. They see what I see — strength.”

Sometimes she’d blush. Sometimes she’d just laugh and say, “You’re ridiculous.”
But her eyes always softened when I said it.

At lunch, I’d appear with her tiffin — cut fruits, sandwiches, and that annoying coconut water she still pretended to hate.

Even her professors began to call me Doctor Delivery Service.

Gatha’s Point of View

If anyone had told me that Siddharth could turn into such a caring husband, I’d have laughed.
He was always kind, yes — but now? Now he was a full-time, unpaid nurse and part-time comedian.

Every day he found new ways to spoil me.
If I said I wanted strawberries, they’d appear in the fridge the next morning.
If I complained about my back hurting, he’d bring extra cushions for my wheelchair.
And if I said I didn’t feel pretty, he’d lift my chin and say, “You’re glowing, my queen. Stop arguing with your king.”

Sometimes I’d tease him. “You call me queen, but I’m sure I still have to do my own assignments.”

He’d laugh. “That’s the rule of the kingdom — study first, reign later.”

Even when he was exhausted after hospital duty, he’d still find time to sit beside me while I revised anatomy diagrams.
He’d draw little doodles on my notes — crowns, hearts, and occasionally a tiny baby with curly hair.

The Family’s Joy

When the news spread through the family, joy filled every corner of the house.

Ekansh Dadu couldn’t stop smiling. He’d sit in the garden, reading the newspaper, and call out, “Reva! Look at this — they say India’s youth are delaying families. Our Siddharth is a rebel!”

Reva would roll her eyes but smile proudly. “He’s just like his father — never follows the easy path.”

And Gita Dadi? She was unstoppable.
Every morning she’d hover near Gatha’s chair, asking, “Beta, did you drink your milk? Did you eat almonds? You must eat double now.”

Sometimes she even slipped an extra ladoo on her plate, whispering, “For the baby.”

Ekansh would laugh from across the table. “You’ll turn the poor girl into a sweet shop, Gita!”

But no one was complaining. The house was finally filled with laughter again — the kind of laughter that had disappeared when Vikrant’s case started.

Old Men, New Dreams

One evening, I overheard Dadu and Vishwanath sitting together on the verandah, sipping tea.
Their voices were low and steady, full of years and wisdom.

Vishwanath chuckled softly. “We’re getting old, Ekansh. First, we became grandparents. Now we’re about to become great-grandparents. Time flies faster than we do.”

Ekansh smiled. “Maybe. But it’s a good kind of old, isn’t it? The kind where you get to see your children build their own homes, their own hopes.”

They both went quiet for a moment, looking at the garden. Fireflies danced over the grass.

Then Vishwanath said, “You know, I always wanted to see Siddharth become a father. He has his father’s heart but his mother’s patience.”

Ekansh nodded. “And Gatha — she’s not just my granddaughter anymore. She’s the glue that holds us all together.”

The Little Things

Days passed in a rhythm of gentle care.
Every morning Siddharth would say, “Breakfast for the queen.”
And every night, he’d whisper, “Goodnight to my soon-to-be tiny team.”

He even started saving every rupee left at the end of the month.
He’d call it “baby fund,” though half of it still went to buying new things for me — maternity cushions, soft scarves, and baby books he pretended to read seriously.

One afternoon, while organizing his wallet, I found an old note — folded and slightly torn.
It said in his handwriting:

“When life gets hard, remember why we began — not for luxury, but for love.”

I smiled so hard that day.

He caught me reading it and blushed. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Too late,” I said. “I’m keeping it forever.”

Hospital Visits

My regular checkups became the highlight of every month.
Reva or Dadu always came along, but Siddharth never missed a single appointment.

Even when his shift ran late, he’d call and say, “Wait for me, I’m on my way.”

In the hospital, nurses already knew us.
They’d smile and whisper, “Here comes Doctor Thakur and his queen.”

And honestly? I kind of liked it.

During the ultrasound, when we first heard the tiny heartbeat, Siddharth’s face changed completely. His eyes softened, his lips trembled a little.

He didn’t say anything at first — just held my hand tightly.
When the doctor smiled and said, “Congratulations, both of you,” he finally spoke.

“That’s our child,” he whispered. “Our miracle.”

Life still wasn’t easy.
Bills still came. The court hearings continued.
But the difference was — this time, we had a reason to smile through it.

We found joy in simple things.
In Dadi’s handmade soups.
In Dadu’s old stories about raising kids.
In the way Reva hummed old lullabies while folding baby clothes even before the baby was here.

At night, when everyone slept, Siddharth would sit beside me and rest his head on my shoulder.

“I’m scared sometimes,” he admitted once. “What if I can’t give you everything you deserve?”

I looked at him and smiled. “You already do. You give me peace, and that’s better than anything money can buy.”

He smiled weakly. “Then I guess I’ll have to upgrade your treatment.”

“To what?” I asked.

He leaned back dramatically. “From Princess Treatment… to Queen Treatment.”

I laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But you’re my Queen Ridiculous.”

The Evening of Promises

One quiet evening, after dinner, everyone gathered in the garden. The air smelled of rain and jasmine.

Ekansh sat on his armchair, holding Reva’s cup of tea. “I’ve decided,” he said. “I’m adding a clause in the will — this house goes to Gatha and the baby.”

“Dadu!” I exclaimed. “Why are you talking about wills and old-age things now?”

He laughed. “Because happiness should be planned just as carefully as property.”

Even Vishwanath smiled at that. “True. We old men can at least do that much.”

Siddharth looked at me and whispered, “You realise we have a whole army behind us?”

I smiled. “Yeah. The best one possible.”

That night, as we sat by the window, I rested my head on Siddharth’s shoulder.
The moonlight fell across the garden, painting everything in silver.

He whispered, “Do you ever miss your princess days?”

I laughed softly. “No. Because you gave me something better.”

“What’s that?”

“My Queen Treatment.”

He chuckled. “Then I’ll make sure it lasts forever.”

“Forever’s a long time,” I said.

He looked at me — eyes tired but full of warmth. “Good. Because I plan to love you that long.”

Love doesn’t need palaces to feel royal.
Sometimes it’s in the way someone remembers your coconut water,
saves his last rupee for your smile,
and calls you ‘Queen’ when the world calls you ordinary.”