4 years later

Four years had passed since the day Amit and Puja's worlds finally collided. 

The transition hadn't been easy. For the first few months, Puja felt like very out of place. The loud, energetic atmosphere of a Punjabi household was far from the quiet, rhythmic life of Kolkata.

There were nights when she would sit on the terrace and cry silently, missing her mother's hand on her head.

But Amit had been her anchor. He didn't just bring her to Punjab, he brought Bengal to her. He made sure the kitchen always had a stock of Posto (poppy seeds) and mustard oil. More importantly, he kept his promise.

He spent every evening for a year learning Bengali from an online tutor and through secret practice sessions with Puja's mother over the phone. 

Presently, Puja was sitting on a recliner, her six-month pregnant belly making it difficult for her to find a comfortable position. She was glowing, though her ankles were swollen and her moods changed faster than the weather.

Amit walked in, carrying a plate of sliced fruits and a glass of milk. He noticed her pouting at a baby clothes catalog.

"Ki hoyeche? Aaj aamar rani eto chupchap ken?"

(What happened? Why is my queen so quiet today?)

Amit asked, his Bengali accent still slightly thick but incredibly endearing. Puja looked up, her eyes lighting up at the sound of her mother tongue.

"Nothing. I was just looking at these clothes. I have a strong feeling, Amit. This is definitely a boy. He kicks just like a football player!"

Amit sat down on the edge of the recliner and began to gently massage her feet.

"Nahi, Puja. Tumhari intuition galat hai. I know it's going to be a little princess. Bilkul tumhari tarah. She'll have your eyes and your habit of arguing over everything."

(Your intuition is wrong. I know it’s going to be a little princess. Just like you.)

"Oye! I don't argue!"

Puja retorted, a playful spark in her eyes.

"And why do you want a girl so badly? A boy will be like you, brave and kind. He'll handle the family business and take care of us."

"Aur ladki nahi karegi?" 

(And a girl will not?)

Amit teased, leaning in.

"I want a daughter so I can spoil her. I want to buy her tiny bangles and teach her how to drive a tractor. Plus, imagine...another Bengali girl in this house. Main toh pagal ho jaoonga khushi se."

(I will go mad with happiness.)

"Nahi, Amit. It's a boy. I've already thought of names. Ayan, Ishaan or maybe Vivaan."

(No, Amit.)

Puja insisted, her voice getting a bit high-pitched.

"Every time I eat something spicy, he kicks. That's a boy's sign!"

Amit laughed, shaking his head.

"Logic kahan hai ismein? It's going to be a girl, and we'll name her something sweet. Like Mishti. A girl will be the rounak of our house."

(Where is the logic?)

"You just want to win, don't you?"

Puja said, her lip starting to tremble.

"You don't care about my feelings. I'm the one carrying the baby, I'm the one with the backache, and you're just...you're just arguing with me!"

Amit froze. He saw her eyes welling up with tears. He knew this wasn't a real fight, it was the hormones taking over. In the last few months, he had learned that a crying Puja was a Puja that needed immediate distraction and a lot of love.

"Hey, hey...Puja. Shono."

He whispered, moving closer and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"I was just joking. Boy or girl, it doesn't matter. Humara bachha hai. Bas healthy hona chahiye."

(It’s our child. It should be healthy.)

But the tears were already flowing down her cheeks.

"But you said my intuition is wrong! Tumi khub kharap!"

(You are really bad!)

Amit realized he had to change his strategy. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, husky register that always made Puja's heart race. He placed his hand over hers on her belly, feeling the warmth.

"Accha baba, sorry. Maafi de do?"

(Ok. Forgive me?)

He murmured, his breath tickling her ear.

"Did I tell you how beautiful you look when you're angry? This pregnancy glow...it makes it very hard for me to keep my hands off you."

Puja's sobbing stopped instantly. She looked at him through her wet eyelashes, her face turning a deep shade of pink.

"Amit...don't try to distract me."

"Is it working?"

He whispered, trailing his fingers up her arm. He looked at her with an intensity that made her forget all about the blue rompers and the names.

"Tumi ki jano ami tomake katota valobasi?"

(Do you know how much I love you?)

The sudden switch to Bengali, combined with the romantic look in his eyes, did the trick. Puja's pout turned into a shy smile.

"You always do this. Whenever I'm serious, you start acting like a filmy hero."

"Kyunki tum meri heroine ho."

(Because you are my heroine.)

Amit smiled, leaning in to kiss her forehead softly.

"Boy or girl, they will be the luckiest child in the world because they have a mother as strong and beautiful as you. And a father who will always, always be under your thumb."

Puja giggled, finally relaxing against the cushions.

"That's true. You are quite well-trained now."

"Main toh tumhara gulam hoon."

(I am your servant.)

Amit joked, pulling her into a gentle hug, being careful of the bump between them.

They sat like that for a long time. The differences that once seemed like mountains were now just small pebbles in their path. They had proven that love doesn't need a common language or a common culture, it just needs two people who refuse to give up on each other.

"Amit?"

"Hmm?"

"If it's a girl...we can name her Mishti. But if it's a boy, you have to let me pick the name without complaining."

Amit chuckled, kissing her cheek.

"Deal. Par dekh lena, pink kapde hi kaam aayenge."

(But you’ll see, pink clothes will come to use.)

"Oye! Phir se shuru?"

(Again?)

"Achha achha...chup hu mai!"

(Ok ok…I am quiet!)

In the house that was filled with the aroma of spices and the melody of two languages, a new life was waiting to join them. A life that would be half-Punjabi, half-Bengali, and a hundred percent love.