I always thought arranged marriage was something that happened to “other” Indian families. You know—Aunties with Excel sheets full of biodata, tea sessions with forced smiles, that kind of thing. I didn’t think it’d hit me like a stealth missile while I was still fighting jet g and trying to figure out which trash bin is for pstics in this hyper-organized city.

  And yet here we are.

  Tokyo. Land of neon, vending machines that sell everything except common sense, and apparently, spontaneous betrothal announcements.

  I was halfway through a matcha tte that tasted like someone blended seaweed with guilt when my father dropped the bomb.

  “Arjun beta,” he said, using that particur tone—the one that sounds affectionate but historically precedes betrayal.

  “Yes, oh bringer of surprises?” I replied without looking up. The café was pying soft jazz, and for a second, I was actually feeling somewhat peaceful. Mistake.

  “We have dinner tonight. With the Kobayashis.”

  I looked up, eyes squinting. “That sounds like a mafia family.”

  “They are.” He smiled like he’d just won a golf match. “Yakuza, technically.”

  I blinked. “Cool. Cool cool cool. Just out of curiosity—what are we doing having dinner with the Yakuza?”

  He sipped his overpriced espresso, as calm as Buddha at a board meeting. “Kobayashi-san is an old friend. Very honorable man. Helped me build business here when others wouldn’t. We made an agreement years ago.”

  A pause.

  My eye twitched. “What kind of agreement?”

  “The kind involving marriage.”

  There’s a strange thing that happens when you’re hit with life-altering news. Time slows. Your senses sharpen. You start noticing stupid things—like how the guy at the next table was chewing too loudly, or how the barista had “YOLO” tattooed in Japanese on her wrist, probably wrong.

  I leaned forward. “Please crify whether I’m attending a wedding or starring in one.”

  He grinned. “You’ll be meeting your fiancée.”

  And that was when I seriously considered walking into Tokyo Bay.

  By 7 PM, I was dressed in a kurta that screamed "trying too hard," being chauffeured by a man named Kenji who looked like he could silence a room by breathing. Stoic, built like a fridge, and definitely the kind of guy who cleans blood off katana bdes before dinner.

  “Nice weather,” I offered weakly from the back seat.

  Silence.

  I opened Google Transte on my phone out of desperation and typed, “Do you enjoy your work?” in English. The app cheerfully read it aloud in Japanese.

  Kenji blinked. That was all.

  Progress?

  Kobayashi’s estate was nestled behind bamboo walls, the kind of traditional Japanese house you see in anime right before someone gets stabbed. The gates slid open with a hiss. Inside was a blend of Zen calm and subtle menace: rock gardens, koi ponds, and guards who definitely weren’t here for the ndscaping.

  And there she was.

  Hana Kobayashi.

  If “don’t mess with me” had a face, it was hers. Long bck hair tied into a high ponytail. Kimono darker than midnight, embroidered with crimson sakura petals. A katana hung at her hip like it belonged there. She wasn’t just beautiful—she was intimidatingly precise. Like someone trained to kill you, then critique your outfit.

  “Arjun Sharma,” she said in crisp, accented English.

  I stepped forward, unsure if I was supposed to bow or shake her hand or surrender. “Yes. That’s me. The sacrificial offering.”

  She blinked. Once. Slowly. Like a lizard deciding if you were food.

  “You talk too much,” she replied, expression neutral.

  “It’s genetic,” I said. “Passed down through generations of panicked Indian sons.”

  Her father, Kobayashi-sama, emerged from the shadows like a Bond vilin. Mid-50s, chiseled face, long gray hair tied back, eyes like steel. He wore a traditional hakama, hands folded behind him. He looked like he’d killed someone just to stay warm during winter.

  “Arjun-kun,” he greeted, in surprisingly fluid English. “You have grown well. Your father speaks proudly of you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, awkwardly bowing at a 42-degree angle I hoped was culturally respectful. “I’m equally terrified and honored.”

  Kobayashi chuckled, the sound like gravel rolling in a steel drum. “Come. We will eat.”

  Dinner was held in a tatami room that smelled of incense and cquered wood. Traditional dishes were served on low tables—sashimi, grilled eel, miso soup, and something that looked suspiciously like jellyfish. I smiled politely, praying none of it tried to move.

  As we sat, Kobayashi-sama turned to Hana and spoke in rapid Japanese.

  「娘よ、これは単なる結婚ではない。これは約束だ。ビジネスの絆。友情の証。」("Musume yo, kore wa tandanaru kekkon de wa nai. Kore wa yakusoku da. Bijinesu no kizuna. Yūjō no akashi.")“My daughter, this is not just a marriage. It is a promise. A bond of business. A symbol of friendship.”

  I blinked.

  I caught kekkon (marriage) and bijinesu (thank you, anime). I subtly tapped Google Transte on my phone and held it up like a spy under the table.

  “Daughter… promise… business… symbol… something about feelings? No, friendship. Friendship.”

  Hana’s expression didn’t shift. She replied in Japanese, clipped and cold:

  「感情ではなく義務ですね。」“So this is obligation, not affection.”

  Even I understood that one. Gimu. Obligation. Oof.

  Kobayashi’s voice deepened.

  「感情は後から来る。信頼が先だ。」“Emotion comes ter. Trust must come first.”

  I felt like I was in a Netflix drama and forgot I was in it.

  Then, Kobayashi turned back to me.

  “You are now part of our family. This marriage will bind us in loyalty. In peace. Unless, of course… you run.”

  I smiled, stiff. “What happens if I run?”

  He smiled back, colder. “Kenji is very fast.”

  I choked on my rice.

  Hana spoke then, directly to me. “If you dishonor this arrangement, I will not hesitate.”

  “To…?” I asked.

  “To ensure you are forgotten.”

  “Oh. Good. That’s very... poetic.”

  My dad chuckled like this was adorable. “Isn’t she strong-willed? Just like your mother.”

  I whispered to myself, “I think I just got engaged during a mafia tea ceremony with subtitles.”

  And so, as we raised gsses of sake, I toasted to what would no doubt be the beginning of my weirdest chapter yet: engaged to a sword-wielding psychopath under the watchful eyes of men who wear suits and carry silencers.

  Who needs therapy when you’ve got a shotgun wedding in Tokyo?