In the autumn of 2024, Budapest glowed under a canopy of amber and crimson leaves. Arjun, a 26-year-old software engineer from Bangalore, had arrived in the city for a three-month work assignment. Meera, a 24-year-old graphic designer from Delhi, was there on a solo trip, chasing inspiration for her art. Their paths crossed on a crisp October evening at a quaint café along the Danube, where the city’s bridges twinkled against the twilight.

Arjun sat at a corner table, nursing a coffee and scrolling through code on his laptop. Meera, sketchbook in hand, was capturing the café’s old-world charm—its wrought-iron chairs and flickering candles. She noticed Arjun’s furrowed brow, his glasses slipping down his nose as he muttered to himself. Amused, she sketched a quick caricature of him, exaggerating his intense expression. On impulse, she tore out the page and slid it across his table.

“Is this how I look?” Arjun asked, startled but grinning as he studied the sketch. Meera laughed, her eyes bright. “Only when you’re fighting with your laptop.” That was the spark—a shared laugh, a moment of ease in a foreign city.

Over the next few weeks, Budapest became their playground. They wandered through Buda Castle’s cobblestone paths, sharing stories of their lives back home. Arjun spoke of Bangalore’s chaotic traffic and his mother’s dosa recipe; Meera described Delhi’s vibrant markets and her dream of opening an art studio. They took a sunset cruise on the Danube, the Parliament building glowing gold against the night sky. Under the Chain Bridge, Arjun shyly took her hand, and Meera’s heart raced as she let her fingers intertwine with his.

Their connection deepened over late-night conversations at ruin bars, where they debated everything from Bollywood films to the meaning of home. Arjun admired Meera’s free spirit, how she saw beauty in the smallest details—a cracked tile, a stranger’s smile. Meera was drawn to Arjun’s quiet strength, his way of listening intently, as if her words were the only ones that mattered. One evening, at a quiet park near Margaret Island, Arjun admitted, “I’ve never felt this way before. It’s like Budapest is magic because you’re here.” Meera blushed, whispering, “I was thinking the same thing.”

But love in a foreign city came with a shadow. Arjun’s project was nearing its end, and Meera’s visa would expire soon. Back in India, their families awaited—families with expectations, traditions, and questions about caste, horoscopes, and “suitable matches.” One night, as they sat on a bench overlooking the river, Meera voiced her fear. “What happens when we go back? My parents… they’ll want me to meet someone ‘properly.’”

Arjun took a deep breath. “Mine too. But Meera, I don’t want this to end. I want to do this right—for us, for them.” He paused, his voice steady but soft. “Let’s go back to India. Let’s tell our families. I want to marry you, the way it’s done at home.”

Meera’s eyes widened. “You mean… a traditional wedding? With all the chaos and aunties judging my saree?” Arjun laughed, nodding. “Exactly. The whole deal—haldi, mehendi, seven pheras. If you’re in, I’m in.” Meera felt tears prick her eyes. “I’m in,” she whispered.

Three months later, they were back in India, navigating the whirlwind of their families’ reactions. Arjun’s parents in Bangalore were initially skeptical—Delhi was far, and Meera’s artsy career raised eyebrows. Meera’s family, meanwhile, worried about Arjun’s “techie” lifestyle and whether he’d respect her ambitions. But Arjun and Meera were resolute. They arranged a meeting between their families in Delhi, a nerve-wracking affair filled with chai, samosas, and probing questions. Slowly, their love story—born under Budapest’s starry skies—won over even the sternest relatives. “They’re mad for each other,” Meera’s mother finally admitted, smiling.

The wedding was set for a crisp February day in Delhi, in a venue adorned with marigolds and fairy lights. Meera, draped in a red lehenga with intricate zari work, felt her heart pound as she walked toward the mandap. Arjun, in a cream sherwani, couldn’t take his eyes off her. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the sound of shehnai. Their friends from Budapest, who’d flown in for the occasion, marveled at the vibrancy of the rituals—the haldi ceremony where turmeric-stained relatives danced, the mehendi night filled with laughter and henna designs, and the jaimala, where Meera playfully dodged Arjun’s garland.

As they took their seven pheras around the sacred fire, promising love, respect, and partnership, Meera glanced at Arjun. In his eyes, she saw the Danube’s shimmer, the Budapest nights where their love had bloomed. Arjun, holding her hand, felt the same—a promise forged in a faraway city, now sealed in the heart of their homeland. After the wedding, at the reception, Meera’s cousin teased, “So, Budapest love story, huh? Bollywood should make this a movie!” Arjun laughed, pulling Meera close. “Maybe. But this is our story, and it’s just beginning.”

As they danced under a canopy of stars, the same stars that had watched them fall in love in Budapest, Arjun whispered, “We’ll go back someday. You, me, and the Danube.” Meera smiled, her heart full. “And this time, we’ll bring our families.”