The Accidental Happiness of Rahman
In that little town perched on the edge of the map, like a forgotten speck of dust, time didnt move by clocks but by seasons. It froze in bitter winters, thawed with the squelch of spring mud, drowsed in summer heat, and wept with autumns damp rains. And in this slow, syrupy current, Lucys life seemed to drown.
Lucy was thirty, and her existence felt hopelessly stuck in the mire of her own body. She weighed nineteen stone, not just as a number but as a fortress built between her and the worlda fortress of flesh, exhaustion, and quiet despair. She suspected the root of it lay inside her, some malfunction, an illness or metabolic disorder, but seeing a specialist was unthinkabletoo far, humiliatingly expensive, and, she feared, utterly pointless.
She worked as a nursery assistant at the municipal daycare, “Bluebell.” Her days smelled of baby powder, overcooked porridge, and perpetually damp floors. Her large, impossibly kind hands could comfort a sobbing toddler, tuck in a dozen cots with ease, and wipe up puddles without making a child feel ashamed. The children adored her, drawn to her gentleness and calm. But the quiet admiration of three-year-olds was poor compensation for the loneliness that waited beyond the daycare gates.
Lucy lived in an old, eight-flat council block, a relic of some long-gone era. The building creaked at night, groaned under strong winds, and seemed one stiff breeze from collapse. Two years ago, her mothera quiet, worn-out woman who had buried all her dreams within those same wallshad passed away. Her father was a distant memory, vanished long ago, leaving behind only dusty emptiness and a faded photograph.
Her life was harsh. Rusty, reluctant water trickled from the taps, the shared outdoor loo turned into an icebox in winter, and summer heat choked the rooms. But the real tyrant was the stove. Each winter, it devoured two full loads of firewood, draining her meagre wages dry. Lucy spent long evenings staring into the flames behind the cast-iron door, wondering if the stove swallowed not just logs but her years, her strength, her future, turning it all to cold ash.
Then, one evening, as twilight seeped into her room with its grey melancholy, a miracle happened. Not a grand or flashy one, but small, worn-in, like the slippers of her neighbour Margaret, who suddenly knocked on her door.
Margaret, a cleaner at the local hospital, her face lined with years of worry, clutched two crisp banknotes.
“Lucy, love, Im so sorry. Here. Two hundred quid. Theyve been burning a hole in me conscience, honestly,” she muttered, pressing the money into Lucys hand.
Lucy could only stare. Shed written off that debt in her mind years ago.
“Margaret, you didnt have to”
“I did!” Margaret cut in, her voice fierce. “Im doing alright now. Listen”
Lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret, Margaret began an unbelievable tale. How a group of lads from Pakistan had turned up in their town. How one of them, spotting her sweeping the street, had offered her a strange, frightening dealfifteen hundred quid.
“They need citizenship, see. Fast. So theyre trawling towns like ours, looking for wives. Fake ones, for paperwork. Got me hitched yesterday. Dunno how they sort it at the registry officebribes, probablybut its quick. My bloke, Rahman, hes at mine now, for appearances. Once its dark, hell go. My Sarah agreed toowants a new coat before winter. What about you? Look, its a chance. Need the money, dont you? And whos gonna marry you proper?”
The last words werent cruel, just brutally honest. And Lucy, feeling that familiar pang under her ribs, hesitated only a second. Margaret was right. Real marriage wasnt in her future. No suitors, never had been, never would be. Her world was the daycare, the shops, and this room with its greedy stove. But heremoney. Fifteen hundred quid. Enough for firewood, maybe new wallpaper to chase away the gloom of those faded, peeling walls.
“Alright,” she said softly. “Ill do it.”
The next day, Margaret brought the “candidate.” Lucy gasped and instinctively stepped back, trying to hide her bulk. Before her stood a ladtall, slender, with a face untouched by lifes hardness and dark, sorrowful eyes.
“Lord, hes just a boy!” she blurted.
The lad straightened. “Im twenty-two,” he said clearly, his accent barely noticeable, just a soft lilt.
“See?” Margaret fussed. “Mines fifteen years younger, but you two? Only eight years apart. Mans in his prime!”
At the registry office, they were told to wait a month. “To think it over,” the clerk said pointedly.
The lads leftthey had work. But before going, Rahman asked for Lucys number.
“Its lonely in a strange place,” he explained, and in his eyes, she saw something familiarlostness.
He started calling. Every evening. At first, the conversations were short, awkward. Then they grew longer. Rahman was a surprising talker. He spoke of his mountains, the sun there, how it was different, his mother whom he loved dearly, how hed come to England to help his family. He asked about her life, her work, and to her surprise, she told himnot complaints, but stories. Funny moments at the daycare, her home, how the first spring earth smelled. She caught herself laughing into the phonegirlish, bright, forgetting her weight, her age. In that month, they learned more about each other than some couples did in years.
When Rahman returned, Lucy put on her only nice dresssilver, clinging tightlyand felt something strange: not fear, but anticipation. His friends, serious young men like him, stood as witnesses. The ceremony was brisk, impersonal to the clerks. To Lucy, it was a flash: the gleam of rings, official words, the surrealness of it all.
Afterwards, Rahman walked her home. Inside, he solemnly handed her the promised money. She took it, feeling its weightthe weight of her choice, her despair, her new role. Then he pulled out a small velvet box. Inside lay a delicate gold chain.
“A gift,” he said softly. “Wanted a ring, but didnt know your size. I… I dont want to leave. I want you to be my wife. For real.”
Lucy froze.
“Ive heard your soul over the phone,” he continued, his eyes burning with a quiet fire. “Its kind. Pure, like my mothers. She was my fathers second wife, and he loved her dearly. Ive fallen for you, Lucy. Truly. Let me stay. With you.”
This wasnt a request for a sham marriage. It was a proposal. And in his honest, sorrowful eyes, she saw not pity but what shed long stopped dreaming ofrespect, gratitude, and the first flickers of love.
Rahman left the next day, but now it was the start of waiting, not an ending. He worked in London but visited every weekend. When Lucy discovered she was pregnant, Rahman sold his share in the business, bought a second-hand van, and returned for good. He started a delivery service, ferrying goods and people, and it thrived thanks to his honesty and hard work.
Then their son was born. Three years later, another. Two beautiful, dark-eyed boys with their fathers gaze and their mothers gentle smile. Their home filled with shouts, laughter, tiny footsteps, and the warmth of real family life.
Her husband didnt drink or smokehis faith forbade itand he looked at Lucy with such love the neighbours grew envious. The eight-year gap between them dissolved, invisible in the light of it all.
But the most astonishing change was Lucy herself. She bloomed from within. Pregnancy, happiness, the need to care for othersher body transformed. The extra weight melted away, day by day, as if it had been a shell protecting something fragile until the right time. She didnt diet; her life was simply too fullof movement, purpose, joy. She grew prettier, her eyes bright, her step confident.
Sometimes, watching her sons play by the stove (now tended by Rahman), catching her husbands adoring gaze, Lucy remembered that strange evening, the two hundred quid, Margarets knock. The greatest miracles, she thought, dont come with thunderbolts but with a quiet knock, bringing a stranger with sad eyes who, one day, gives not a sham marriage but a whole new life. A real one.
And so she learned: happiness often arrives unannounced, in the most unexpected ways, if only we dare to open the door.
