The Accidental Marriage
A Lazy Clerk. A Digital Glitch. A Government-Approved Love Story.
“It’s time for you to do some work, Raghav.”
Raghav heard a voice in his slumber. It was calm, so he just smiled and kept sleeping.
“Raghav!” barked Mr. Tandon, the senior registrar. “Are you planning to dream your way to pension?”
Raghav blinked awake. “Sir, not dream. Processing applications internally.”
“Process externally! People are waiting!” Mr. Tandon threw a couple of marriage registration forms at his face.
Raghav looked at the clock. 9:45 a.m. He had been asleep—upright, mouth open, snoring softly into a pile of marriage forms—while eager couples waited for him to process their misery… for life.
He looked around. The government office buzzed like an irritated beehive. Fans creaked, printers coughed, and a dozen couples waited to be declared “legally married and miserable.”
He sighed, cracked his neck, and muttered, “Love never sleeps, but clerks should.”
He flipped open the next file. Application No. 4573 — Meera Joshi.
Just the sight of her name made him smile. Meera—the bright schoolteacher who came every week for community paperwork. The only woman who ever said thank you in a place where people only asked, How much bribe?
As full wakefulness returned, the thought of Meera getting married infected him with dread. Raghav had harbored a silent crush on her for a year—admiring her from behind stacks of dusty registers, always planning to tell her someday… right after his next nap.
Now, as he pictured her getting married, his hands trembled. He knew he had lost her to his procrastination.
***
That morning a new online system had been launched for “Digital Marriage Registration.” Raghav was in charge of uploading paper files to the portal. Half the office didn’t understand the system; the other half didn’t understand marriage.
Raghav immediately regretted using the new system for Meera’s application. He closed his eyes, cursed himself, clicked Upload, and dragged Meera’s scanned form onto the screen. Then, as per procedure, he selected his own name from the dropdown to log the entry. He should’ve selected “Registrar in Charge,” but the dropdown froze halfway, leaving only his own name visible.
Click. Submit. Approved.
A green pop-up flashed:
“Congratulations — Raghav Sharma and Meera Joshi: Your Marriage Application Has Been Verified.”
He froze. “Wait. What?” Did the government system have pity on me, he wondered. No… but this isn’t right.
He reread it. Then reread it again. “No. No, no, no!”
He hit Undo. Nothing.
He hit Delete. Access denied.
He hit — God, please. Still nothing.
Within seconds the website’s public dashboard updated. The entire district could now see:
Approved Marriage: Raghav Sharma & Meera Joshi — Status: Pending Ceremony Date.
Vinod leaned over. “Oye, Romeo! You finally did it!”
Raghav’s face turned tomato red. “Shut up! It’s a system glitch!”
Vinod grinned. “Bro, even the government is tired of your single status. They automated your love life!”
Mr. Tandon reappeared. “Raghav! Why is my phone ringing nonstop? Who is Meera Joshi, and why does the Chief Registrar think you’re getting married?”
Before Raghav could answer, the landline shrieked. He picked up, trembling.
“Raghav Sharma?” a deep voice thundered.
“Yes?”
“This is Joshi — Meera’s father. What nonsense have you done?”
Raghav stammered, “Sir, technical issue—” and swallowed hard.
“Technical issue?! My daughter is trending on the municipal website with a clerk! Fix it in one hour, or I’ll fix your job and future!” The line went dead.
Sweat pooled under Raghva’s collar. His fingers hovered uselessly above the keyboard, as if afraid to touch another key and accidentally marry someone else.
He slumped into his chair. “This is how bureaucrats die — not of heart attacks, but by hyperlink.”
***
Raghav’s first instinct was damage control. He called the official helpline printed on the portal.
A robotic voice answered, “Welcome to the National Marriage Support Line. For love-related emergencies, press 1.”
He pressed 1.
After twenty minutes of flute music, a sleepy man picked up. “Yes, sir, how may I ruin your day?”
“My name is Raghav Sharma. I uploaded the wrong file—accidentally applied to marry a woman online.”
A pause. Then: “You mean you swiped her right on a dating site?”
“No,” Raghav cleared his throat. “I applied for my marriage with her in the registrar’s office.”
The sleepy man sounded excited. “Is that a new way to marry girls who don’t think you exist?”
“What? No!” Raghav could have strangled the sleepy-excited guy if he’d been in front of him. “Look, she knows I exist. But that’s not the point. I need to cancel the marriage application.”
“Ah. Divorce! That’s quite common nowadays.” He brightened. “For divorce, press 2.”
“It’s not divorce! It’s a mistake! And I am not married yet!” Raghav screamed. He was so loud the man audibly sat up straighter.
The line went quiet, as if the agent were considering the remedy for life’s misery. “Then please fill Form M-420 in triplicate and email it with a selfie holding today’s newspaper,” he said at last.
Raghav tried to comprehend the sentence, forcing himself to calm down. “What for?” he asked.
“Proof that you’re still alive, sir. We get many posthumous complaints.”
“I’m not dead—just doomed!” Raghav yelled.
The man yawned. “Thank you for your feedback. Case marked as resolved.”
Click.
Raghav threw his phone on the table. “The system doesn’t need helpdesks—it needs an exorcism.”
***
Raghav thought for a while. He remembered that the district portal automatically finalized registrations by 5 p.m. unless withdrawn manually by both parties.
The catch? Meera was at her school, and Raghav couldn’t withdraw without her OTP confirmation. And he had no courage to tell Meera what he’d done. He still hoped she might, somehow, consider him dateable.
Desperate, Raghav dashed back into the office, waving his phone.
“Sir! If both parties need to cancel, can’t I just withdraw it from the backend?”
Mr. Tandon looked over his glasses. “Backend? You couldn’t even manage your front end properly.”
“Sir, please! Just delete it!”
“No deletion without physical signatures. And bring hers too.”
“But she’s at school!” Raghav cried.
“Then take your lazy legs there.”
Raghav knew he had no other option. So he sprinted to Meera’s school, heart pounding like a rejected loan file.
***
By the time he reached, it was the mathematics period.
He peeked through the classroom door. Meera was teaching multiplication tables.
“Miss, someone’s here for you!” a student shouted, spotting Raghav peeping through the hole in the door.
The whole class turned.
Raghav froze, holding a form and pen like a bouquet.
The children gasped. “Is this a proposal?!”
“No!” Raghav blurted. “It’s a… withdrawal form!”
The kids shrieked. “Miss, he wants to withdraw from you!”
Raghav felt something stuck in his throat. Maybe it was his life.
Meera sighed, pinching her forehead. “Everyone quiet.”
Then she turned, startled. “Raghav? What are you doing here?”
He gulped. “It’s… about our marriage.”
Her eyes widened. “Our marriage?”
He explained everything in one panicked breath. The students gasped like it was a Netflix thriller.
When he finished, Meera blinked—half amused, half horrified. “So I’ve legally applied to be married to you now?”
He swallowed and nodded weakly.
The kids erupted. “Miss married the lazy clerk!”
One boy shouted, “Miss, please invite us for the honeymoon! We’re not allowed to watch 18+ content online!”
Raghav almost ran to kick the boy, but Meera raised a hand to stop him and silence the class. “Everyone out for sports practice!”
They fled, giggling.
She turned to Raghav. “You realize this is insane, right?”
“I swear I didn’t mean to! The website mixed things up.”
“You uploaded it.”
“Yes, but with pure heart and poor focus.”
***
Raghav and Meera went to a nearby cyber café to fix it. In the car, Raghav’s eyes kept drifting toward Meera. She looked gorgeous, even though her face screamed anger. For a fleeting moment, he thought of confessing his feelings—but, as usual, he didn’t.
Inside the café, the internet was slow. The operator was slower.
“Sir, your marriage file looks strong,” the operator said. “Even the system refuses divorce so early.”
Meera folded her arms. “We’re not married. You just need to withdraw the marriage application. Can’t you just undo it?”
“Madam,” the operator said wisely, “in government life, only Ctrl + C and Ctrl + V work. Ctrl + Z is a myth.”
While the system processed their request, Meera got a call. Her face paled.
“My father’s coming here.”
Raghav nearly fainted. “To the café?!”
“Yes. And he’s bringing my fiancé.”
“Fiancé?!”
“Yes, we’re engaged. It was supposed to be registered next week!”
The operator announced cheerfully, “Sir, madam, website server down for maintenance. Come back after two hours.”
Raghav stared at the screen in disbelief.
Two hours. It was already 3:00 p.m.
***
Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Joshi stormed in like an earthquake in formal shoes, dragging along a thin, sweaty man in spectacles.
“This is Karan,” he said, pointing to the fiancé. “An MBA. Civilized. Unlike this—this filing error!”
Raghav stood stiff. “Sir, please, it’s being fixed—”
Mr. Joshi interrupted. “Do you know how much humiliation you’ve caused? Our relatives think we arranged a secret wedding!”
Karan stepped forward. “I’d like to file a defamation case.”
Raghav blinked. “Against what, Excel sheets?”
Meera, torn between laughter and rage, said, “Enough! Let’s just check the system again.”
The operator refreshed the screen. A new message blinked:
“Server Restored. Marriage Finalization in 15 Minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes?!” Raghav shouted.
“Yes, sir,” said the operator. “If not cancelled by both parties, it becomes legally binding.”
Everyone froze.
***
Meera looked at Karan. “You still want to marry me?”
Karan hesitated. “I… need to discuss this with my parents. They value reputation.”
She nodded slowly, disappointment flickering in her eyes. “We can just edit the form and replace your name with Raghav’s.”
Karan didn’t answer. Not immediately. Then finally said, “I need more time.”
Raghav watched quietly. For once, he didn’t want to run away.
He stepped closer. “Meera, I can fix the form… but I need your OTP. Only you can approve or reject.”
She looked at him. “And if I don’t?”
He met her eyes and held her gaze. For once, he saw his own reflection and remembered what she meant to him.
“Then,” he said, voice steady, “maybe destiny has filed your marriage with someone who doesn’t need anyone’s permission to be with you.”
A silence hung in the café. Even the operator stopped slurping tea.
She smiled faintly. “You really think this is destiny?”
He shrugged. “Or a government conspiracy to make me punctual and responsible.”
She laughed—despite herself. “I don’t believe in destiny… but I want to believe you.”
For a second, her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Maybe she wasn’t afraid of the mistake anymore—just of what it might mean if she wanted it to be real.
Then she entered the OTP.
The screen blinked:
“Request to Cancel Marriage Pending Partner Confirmation.”
Raghav pressed Confirm.
They both exhaled. The website updated:
“Application Withdrawn.”
***
Outside, the evening sun glowed orange.
Mr. Joshi and Karan had left, muttering about disgrace and IT cells.
Meera stood quietly beside Raghav. “You fixed it just in time.”
He smiled. “I almost didn’t.”
“You really are lazy, you know?” She smiled, a flicker of amusement in her eyes.
“I was,” he said, turning toward her and holding her gaze, “until I saw what I could lose by napping through life.”
She looked at him—really looked, this time. “You still owe me coffee for this trauma.”
“Coffee? Or first date?”
She laughed. “Let’s start with coffee. And no paperwork.”
“Promise. No files, no OTPs—just me, being accidentally responsible.”
He smiled faintly. “You know, I started this day processing internally. Guess I’m finally processing externally.”
***
Two months later, another file appeared on the district portal:
Approved Marriage: Raghav Sharma & Meera Joshi — Status: Verified.
This time, it wasn’t Raghav’s error.
It was the sleepy helpline man—trying to earn an appraisal by proving no applications had ever been cancelled.
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