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Malini enters the dining hall with Abhishek's gentle care,
Feeding her with his hands, a love beyond compare.
His aunt asks, "Where are you going, so dressed up and fine?"
Malini replies, "I'm going to school, to learn and to shine."
The room falls silent, gasps and shock do abound,
"Married girls don't study," the women all resound.
"Serve your husband, in-laws, and bear sons with care,"
Malini looks at Abhishek, seeking his support to share.
He blinks, and Malini finds her voice, her heart aflame,
"I want to study, and I will, it's my rightful claim."
His mother frowns, "A girl who studies brings disaster to the home,"
Malini counters, "Goddess Saraswati and Laxmi, they're girls, they've shown.
"They're goddesses of wealth and knowledge, how can we deny,
A girl's right to study, and bring prosperity to the sky?"
The women try to crumble her, but Malini stands tall,
Abhishek speaks, "Should a wife listen to her husband, after all?"
His mother nods, "Yes, it's her duty to obey."
Abhishek says, "Then I'm the one who ordered her to study, she's just following my way."
The room falls silent, his words shut every mouth,
Malini's rebellion, a new path is devout.
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16th April 1846
Calcutta, Bengal
MALINI'S POV~
The aroma of fried cumin and warm lentils floats faintly in the air, but it can't overpower the stiffness hanging like a curtain between the walls.
"Good morning, Maa," he says, his voice calm and steady as he bends to touch her feet… a gesture woven deep into tradition.
"Good morning," she replies quickly. Her voice is clipped, absent of the warmth I noticed in it yesterday.
Still, she places her palm over his head, more out of duty than affection.
I bend beside him, lowering myself with the same respect, and reach for her feet.
For a fleeting second, I feel her hand hover over my head… a mere ghost of a touch… before it disappears, as if even that small blessing scorched her pride.
A heavy silence settles like dust on every surface in the room.
Not even the clink of a spoon dares to break it.
Without a word, he pulls out the chair beside his chair and gestures for me to sit.
His hand brushes lightly against the small of my back, steadying me as I lower myself onto the seat.
Then, with effortless grace, he takes the chair beside me…. close, but not stifling.
Protective, yet never imposing.
He places two warm tortillas on his plate, steam still rising faintly from their soft surfaces.
With calm precision, he tears a piece and dips it gently into the curry, letting the spices soak in.
Then he lifts it toward me— bite by bite… his fingers steady, his gaze tender.
There's a rhythm to it, like a quiet lullaby played with hands instead of notes.
Each time he feeds me, I feel his care folding around me like a shawl— soft, deliberate, sacred.
"Where are you going?" Suchitra aunty's voice cuts through the clinking of utensils, sharp and sudden.
Her eyebrows arch in suspicion, and her gaze sweeps over me like a harsh wind, scrutinizing my neatly tied braid, my pressed saree, the hint of kohl lining my eyes.
I freeze with a bite halfway down my throat.
I quickly gulp it, my throat dry.
"School," I say, my voice quieter than I intend, but steady.
"What?!" she gasps, her voice shrill enough to rattle the silence.
The room goes still for a heartbeat, and then every pair of eyes snaps toward me like a whip crack.
The clatter of a spoon being dropped echoes, and I feel their stares pressing on my skin— hot, burning, judging.
"Why?!" she repeats, her voice louder this time, almost scandalized. "What's the need to study now? You're already married."
Her eyes narrow into slits, sharp and accusatory, as if my wanting to learn is a crime she's caught me red-handed committing.
"But I want to study," I say, barely above a whisper, but I don't look away.
"I'm in Class Nine. I want to complete my Tenth."
My fingers curl tightly into fists on my lap, nails digging into my skin, trying to ground the storm churning in my chest.
"Enough!" his mother snaps, slamming her hand against the table.
The sound ricochets through the room like a gunshot.
"You will not study any further. You are a daughter-in-law now."
Her voice carries the weight of finality, slicing through the air like a knife.
"Daughter-in-laws don't go to school. They stay home. They take care of the house. That is their duty."
Each word lands like a blow— sharp, heavy, meant to silence.
I glance at him, seeking his silent reassurance, my fingers unconsciously tightening around the edge of my saree.
He tilts his head slightly, his sharp profile softening as his eyes flick toward mine— quiet, steady, and understanding.
Then— without a word…. he gives a small, deliberate nod.
One blink.
Like a promise.
Like armor being slipped over my shoulders.
A shy smile curls on my lips, encouraged by his silent strength.
I lift my eyes back at them… calmer now.
Braver.
"I'll study," I say, voice calm yet firm, a tiny tremor fluttering in my tone like a bird's wing.
The room holds its breath.
And then—
I feel it.
His hand slides into mine beneath the table, warm and grounding.
His fingers close around mine with gentle certainty.
My shiver steadies.
I'm no longer alone.
"Girls studying is the same as destroying a household," Suchitra aunty spits the words like venom, her teeth clenched and eyes narrowed.
I flinch— just a little… but recover fast.
"No! That's not true," I cut in, my voice slicing through hers like a defiant spark in a forest of silence.
Her face twists with fury.
"It is true!" she thunders, her voice rising like a storm. "A girl who studies brings nothing but ruin! She shatters homes, tears apart our traditions, our culture! Girls aren't meant to study…. they're born to serve their husbands, serve their in-laws, and bear sons. That is their only duty!"
Her palm slams onto the wooden table with a thud that echoes like a slap across the room.
"Then why," I begin, my voice calm but sharp, "is Goddess Saraswati the goddess of knowledge? Isn't she a girl too?"
I lift my gaze, eyes steady, locking directly with hers.
Her superiority wilts under my stare.
A hush blankets the dining room.
Even the clink of utensils falls silent.
Her face turns an angry shade of red— shocked, embarrassed, defenseless.
The flush crawls up her neck like guilt made visible.
I feel the weight of every eye in the room shift to me.
But I don't flinch.
"Why do we place books and pens before her idol?" I continue, voice gaining strength with each word. "Why do we bow before her when we seek wisdom? Why?"
I squeeze his palm gently, as if borrowing a sliver of his calm.
My heart beats loud in my ears, each thump a battle drum.
But beneath the nervous flutter is a rising tide of confidence, washing away doubt like morning sunlight clearing fog.
"Why is Goddess Laxmi the goddess of prosperity?" I ask, tilting my head slightly. "Why is she the one we call upon for the well-being of a home… for the future of a bloodline?"
My voice cuts through the silence like a sacred bell in a temple.
No one dares to respond.
Their venom, once dripping from their tongues, dries up mid-breath…. turned brittle under the weight of truth.
"A girl who learns…. who holds knowledge, brings prosperity, not burden," I say slowly. "She nurtures not only children but minds. She teaches the next generation. A child's first teacher is not a priest… or a man. It's the mother."
I pause, letting the truth settle into the room like monsoon rain hitting dry earth.
"She is the pillar of the home. Strip her of respect, and the structure collapses. Without her, a house is nothing more than cold cement and empty walls. A hollow shell."
I let my eyes sweep across the faces seated around the table— Suchitra aunty's prideful tilt, Ruchira's half-smirk fading, others stunned into silence… before stopping at her.
His mother.
"We girls," I whisper, letting softness follow strength, "are the ones who breathe soul into lifeless bricks. We don't shatter homes."
I let my gaze drift to him….. his eyes glowing like amber flame.
"We make them."
A flutter sparks inside my chest like a caged bird taking flight.
And then I see it, the smile playing on his lips.
Proud.
Soft.
Unspoken applause meant only for me.
"Goddess Saraswati and Goddess Laxmi are divine beings," his mother snaps, her voice sharp and clipped, though still deceptively calm. "You are not. We are not. We are mere mortals. Don't you dare compare yourself to them."
Her words lash like a whip, thinly veiled in restraint, yet soaked in judgment.
The room crackles with tension, air thick with unspoken resentment and wounded egos.
"Maa," he says evenly, his tone laced with an edge of quiet defiance. "A wife should follow her husband's orders, right?"
His eyes flick from mine to his mother's, the question hanging in the air like a silent challenge.
"Yes," his mother replies coldly, her chin slightly raised in firm conviction. "It is her duty to listen to her husband— no matter what."
Her eyes cut toward me like a blade, brief but sharp, as though etching blame into my skin.
"I'm her husband," he says, calm but unwavering. "And she's doing exactly what I asked her to. I ordered her to continue her studies."
His voice holds no tremor, no arrogance… just quiet finality.
The air around us seems to settle, though I can still feel the silent storm brewing behind the restrained faces.
I catch a glimpse of his mother and her sisters exchanging hushed murmurs, their lips tight, eyes narrowed.
To them, I must be some cunning enchantress, casting spells over their obedient son to bend him to my will.
Their suspicion clings to the air like the bitter scent of burnt incense— silent, toxic, unspoken.
"Come, it's getting late," he says softly, rising to his feet.
He reaches for my hand, his grip warm and steady, as he gently helps me up.
His gesture feels like a shield, his presence like a silent promise— 'I'm not alone in this.'
"Maa," he says as we begin to walk away, "I'll be home late today. Too much work waiting at the office."
He slips his hand around my waist, a quiet pull drawing me closer to his side.
It's not just affection…. it's a declaration.
He turns to me, his expression unreadable but eyes soft.
Without a word, he leads me out of the dining room, one slow step at a time, his hand never leaving mine.
Behind us, the silence of the room gnaws at my back like eyes burning holes through my spine.
I glance back over my shoulder, heart thudding.
His mother's gaze pierces through the air— sharp, cold, and unmoving.
Her eyes don't blink.
They stab silent daggers into my back, branding me with their warning.
But I lift my chin ever so slightly.
I will not bow.
~ His voice is my strength.
჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻.✾.჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻
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