The helpless girl
Chapter 1: The Village of Quiet Suffering
The village lay beside a narrow road in Assam, surrounded by fields that turned golden after harvest and dull brown during hard seasons. From a distance, it looked peaceful—small houses, tall trees, children running barefoot in the dust. But behind the calm surface, many lives were weighed down by poverty and unspoken pain.
In one of the tin-roofed houses lived Rina.
She was not known for her beauty or her voice, but for her obedience. From an early age, Rina had learned how to stay silent. Silence kept peace in the house. Silence kept questions away. Silence made life easier for everyone—except her.
Her mother, Kabita, woke up before sunrise every day. She cooked, cleaned, and worked without complaint. Her eyes often rested on Rina with a mixture of love and worry. She wanted a better life for her daughter, but dreams were dangerous when survival itself was difficult.
Rina's father, Pankaj, was a hardworking man, but years of struggle had bent his shoulders. He believed that fate decided everything. Education, happiness, and choice were luxuries meant for others.
Rina helped her mother, fetched water, and took care of household work. She attended school, but her mind was often heavy with thoughts she could not share. She wanted to study more, to work, to stand on her own feet—but such thoughts felt selfish in a house that barely survived.
In the evenings, village women gathered to talk. Their conversations were filled with advice, fear, and tradition.
"A girl's future is safe only in marriage," they said.
"Too much education spoils girls," they warned.
Rina listened quietly from a distance.
She did not argue. She did not dream aloud. She simply existed—for her family.
That night, as the village slept under a sky full of stars, Rina sat beside her mother.
"Am I a burden?" she asked softly.
Kabita looked at her in surprise and pulled her close. "No, my child," she said, though her voice trembled. "You are our strength."
But even Kabita knew the truth was more complicated.
Far away, unknown to Rina, decisions were already being made—decisions that would soon change her life forever.
Chapter 2: Rina's Childhood Without Dreams
Rina's childhood passed quietly, like a river that never made noise but kept moving forward. While other children laughed freely and chased their dreams without fear, Rina learned early that life demanded sacrifice before happiness.
She was the eldest child in the family, and responsibility followed her like a shadow. When her mother was tired, Rina cooked. When her father returned home worried, she stayed silent. She learned how to read moods before words, how to step back before causing trouble.
School was the only place where she felt slightly lighter. She enjoyed sitting on the wooden bench, listening to lessons, and reading stories about faraway places. Sometimes, she imagined herself wearing clean clothes, going to work, earning her own money, and helping her parents without losing her dignity.
But dreams did not survive long in her world.
Whenever she spoke about studying further, the elders shook their heads.
"What is the use of so much education for a girl?"
"Marriage is her real future."
Even her cousin sister Babita, who was a little older, warned her gently, "Do not think too much, Rina. Thinking hurts more."
Rina slowly stopped sharing her thoughts. She kept them locked inside her heart, where no one could judge them.
Her father, Pankaj, loved her in his own way, but fear controlled his decisions. Poverty had taught him that survival mattered more than happiness. He wanted to protect his family, even if it meant choosing painful paths.
Kabita watched her daughter grow quieter each year. At night, when the house was asleep, she sometimes touched Rina's hair and whispered prayers for her future. But prayers felt weak against hunger and debt.
Rina understood one truth very clearly—
her life did not belong to her.
She belonged to her family.
And one day soon, she would be asked to pay the price.
Chapter 3: Kabita's Silence, Pankaj's Fear
Kabita had learned to hide her worries behind routine. From morning to night, her hands were always busy—washing utensils, cooking meals, stitching torn clothes. Work gave her little time to think, and perhaps that was a blessing. Thinking too much only reminded her of what she could not change.
She watched Rina closely. A mother always knows when her child is carrying a silent weight. Kabita noticed how Rina spoke less now, how her eyes often wandered toward the road as if searching for something unknown. Kabita wanted to ask her what she dreamed of, but she was afraid of the answer.
Dreams needed support. Support needed money.
And money was something their house never had enough of.
Pankaj, on the other hand, spoke very little at home. He returned every evening with dust on his clothes and tiredness on his face. Some days, he brought home just enough to buy rice. Other days, even that felt uncertain.
At night, when Kabita and Pankaj lay beside each other, silence filled the space between them. But that silence was heavy, full of unspoken fear.
"What will we do about Rina?" Kabita finally asked one night, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
Pankaj turned his face away. "We will see," he replied. "God will show a way."
Kabita knew that "we will see" often meant we have no answer.
The village had its own expectations. Neighbors began asking questions that sounded harmless but carried pressure.
"She is growing up, isn't she?"
"Have you thought about her marriage?"
Each question tightened a knot inside Pankaj's chest. He feared society's judgment more than his own conscience. In the village, a girl unmarried beyond a certain age was seen as a problem.
Kabita wanted to protect her daughter, but she was trapped between love and reality. She had seen other girls married early, sent away without questions. She knew how the world treated poor women.
Some nights, Kabita sat alone and cried silently. Not because she did not love her daughter, but because loving her felt powerless.
Rina sensed the tension in the house. She did not ask questions. She did not protest. She only tried harder—to work more, to cost less, to become invisible.
She believed that if she caused no trouble, everything would be fine.
She did not know that decisions were already moving closer to their door.
And when they arrived, silence would no longer protect her.
Chapter 4: The Weight of Poverty
Poverty was not just a lack of money in Rina's house—it was a constant presence, like an invisible guest that never left. It decided what they ate, what they wore, and what they could hope for.
Some mornings, there was enough rice. Some mornings, there was only tea and silence.
Pankaj worked wherever he could—fields, construction sites, small jobs that paid little but demanded much. Each evening, he counted the money in his palm before entering the house, already knowing it would not be enough. The pressure of being a provider slowly turned into fear—fear of illness, fear of debt, fear of tomorrow.
Kabita tried to stretch everything. She reused old clothes, cooked simple meals, and avoided asking for anything. But there were expenses that could not be ignored—medicine, school needs, food. Every need felt like a burden.
Rina saw it all.
She stopped asking for new books. She avoided school trips. When her teacher praised her work and suggested further studies, Rina only smiled politely. Deep inside, she knew such paths were not meant for her.
One afternoon, Babita visited them. She spoke of marriages in nearby villages—how girls were sent away and families received money in return.
"At least the parents can breathe for some time," Babita said, not unkindly.
The words stayed in the room long after she left.
That night, Pankaj sat quietly outside the house. Kabita joined him.
"People are talking," he said slowly. "They say good offers come early."
Kabita understood what he meant. Her heart tightened. "She is still a child," she whispered.
Pankaj lowered his head. "Poverty does not wait for childhood to end."
Rina heard fragments of the conversation from inside. She did not understand everything, but she understood enough to feel afraid. For the first time, she sensed that her life was being discussed like a problem that needed a solution.
That night, sleep did not come easily. Rina stared at the roof and wondered when her future had stopped being hers.
Outside, the village slept peacefully.
Inside the house, the weight of poverty pressed harder than ever.
Chapter 5: Pratab's Arrival
Pratab arrived in the village on a hot afternoon, riding a motorcycle that raised dust along the narrow road. He wore clean clothes, dark glasses, and a confident smile. People noticed him immediately. A stranger with money always attracted attention.
He did not waste time. By evening, he was already sitting in the tea stall, speaking loudly about opportunities, connections, and wealthy families far away. His words sounded smooth, practiced—like someone who knew exactly what people wanted to hear.
Some villagers listened with curiosity. Others listened with hope.
Pratab had visited villages like this many times before. He knew how to speak to poor parents, how to turn fear into agreement. He spoke of rich men from Rajasthan who wanted young brides, of families who could escape poverty with one decision.
"It is a good match," he said confidently. "The man is wealthy. Your daughter will live comfortably. And you will receive money to clear your debts."
When Pratab finally came to Pankaj's house, Kabita felt uneasy the moment she saw him. There was something cold behind his smile.
Pankaj listened silently as Pratab explained the offer. The amount of money he mentioned felt unreal—enough to repay loans, enough to breathe without fear for the first time in years.
Kabita interrupted him. "How old is the man?"
Pratab waved his hand carelessly. "Age does not matter when there is security," he replied. "A girl's future is safe in a rich house."
Rina stood quietly in a corner, holding a metal plate. No one asked her to sit. No one asked her opinion. She understood that the conversation was about her, yet she felt invisible.
Pankaj asked a few questions, but his voice lacked strength. The money Pratab promised echoed loudly in his mind. He imagined a future without debt, without constant worry.
Kabita looked at Rina. Their eyes met for a brief moment. Rina's face showed fear, but also acceptance. She had been raised to obey, not to resist.
"We need time to think," Kabita said finally.
Pratab smiled knowingly. "Think quickly," he replied. "Such offers do not wait."
After he left, the house felt heavy. No one spoke for a long time.
That night, Kabita cried silently. Pankaj stared at the wall. And Rina lay awake, realizing that her life was being measured in money.
Pratab's arrival had planted a seed.
Soon, it would grow into something none of them could escape.
Chapter 6: The Offer That Changed Everything
The days after Pratab's visit were filled with restless silence. The house felt different, as if something heavy hung in the air. Every sound—the clatter of utensils, the footsteps outside—felt louder than usual.
Kabita could not focus on her work. Her hands moved automatically, but her mind was troubled. She watched Rina closely, noticing how her daughter avoided her eyes, how she worked without complaint, as if trying to prove her worth.
Pankaj, meanwhile, spoke even less than before. At night, he went out alone and returned late. He met villagers, listened to their advice, and heard the same words again and again.
"This is a good chance."
"Think of your family."
"A poor man cannot refuse fortune."
Each sentence pushed him closer to a decision he feared but felt powerless to avoid.
One evening, Pratab returned.
This time, he came prepared. He brought sweets, spoke politely, and reminded Pankaj of the money—how it could clear debts, repair the house, and secure the family's future.
"You are not doing anything wrong," Pratab said smoothly. "This is how the world works."
Kabita felt her heart tighten. "What about Rina's happiness?" she asked quietly.
Pratab smiled. "Happiness comes with comfort," he replied. "A girl adjusts. They all do."
Rina stood near the doorway, her hands trembling. She wanted to speak, to say she was afraid, but her voice refused to rise. Years of obedience held her back.
Pankaj finally nodded.
The decision was made without celebration, without joy. It felt like surrender.
That night, Kabita held Rina close. "Forgive us," she whispered. Tears soaked into Rina's hair.
Rina did not cry. She only stared into the darkness, trying to understand how her life had changed in just a few days.
The offer that promised relief had taken something priceless in return.
And there was no turning back.
Chapter 7: A Girl Without a Voice
After the decision was made, everything moved quickly. Dates were discussed, arrangements planned, and messages sent. People who had once ignored Rina now looked at her with curious eyes, whispering behind her back. Some spoke with envy, others with pity.
Rina felt like a guest in her own life.
No one asked her what she wanted. No one asked if she was ready. Her silence was taken as agreement, her obedience mistaken for strength.
Kabita tried to prepare her daughter for what lay ahead. She spoke softly, choosing her words carefully.
"You must be patient," she said one evening. "A woman's life needs endurance."
Rina nodded, though her heart felt heavy. She wanted to ask, Why must women endure everything? But she stayed quiet.
Babita visited again, helping with small preparations. She tried to sound cheerful, but her eyes betrayed her concern.
"Everything will be fine," she said, though she did not sound convinced.
At night, Rina sat alone with her thoughts. She remembered her childhood dreams—simple dreams of studying, working, standing on her own feet. Those dreams now felt distant, almost foolish.
She realized something painful:
Her life was no longer her own story. It had become a decision made by others.
One afternoon, while fetching water, Rina overheard two women talking.
"She is lucky," one said.
"Yes, rich husband," the other replied.
Rina lowered her head. Luck had never felt so heavy.
Inside her, a quiet question kept repeating—Does my pain matter to anyone?
But there was no answer.
The village moved on, busy with its own lives. And Rina, the girl without a voice, was carried forward by decisions she never made.
Chapter 8: Marriage Without Consent
The day of the marriage arrived without celebration in Rina's heart. The house was filled with people, noise, and instructions. Relatives came and went, offering advice and false smiles. To them, it was an occasion. To Rina, it felt like the end of something she had never been allowed to begin.
She was dressed carefully, her hair tied neatly, her face pale beneath the ornaments. Women around her spoke excitedly, adjusting her clothes and reminding her to behave properly. No one noticed how her hands trembled.
Kabita stood nearby, watching her daughter. Her eyes were filled with tears she refused to let fall. She wanted to stop everything, to pull Rina away from the crowd and say no. But fear held her back—fear of society, fear of poverty, fear of standing alone.
Pankaj avoided looking at his daughter. He told himself he was doing the right thing. He told himself this sacrifice would save the family.
The groom arrived from Rajasthan with people who spoke a different language. He was much older, his face serious and unreadable. He did not look at Rina as a person, but as something already owned.
The rituals passed like a blur. Rina followed instructions silently, her mind numb. Every step felt heavy, every moment unreal. She did not understand all the words spoken around her, but she understood one truth clearly—this marriage was not her choice.
When the ceremony ended, people congratulated her parents. Money exchanged hands quietly, away from public eyes. Pratab watched from a distance, satisfied.
As Rina prepared to leave her home, Kabita held her tightly for the last time. "Be strong," she whispered, her voice breaking.
Rina nodded. She had learned that strength meant silence.
As the vehicle moved away, Rina looked back at the village—the narrow road, the small house, the familiar faces. It was the only world she had ever known.
She did not know what waited for her ahead.
She only knew that she was leaving without consent, without hope, and without a voice.
Chapter 9: Leaving Assam
The journey away from Assam felt longer than it truly was. As the vehicle moved forward, Rina sat quietly by the window, watching the familiar landscape slowly disappear. Green fields, narrow rivers, clusters of houses—everything she had known faded behind her.
No one spoke to her much during the journey. The people accompanying her were strangers, busy with their own conversations. Their words blended into noise, a language she barely understood. Rina felt small and alone, as if she had been removed from her life and placed into someone else's world.
She thought of her mother's hands, rough from years of work, and her father's tired eyes. She wondered if they missed her already—or if relief had taken her place.
As the train crossed state borders, the air itself felt different. The sounds, the smells, even the sky seemed unfamiliar. Rina held her small bag close, the only thing that still belonged to her.
When they finally reached Rajasthan, the land looked dry and wide, stretching endlessly under the harsh sun. The house where she was taken stood tall and strong, very different from her small home in Assam. It was filled with silence, not the peaceful kind, but one that made her uneasy.
This was her new home now.
The man she was married to walked ahead of her without a word. He did not ask if she was tired. He did not ask how she felt. From the very first moment, Rina understood that her presence was expected, not welcomed.
That night, as she lay awake in an unfamiliar room, Rina felt the weight of distance press down on her. She was far from everything she knew—her family, her language, her identity.
She whispered a silent prayer, not knowing what she was asking for.
All she knew was that she had crossed more than just a border.
She had crossed into a life she had never chosen.
.
Chapter 10: A Stranger's House in Rajasthan
Morning came early in the stranger's house. The sunlight entered through narrow windows, harsh and unfamiliar. Rina woke up slowly, unsure of where she was for a moment. Then reality returned, heavy and unavoidable.
The house was large, but it did not feel welcoming. Its walls were bare, its rooms quiet. Every sound echoed—footsteps, doors closing, commands spoken sharply. Rina moved cautiously, afraid of doing something wrong.
Her husband spoke little, but when he did, his words were cold and controlling. He expected obedience, not conversation. From the first day, Rina understood her place in the house. She was not there to be cared for, but to serve.
She was shown her duties without explanation—cleaning, cooking, working from morning till night. Mistakes were not tolerated. Questions were not allowed.
Rina tried her best. She worked silently, her body tired, her heart heavier. She missed her mother's gentle voice, her cousin Babita's small smiles, the sound of her village waking up in the morning.
Here, she felt invisible.
Sometimes, she stood by the doorway and looked outside at the dry land stretching endlessly. The sky felt distant, as if even it did not belong to her anymore.
At night, when the house finally became quiet, Rina sat alone in her small space. She hugged her knees and wondered if anyone back home thought of her. She wondered if this was what her life was meant to be.
The days began to blur together. Each one felt the same—long, exhausting, and lonely.
Rina realized something painful:
She had not just left her home.
She had lost her freedom.
Chapter 11: A Wife Treated as a Servant
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Time moved forward, but Rina felt as though she was standing still. In the stranger's house, her role was clear and unquestioned. She woke before sunrise and slept long after everyone else. Her life followed a routine decided by others.
She worked endlessly—cleaning floors, washing clothes, preparing meals. No matter how hard she tried, it was never enough. If something went wrong, she was blamed. If everything went right, she was ignored.
Her husband spoke to her only when he wanted something done. His words carried authority, not care. Rina soon understood that in his eyes, she was not a partner but a responsibility he owned.
There were days when she felt physically exhausted and emotionally empty. She wanted to rest, to sit quietly for a few minutes, but even that felt forbidden. The house demanded her presence at all times.
Rina missed her name being spoken with kindness. She missed being seen as a human being.
Sometimes, she remembered her village—the soft mornings, her mother's voice, the simple life that once felt difficult but now seemed precious. Compared to this place, even poverty had felt warmer.
She tried writing letters home, but she never knew if they reached anyone. And even if they did, she doubted anyone would truly understand her pain.
Slowly, Rina began to feel that she was disappearing. Not physically, but inside. Her thoughts grew quieter. Her emotions became heavy and distant.
She wondered if this was what her future would look like—endless work, silent suffering, and a life lived without love.
And yet, somewhere deep within her, a small part of her still hoped.
She did not know why.
But she held onto that hope, even when everything around her tried to take it away.
.Chapter 12: Walls Without Windows
The house in Rajasthan began to feel like a cage without bars. Its walls stood tall and firm, but they allowed no light to enter Rina's life. There were no windows where she could stand freely and breathe, no corners where she could feel safe.
Rina was rarely allowed to step outside alone. Even simple tasks were watched closely. She learned to keep her eyes lowered and her voice soft. Any sign of resistance was met with anger.
Days passed without meaning. Festivals came and went, but Rina did not feel their joy. While others celebrated, she continued her work quietly, as if happiness belonged to someone else.
She often stood near the door in the evenings, listening to distant voices from the street. Those sounds reminded her that life still existed beyond these walls. People laughed, children played, and the world moved forward—without her.
Loneliness became her constant companion.
She missed speaking in her own language. Here, her words felt unfamiliar and broken. Even when she tried to express herself, no one listened. Slowly, she stopped trying.
At night, Rina lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She replayed memories of her childhood—simple moments that once felt ordinary but now felt precious. Her mother's gentle touch. The smell of rice cooking. The sound of rain in her village.
Those memories were the only windows she had.
But memories alone could not keep her strong forever.
Rina felt trapped, forgotten, and powerless. Yet somewhere inside her, a quiet voice kept whispering that this was not the life she deserved.
She did not know how or when, but she hoped—just once—that someone would hear her silent cry.
Chapter 13: Tears That No One Saw
Rina's tears had become silent companions. She cried when no one was watching, when the house was empty, and when the world outside seemed far away. Her sobs were muffled into her hands, hidden beneath the weight of obedience and fear.
No one noticed. No one asked if she was tired, hungry, or afraid. Her husband never wondered why her eyes were red. The servants treated her with distance, as if she were neither a guest nor a family member. Even the walls seemed to absorb her grief, echoing nothing back.
Sometimes she imagined her mother calling her name softly, telling her it would be alright. Sometimes she pictured her father smiling proudly, telling her to follow her dreams. Those moments of imagination were bittersweet—they made her both hopeful and sad.
Yet, even in her darkest moments, a small spark refused to die. Rina held onto it quietly, though she did not understand why it existed. It was hope—the tiniest, most fragile hope—that one day, someone might hear her, someone might help her, and life could be different.
She began to whisper her own dreams in that quiet space:
I want to be free. I want to live with respect. I want to see my home again. I want to smile without fear.
She did not share these words with anyone. She kept them tucked away in her heart, like a secret shield. It was the only thing that gave her strength to face another day in the house that had no warmth.
And though no one saw her tears, they mattered. They reminded her that inside her, Rina was still alive. Inside her, she had not yet surrendered.
Somewhere in the distance, beyond the walls and the windows that did not exist, life was waiting. And perhaps, someday, someone would come to open the door.
Chapter 14: The Woman Who Asked Questions
Change arrived quietly, without warning.
One afternoon, a woman came to the neighborhood to speak with families about government welfare and women's rights. She was calm, confident, and observant. People listened to her politely, some with interest, others with suspicion. To most, she was just another visitor who would soon leave.
But to Rina, she was different.
The woman noticed things others ignored—the way Rina avoided eye contact, the way she stood at a distance, the way her hands trembled slightly when spoken to. There was concern in the woman's eyes, not judgment.
She asked simple questions.
"How are you?"
"Are you well?"
Rina froze. No one had asked her that in a long time.
Before Rina could answer, her husband stepped forward and replied for her. "She is fine," he said firmly. "There is no problem here."
The woman did not argue. She smiled politely, but her eyes lingered on Rina for a moment longer than necessary. In that brief silence, Rina felt something unfamiliar—being seen.
Later that day, the woman asked to speak with Rina alone. The request was refused immediately.
"There is no need," her husband said sharply.
The woman did not insist. She understood resistance when she saw it. Instead, she left her contact details with a neighbor and said she would return another day.
That evening, Rina could not stop thinking about her. A stranger had noticed her pain without being told. A stranger had asked questions no one else dared to ask.
For the first time in months, Rina felt a small shift inside her. It was not freedom, not yet—but it was possibility.
Hope, once again, had found a way to enter her life.
Chapter 15: A Meeting at the Marketplace
A few days later, Rina was sent to the local market to buy vegetables. It was one of the rare moments when she stepped outside the house alone. The open space, the noise of people, and the movement around her made her feel both nervous and alive.
She kept her head down, moving quickly between stalls. The market was crowded—vendors calling out prices, women bargaining, children running past. For a moment, Rina felt invisible again, just another face in the crowd.
Then she heard a familiar voice.
"Rina."
She looked up, startled. It was the same woman who had visited the neighborhood—the one who had asked questions. She stood a little distance away, her expression gentle, not demanding.
Rina hesitated. Fear rushed through her. What if someone saw them talking? What if it caused trouble? Her hands tightened around the cloth bag she was holding.
The woman spoke softly. "Don't be afraid. We can just talk for a minute."
Something in her tone felt safe.
They stood near a small stall, pretending to look at vegetables. The woman did not rush her. She did not ask difficult questions at first. She spoke calmly about her work, about helping women who had no one to listen to them.
Slowly, Rina's fear began to loosen.
Then the woman asked quietly, "Are you truly well?"
This time, Rina did not look away.
The words Rina had held inside for months finally found a path out. In a low voice, she spoke of her life—of being forced into marriage, of the loneliness, of the endless work, of the fear she lived with every day. Her voice trembled, but she did not stop.
The woman listened without interruption. There was no shock on her face, only concern and determination.
When Rina finished, she felt empty and lighter at the same time.
"You did the right thing by speaking," the woman said gently. "What is happening to you is not right."
Rina's eyes filled with tears. "Can anything change?" she asked.
The woman nodded. "Yes. But you must not lose hope. You are not alone anymore."
For the first time in a long while, Rina felt something close to relief. The market noise continued around them, unaware that a quiet turning point had just occurred.
As they parted, the woman gave Rina clear instructions and a promise—to return, and to help her.
Rina walked back home slowly. Nothing around her had changed, yet everything felt different.
She had spoken.
And someone had listened.
Chapter 16: "Do Not Lose Hope"
That night, Rina could not sleep. The woman's words echoed in her mind—You are not alone anymore. For the first time in many months, her thoughts were not filled only with fear. There was uncertainty, yes, but there was also a quiet strength beginning to rise.
Over the next few days, Rina followed the woman's advice carefully. She stayed calm, avoided drawing attention, and waited. Waiting was something she knew well, but this time it felt different. This time, it carried purpose.
The woman returned, just as she had promised. She did not come directly to the house. Instead, she spoke with neighbors, gathered information, and observed quietly. She understood that helping Rina required patience and planning.
When Rina and the woman managed to exchange a few words again, the woman spoke firmly but kindly.
"What is happening to you is wrong," she said. "You deserve safety, dignity, and freedom. We will take the right steps, and we will do it carefully."
Rina listened closely. Fear tried to return, but the woman's confidence held it back.
"I am scared," Rina admitted softly.
"That is natural," the woman replied. "But courage does not mean being fearless. It means choosing hope even when fear is present."
Those words stayed with Rina.
For the first time, she allowed herself to imagine a life beyond the walls of that house. A life where she could speak freely, work with respect, and decide her own future.
Nothing had changed yet—not her situation, not her surroundings. But something inside her had.
She stood a little straighter. She breathed a little easier.
Rina did not know how or when freedom would come. But she knew one thing clearly now—
She would not lose hope.
Chapter 17: The Police Knock
The morning began like any other. Rina finished her work quietly, her hands moving out of habit. On the surface, nothing seemed different. But inside her, a strange calm had settled—mixed with fear and expectation.
Then came the knock at the door.
It was firm and unexpected.
Her husband frowned and opened it. Two police officers stood outside, their expressions serious. Behind them was the woman who had promised Rina help. She met Rina's eyes briefly and nodded.
The house filled with tension.
The officers asked questions—clear, direct, and authoritative. Rina's husband tried to speak over them, his voice rising with anger and confusion. But this time, his words did not control the room.
Rina stood silently at first, her heart pounding. The woman stepped closer to her and spoke gently, "You can speak now. You are safe."
Those words gave Rina strength.
With trembling but steady words, she told the truth. She spoke of the forced marriage, the control, the fear, and the life she had been living. The officers listened carefully, taking notes, asking questions with patience and seriousness.
For the first time, Rina felt that her voice mattered.
The police made their decision. They informed her husband that the matter was serious and that an investigation would follow. His anger turned into panic. The power he once held slipped away in that moment.
Rina was asked if she wanted to leave the house.
She nodded.
As she stepped outside, sunlight fell on her face. It felt warmer than ever before. The street looked the same, but to Rina, the world had changed.
She was no longer trapped behind walls without windows.
She was walking toward freedom.
Chapter 18: Freedom After Fear
Rina did not look back as she left the house. Each step away from the doorway felt unreal, as if she were walking out of a long, painful dream. Fear still lingered in her chest, but it no longer controlled her.
The police escorted her to a safe place where she could rest. The woman stayed by her side, speaking calmly, explaining what would happen next. Rina listened quietly, trying to absorb the truth—she was free from that house, free from that life.
For the first time in many months, no one ordered her to work. No one raised their voice at her. The silence around her felt gentle, not threatening.
That night, Rina slept deeply. There were no nightmares, no sudden awakenings. When she opened her eyes in the morning, sunlight filled the room softly. It felt like a new beginning.
The police continued their work. They recorded Rina's statement carefully and assured her that the law was on her side. The woman explained that forced marriage and abuse were crimes, not traditions to be accepted.
Rina felt a mix of emotions—relief, confusion, sadness, and gratitude. She thought of her parents, her village, and the long journey that had brought her here.
She did not know what awaited her next. But she knew one thing with certainty:
She was no longer powerless.
Freedom had come after fear, and though the path ahead was uncertain, Rina was ready to walk it—one step at a time.
.Chapter 19: Return to Assam
The journey back to Assam felt different from the one that had taken Rina away. This time, she was not surrounded by strangers who spoke over her. She was accompanied by people who listened, who explained, who treated her with respect.
As the train moved forward, Rina watched the changing landscape with quiet thoughts. The fear that once filled her chest had softened, replaced by uncertainty and hope. She wondered what awaited her at home—whether her parents would understand, whether the village would accept her.
When she finally reached her village, familiar sights greeted her—the narrow road, the trees, the small houses standing close together. Everything looked the same, yet Rina felt like a different person.
Her parents stood at the doorway when she arrived. Kabita's eyes filled with tears the moment she saw her daughter. She stepped forward and held Rina tightly, as if afraid she might disappear again.
Pankaj stood a little behind, silent and confused. He did not know what to say. Relief, guilt, and fear mixed on his face.
Neighbors gathered quickly. Whispers followed Rina wherever she walked. Some people looked curious, some judgmental, and a few sympathetic. The village that once watched her leave quietly now watched her return with questions.
Inside the house, Kabita asked gently, "Are you safe now?"
Rina nodded. "Yes," she replied softly.
But safety did not mean acceptance.
That night, Rina lay awake, listening to familiar sounds—the wind, distant voices, the rustling of trees. She was home, yet something felt uncertain. She sensed that her hardest struggle might not be over.
Returning to Assam had brought her back to her roots—but it had also brought her face to face with the truth she feared most.
Would her home still be her home?
Chapter 20: A Home That Felt Unfamiliar
The house Rina had grown up in stood exactly as she remembered it, yet it no longer felt the same. The walls were familiar, the rooms unchanged, but the warmth she once felt there was missing. It was as if the house did not know how to welcome her back.
Kabita tried her best to make Rina comfortable. She cooked her favorite food and stayed close, asking gentle questions. But even her care carried worry. She feared what people would say, how the village would react, and whether her family could survive the judgment.
Pankaj avoided long conversations. He sat outside most of the time, listening to the voices of villagers who came with advice and opinions.
"What will people think?"
"How will she live now?"
"She is a burden again."
Each word felt like a stone placed silently on Rina's heart.
No one asked her what she had endured. No one spoke of her courage. Instead, they discussed her future as if it were a problem that needed to be solved quickly.
Rina stayed quiet. She had learned that speaking did not always bring comfort.
One evening, she overheard her parents talking in low voices.
"Our lives are already difficult," Pankaj said tiredly. "How long can we protect her?"
Kabita did not reply immediately. When she finally spoke, her voice was weak. "She is our daughter."
Rina stood in the doorway, unseen. She realized then that love alone was not enough to give her a place in that house. Fear and society stood stronger.
That night, Rina felt the loneliness return—not the loneliness of captivity, but the loneliness of rejection. Being unwanted in your own home hurt in a different way.
She looked out into the dark village and understood something painful but clear:
Home is not always where you are born.
Sometimes, it is where you are accepted.
And Rina did not know where that place was yet.
Chapter 21: The Village's Judgment
The village had always spoken in whispers, but now those whispers followed Rina openly. Wherever she went—to the well, to the small shop, along the narrow paths—eyes turned toward her. Conversations stopped when she approached and resumed the moment she passed.
People judged without knowing.
Some said she had brought shame to her family.
Some said she should have stayed silent.
Others spoke as if her suffering were a choice.
Rina walked with her head lowered, not because she felt guilty, but because she was tired. Tired of explaining, tired of being seen as a problem rather than a person.
Babita tried to stand by her cousin, but even she felt the pressure. "People talk too much," Babita said quietly one day. "They forget that you are human."
The village elders gathered and discussed Rina's future as if she were not present. They spoke of honor, reputation, and tradition. No one spoke of justice. No one spoke of pain.
Kabita defended her daughter whenever she could, but her voice was weak against many. Pankaj remained silent most of the time, trapped between love for his child and fear of society.
Rina understood then that returning home had not erased her struggle—it had only changed its shape.
Yet, something inside her was different now. She had faced fear once and survived. She had spoken when it mattered. She was no longer the girl who accepted everything without question.
The village could judge her.
But it could no longer define her.
.Chapter 22: A Daughter Called a Burden
The words were never spoken loudly, but Rina heard them clearly.
"She has become a burden."
They floated through the house in broken sentences, whispered conversations, and long silences. No one said them directly to her face, yet they shaped every look and every pause.
Pankaj felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him again. The money that had once promised relief was gone, and the village pressure had returned stronger than before. Each day, he worried about how they would manage, how they would answer questions, how they would protect their family's name.
Kabita tried to shield Rina, but she was tired—tired of defending, tired of explaining, tired of hoping people would understand. Love remained in her heart, but fear slowly controlled her actions.
One evening, a heated discussion broke out.
"What future does she have now?" Pankaj asked, frustration breaking through his usual silence. "Who will take responsibility?"
Kabita replied softly, "She is our responsibility."
The words hurt more than anger ever could.
Rina stood outside the room, listening. She did not cry. She had cried enough in her life. Instead, she felt something sink deep inside her—a realization that staying here would only cause pain, for her and for them.
That night, Rina sat alone under the open sky. The stars looked the same as they always had, but she felt different beneath them. She thought about everything she had survived—the loss of choice, the fear, the journey back, the judgment.
She understood now that she could not wait for acceptance that might never come.
If she wanted a life with dignity, she would have to create it herself.
The thought was frightening—but also empowering.
Rina was no longer just a daughter called a burden.
She was a woman standing at the edge of a new decision.
Chapter 23: When Hope Almost Faded
Days passed, but nothing changed.
Rina stayed mostly silent, helping her mother with household work, avoiding the village paths where judgment waited. Every morning she woke up hoping something would feel lighter, and every night she slept with the same heaviness in her heart.
She felt invisible in her own home.
Kabita loved her daughter, but love alone could not fight society. Pankaj avoided eye contact, not out of hatred, but out of helplessness. The house that once felt warm now felt narrow and suffocating.
Rina began to feel that her presence only added to everyone's pain.
One evening, after another uncomfortable silence at dinner, Rina stepped outside. The sky was cloudy, and the air felt heavy, just like her thoughts. She walked without direction, her feet carrying her toward the riverbank she had known since childhood.
She stood there quietly, listening to the flowing water. It reminded her of everything she had lost—her childhood, her dreams, her voice. For a moment, she felt completely alone in the world.
Hope flickered weakly inside her, like a lamp about to go out.
She thought, If I disappear, maybe everyone will be free.
Tears rolled down her face, not from fear, but from exhaustion. She had fought so much already. She wondered how much strength a person was expected to have.
But even in that darkest moment, a small part of her heart questioned the thought. Is this really the end?
She closed her eyes, standing between despair and life, unaware that fate was about to intervene.
Chapter 24: A Stranger at the Riverbank
Rina stood at the edge of the river, her thoughts louder than the flowing water. The world felt unbearably quiet, as if it had already moved on without her. She looked at the river not with fear, but with emptiness.
Just then, a voice broke the silence.
"Why are you standing here alone at this hour?"
Rina turned in surprise. A young man stood a few steps away, holding a bicycle. His voice was calm, not suspicious or harsh—just concerned. He seemed to be from a nearby village, someone ordinary, someone real.
Rina did not answer at first.
The boy sensed something was wrong. "Are you okay?" he asked gently. "People don't come here like this when everything is fine."
Something in his tone—simple, human—made her strength collapse. Rina slowly sat down on the riverbank. Tears flowed freely now, no longer held back by pride or fear.
The boy sat at a respectful distance. He did not interrupt. He let her speak when she was ready.
And she spoke.
She told him everything—the forced marriage, the cruelty, the rescue, the return home, the rejection. Her words came out broken, but honest. She did not hide her pain.
The boy listened silently, his fists clenched, his eyes full of disbelief and anger—not at her, but at the world that had failed her.
When she finished, there was a long pause.
Then he said softly, "What happened to you is not your fault."
Those words, simple as they were, felt heavier than anything she had heard before. No one had said them so clearly.
"You are not weak for surviving," he continued. "And you are not alone—no matter what your village says."
Rina looked up at him, her eyes filled with questions.
The boy stood and offered his hand—not as a rescuer, but as a fellow human being.
"Come," he said. "Let's talk somewhere safe."
For the first time in a long while, Rina stepped away from the river.
Not because her pain had disappeared—but because someone had seen her worth.
Chapter 25: A Second Chance Begins
The boy walked beside Rina in silence, guiding her away from the river. He did not ask her to hurry. He did not lecture her. He simply stayed—something no one had done for her in a long time.
They sat near a small tea stall that was still open. The warm light and familiar smell of tea made the world feel a little less heavy. Rina held the cup with trembling hands, the warmth slowly reaching her fingers.
"My name is Arun," the boy said at last. "I work in the nearby town."
Rina nodded. "Rina."
Arun looked at her calmly. "You don't have to decide anything tonight," he said. "But you deserve a future that doesn't hurt."
Those words stayed with her.
Over the next few days, Arun kept his promise—not by grand gestures, but by practical help. He spoke to a small women's group in the town, people he trusted. He helped Rina find temporary work at a tailoring unit where women were trained and paid fairly.
The first day Rina stepped into that place, her heart pounded with fear. But the women there smiled at her—not with pity, but with acceptance. No one asked about her past. They only showed her how to begin.
Each stitch she learned felt like a step toward rebuilding herself.
Slowly, Rina began to change. Her shoulders straightened. Her eyes held less fear. She started earning her own money—small amounts, but enough to remind her that she was capable.
Kabita visited her once, quietly. She hugged Rina tightly and whispered, "I'm proud of you." It was not a full apology, but it was a beginning.
Months passed.
Rina and Arun spoke often—about work, dreams, and fears. Their bond grew naturally, built on respect and understanding, not pressure. When Arun finally spoke of marriage, it was not a demand, but a choice.
"This time," he said, "only if you want it."
Rina smiled—not the forced smile of the past, but one born of freedom.
She had lost so much.
But she had found herself.
And this time, her life belonged to her.
.Author's Note
The Helpless Girl is a story born from the silent suffering of countless girls whose voices remain unheard. It reflects a harsh reality where poverty, tradition, and greed combine to steal choice, dignity, and childhood from young women.
Rina's journey is not just one of pain, but of survival. She represents those who are blamed for crimes committed against them, those who are called burdens instead of victims, and those who are expected to disappear quietly. Through her story, this novel seeks to question social norms that value reputation over humanity.
This book is not written to accuse a community or culture, but to expose a system that allows injustice to continue under the cover of silence. It is also a reminder that hope often appears in the most unexpected forms—and that healing begins when even one person chooses to listen.
If this story helps even one reader understand, empathize, or speak up, then Rina's voice has served its purpose.
— The Nilimjyotigogoi