No, I won't go."
The words left Bani's lips like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile tension that had stretched across the room like a brittle thread. Simple words, but behind them were months—years—of suppression, silent tears cried into pillows, long nights lying awake next to a man who had never even noticed her grief.
The room froze.
Every pair of eyes turned toward her, most in disbelief, a few in indignation. The air turned thick, almost solid. You could slice it with the same blade she'd just unsheathed with her refusal.
The old man in the crisp white panche, perched stiffly on the edge of the sagging sofa, shifted uncomfortably. His name was Subbanna, a distant relative from the groom's side, called in last minute under the illusion that he could "mediate." In reality, he was just another emblem of tradition—someone who believed age brought wisdom, and women were better heard in whispers.
"Bani," he said, his tone cautious, as if speaking too loudly might provoke her into exploding. "Divorce… is not the solution to every misunderstanding. You are young. All couples fight. Tell me, child—why do you want this? What went wrong? Let's try to understand, hmm?"
Bani looked at him. Not with hatred. Not even anger.
Just… emptiness. A hollow patience born from endless explanations no one had cared to hear.
"Where it went wrong?" she repeated, a bitter smile ghosting her lips. "Uncle, it never went wrong. Because it never even began."
The room shifted again, people whispering into each other's ears. Piyush sat rigidly beside his father, eyes firmly planted on the floor, his body language silent but damning. His mother narrowed her eyes, lips curling in distaste.
"This marriage," Bani continued, her voice louder now, stronger, "was never a marriage."
Subbanna frowned, uncertain. "What do you mean?"
She drew in a breath, not because she needed to—but because she deserved to take up space. To be heard, to be felt. She had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in her head, in bathroom mirrors, during long walks with no destination.
"I mean," she said slowly, "that after a year and a half of marriage… I am still a virgin."
The silence that followed was violent.
Even the ceiling fan, with its tired creaking, seemed to stutter.
Piyush's mother shot up like a spark. "What nonsense!" she snapped, her voice rising to a pitch meant to humiliate. "Do you even know what you're saying, girl? Do you know what this will do to our reputation? People will talk. Neighbors, relatives, society—everyone!"
"Let them talk."
Bani's words sliced through the air like a whip.
"I'd rather be the subject of gossip than the object of quiet suffering. I won't shrink myself to fit into your idea of dignity."
Subbanna's shoulders sagged, his face paling under the weight of the truth. His hands trembled as he looked from Bani to Piyush, then to the elders lining the walls like sentinels of shame.
Before he could say more, another voice tried to take control.
"Bani, beta…"
It was Gayatri Aunty. The woman who had appointed herself the matriarch of both families. She wore tradition like a crown and handed out compromises like prasadam.
"Marriage isn't easy," she said, her voice syrupy with forced compassion. "It takes time. It takes adjustments."
Bani laughed. Loud. Bitter.
"Adjustments?" she echoed, fire licking the edges of her voice. "Let me tell you about my adjustments."
The room braced itself.
"When I moved into their house, I had no room. Not even a latch on the bathroom door. I was expected to change in corners, bathe before dawn, smile through exhaustion. Privacy? Nonexistent. They said I was new, I should wait. So I did."
Her eyes burned now, not with tears—but with fury.
"Six months later, they gave me a room. In the outhouse. No fan. No light. Far away from the family I was supposedly part of. I had to finish every chore—sweeping, cooking, serving, washing—everything before I could even step into it."
She scanned the room. No one met her gaze.
"And by then, it was too late. Always too late. Too cold. Too dark. Too tired. We didn't talk. We didn't share meals. We didn't touch. We didn't laugh. How is that a marriage?"
Gayatri's face twitched. "Still, child—"
"I asked for small things," Bani cut in. "A dinner. A movie. Just a walk to the park. He said, 'No leaves allowed.' He was always busy. But he had time for his cousin's wedding in Goa. His friend's engagement in Pune. His office trips to Delhi."
A long pause.
"To him, I was not a wife. I was a worker. A stand-in daughter-in-law for display. A servant who didn't get paid, just scolded."
Finally, she turned toward the two people she had avoided the whole time—her parents.
They sat in the corner. Her father stiff as stone, her mother with tear-streaked cheeks and a thousand-yard stare. Somewhere between regret and helplessness.
"I love you," she said softly. "But I won't ruin myself to maintain your illusion of respectability. I won't burn quietly at the altar of tradition. I'm not a sacrifice."
No one dared speak now.
It wasn't because they agreed.
It was because they had no defense.
For the first time, Bani felt the silence wasn't an enemy. It wasn't weaponized against her.
It was listening.
A slow, almost reverent stillness.
She had said it.
All of it.
She had taken the mess, the shame, the bruises that weren't visible, the loneliness, and she had named them.
She had drawn the line.
Not just for herself.
But for every girl being told that endurance is the price of womanhood.
She looked up, her chest rising with a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"I'm not going back," she said finally.
And no one could stop her.
The living room, once filled with the clink of teacups and polite murmurs, now bristled with unspoken tension. Bani sat on the edge of the worn-out sofa, her spine rigid, her hands trembling slightly despite her composed posture. Her voice cracked the silence, quiet yet heavy with the weight of all the things she'd held back.