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Abhi's gentle hands, weave through her hair,
A tender touch, that shows he truly cares.
He asks about her hobbies, her passions so bright,
A chance to know her, in the morning light.
"Writing and reading," she says with a smile so wide,
Abhi's eyes light up, with a joy inside.
"Productive pursuits," he says with a nod so fine,
And asks about her dreams, her heart's deepest mine.
She shares her aspirations, to learn and to teach,
To be a beacon, in a world that often reaches.
For girls to be educated, to rise above the rest,
Abhi's admiration, shines like a morning quest.
Abhi's wisdom, shines like a guiding light,
"Knowledge doesn't need certificates, to prove its might,"
He names the greats, who shone so bright,
Gargi, Maitreyi, Lopamudra, in the light.
Malini understands, the depth of his words so true,
Knowledge is power, that forever shines anew.
Abhi's wisdom, empowers her to see,
Her potential, her dreams, her destiny.
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15th April, 1846
Calcutta, Bengal
ABHISHEK'S POV~
"Your man," I whisper back, my voice low, barely audible as I lean in closer, matching her height as I step into her space.
She instinctively bends back, pressing against the cool mirror behind her, her breath hitching as the distance between us disappears completely.
A quick smirk tugs at my lips, watching the pink hue spread across her cheeks, the flush creeping up to her ears.
"I'm your husband, Malini," I say, my words thick with meaning, my breath warm against her skin as I lean in closer. "Helping each other is a basic thing between husband and wife."
I let my voice soften even more, drawing out the words as I gently take a section of her hair in my palm.
"Let your husband help you," I whisper, my voice a tender plea against her ear, feeling the shiver that runs through her body at my touch.
I straighten up, my fingers brushing briefly against the small of her back as I gently guide her to face the mirror.
Her reflection meets mine, and the slight tremble in her posture is almost imperceptible, but it's there…an edge of vulnerability beneath her calm exterior.
I watch her through the glass, observing the hesitation in her hands as she applies oil to one side of her hair.
Her movements are careful, tentative, and yet graceful— each section of hair parted with precision, as if she's unsure of how to let me be this close.
At the same time, I mirror her actions on the opposite side, our fingers occasionally brushing the silk of her hair.
The proximity is intoxicating, the air around us thick with unspoken things.
My fingers glide through her thick, luscious black hair, and the softness of it takes me by surprise.
It's smooth, like satin, but with a subtle, earthy thickness that feels incredibly real and tangible in my hands.
The way the light catches the dark strands, sending soft reflections across her locks, makes her hair appear almost unreal…too perfect to be natural.
"May God, no evil eyes fall on her hair," I whisper under my breath, my gaze fixed on the way each strand falls effortlessly, like a waterfall of midnight silk.
The words are out before I even realize I'm speaking them, a prayer of sorts, an instinctive wish for her to be safe, untouched by the world's harm.
"What are your hobbies?" I ask, my voice low and casual, though inside, I feel something stirring at the thought of her answering.
I watch as she lifts her eyes to look at me through the mirror, their soft brown hue reflecting a mixture of surprise and curiosity.
The moment is intimate, the reflection of our faces held together by the glass, the only thing separating us.
"Um... Writing and reading," she hums, her voice light, almost shy, as she pours more oil onto her palm.
She takes another section of her hair, this one a bit longer than the last, and begins to work it through with focused attention.
There's something so captivating about watching her in this quiet, delicate act…. something so vulnerable, yet so full of strength.
"That's productive," I murmur, not entirely sure what I mean by it.
I study every twitch of her muscles as she works, each subtle movement telling me more about her than words ever could.
Her concentration, the way she focuses on the task in front of her, is so deeply captivating, but there's something more I need to know, something deeper that I can't shake.
"What about passion?" I ask, my voice softer, urging her to share more.
She pauses for a brief second, her fingers hovering over a section of hair, before she turns her face slightly toward me, and I catch the faintest glimmer of something bright in her eyes.
"I want to become the first girl to pass 10th class in Calcutta and become a teacher," she says, the words coming out with a quiet but certain passion.
Her smile, small but radiant, lights up her face as she continues, "So that I can teach little girls to be educated."
The sincerity in her voice hits me harder than I expect, and I feel a weight in my chest— pride, admiration, maybe something else, too.
I want to protect that dream, hold it close, and make sure the world doesn't crush it.
"That's a great passion. But why only till 10th?" I ask, my voice soft with genuine curiosity. I pick up the comb from the small wooden table beside us, my fingers brushing the smooth wood, cool against my skin.
I begin to untangle one of her eight sections of thick, dark hair, the strands sliding between my fingers with an almost silken quality.
Her response comes with a slight pout, her lips soft and full.
"Because they don't allow girls to study beyond 10th," she mutters, a quiet defiance lacing her words as her brow furrows in frustration.
I raise an eyebrow, not quite understanding.
"So?" I ask, leaning forward slightly, trying to read her emotions through the mirror.
She lets out a frustrated sigh, twirling a section of her hair between her fingers, her lip caught between her teeth.
"So… I won't be able to study in B.A and would not have a degree." Her words hang in the air, a soft vulnerability in her tone.
She fidgets, almost as though she's expecting me to disagree.
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I watch her sulking expression, her frustration so palpable it makes my chest tighten with an unfamiliar mix of empathy and admiration.
I can't help but find her determination endearing.
"Do you know Gargi, Maitreyi, Lopamudra, Aryabhatta, Charaka, Shushruta, Kanad, Chalukya, Abul Fazal, Gulbadan Begum, Kalidas?" I ask, watching her frown through the reflection in the mirror.
My fingers move with practiced ease, combing through her hair in slow, rhythmic strokes.
I can feel the heat of her skin, the warmth radiating from her body, but her expression remains slightly confused.
Her eyes flick to me as she turns her head, meeting my gaze for the first time.
"Yes, I do know all of them," she says, her voice steady now, though there's a spark of curiosity in her gaze.
She tilts her head slightly, like a bird caught in a sudden gust of wind, waiting for my next words.
"So, who are they?" I ask, my fingers now working the loose strands behind her ear, gently tucking them away.
My touch is deliberate but light, brushing her skin in a fleeting caress.
She exhales softly, clearly processing the question.
"They're the greatest people who excelled in philosophy, science, literature, history, and governance from across the timeline," she says, her voice steady but proud.
There's a slight gleam in her eye as she speaks, the intellectual fire within her flickering brighter with each word. "But why did you suddenly ask about them?"
I feel the corner of my lips curl up slightly, knowing this is the perfect moment for my point.
"Did they need any certificate or degree to be this great that even today we consider them as our ideals?" I ask, watching her eyes narrow as she ponders the question.
My hand moves to hers now, gently curling around her wrist, the touch warm and firm, like a silent promise.
I see her confusion deepening as she slowly shakes her head.
There's something vulnerable in the way she stands there, her expression flickering with doubt.
I lean a little closer, my voice low but insistent.
"Then why do you think that only a degree can prove how knowledgeable and intelligent you are?" I question her, and I notice her lips parting slightly, a small gasp escaping her as she stares at me with mild amazement.
Her eyes, wide with realization, reflect a mix of surprise and a budding understanding.
"Listen, Malini," I begin, my voice soft but firm, a gentle conviction threading through my words. "No one's knowledge needs a certification to be approved. Knowledge knows no bounds. It's like the rain—it falls down from the sky, and nourishes the dry, arid land, making it fertile again."
I pause, letting the weight of my words settle between us, watching her face for any signs of understanding.
The light in the room seems to soften, casting a warm glow on her, highlighting the faint flush on her cheeks as she absorbs what I say.
Her eyes flicker toward me, confusion lingering in them, but I can see the spark of something else too.
"Knowledge only grows. It never fades. And it's passed down from generation to generation," I add, my voice taking on a more tender tone.
~ Knowledge is the deadliest weapon.
჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻.✾.჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻
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