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Malini enters, with Abhi by her side,
The dining hall, where her new family's pride.
Greets her with smiles, and veiled disdain,
A testing ground, for her heart's sweet refrain.
The sister's taunt, a sharp, sly remark,
"Wake up early, this is your in-laws' mark,"
The mother's voice, a stern, cold tone,
"Discipline, manners, responsibility, your sindoor's throne."
Malini recalls, Abhi's whispered advice,
"Push the blame on me, if they ask or entice,"
A clever tactic, a shield to bear,
She speaks the words, with a calm, clear air.
"It's his fault," she says, with a gentle might,
Abhi's family gasps, in shocked, awkward light.
"Mannerless, shameless," the taunts begin to fly,
Malini stands firm, yet clueless, wondering why.
The words she spoke, so innocent and true,
Seem forbidden, sinful, to the family's view.
Malini's puzzled, her heart beating fast,
A cultural maze, where she's lost, aghast.
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15th April, 1846
Calcutta, Bengal
MALINI POV~
Walking beside him, I gently intertwine my trembling fingers with his, grounding myself in the quiet warmth of his touch.
The cool morning breeze brushes past my cheek as the scent of sandalwood and tulsi lingers in the air… remnants of the early prayers.
Everything's going to be fine, I whisper silently to myself, clinging to the silent assurance his presence brings.
He's here.
That's all that matters right now.
I take a deep breath, steadying the wild fluttering in my chest, and step up toward the dining room.
The scent of ghee and cardamom lingers faintly in the air, mingling with the polished wood and incense smoke that still dances in golden shafts of light.
My eyes drift up to the majestic chandelier… a lattice of delicate glass that captures the sunlight like dew on a spider's web.
Its brilliance almost blinds me for a moment before my gaze travels downward to the long wooden table, where his family…. only the females sit with composed expressions and silent judgments.
"Good morning, Maa," he says softly, guiding me forward with a gentle tug of our joined hands.
His voice carries calmness, but I can sense the subtle undercurrent of protectiveness.
His mother— Somitra Anirban Mukherjee, now my mother-in-law… looks up with poised grace, her features composed like a sculpted idol.
"Good morning, son," she replies with a soft, diplomatic smile, patting his shoulder with affection that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
Her gaze flickers to me— brief, unreadable.
I lower myself with folded hands beside him, my fingertips almost grazing the cool marble floor as I touch her feet… an act etched in respect, yet laced with hesitation.
I feel her palm rest on my head… light, calculated, devoid of warmth.
No words.
Just silence.
As I rise, I smooth the pleats of my saree and gently pull the pallu over my head again, shielding the tremor that dances in my lashes.
"Bhabhi! Ye aapka maika nahi hai. Sasuraal hai. Jaldi utha kijiye,"
[ SISTER-IN-LAW! THIS ISN'T YOUR PARENTAL HOME. IT'S IN-LAWS' HOUSE. WAKE UP EARLY. ]
His sister— Ruchira's sharp voice slices through the room like the crack of a whip.
I instinctively turn my head to the left, the soft jingle of my bangles echoing faintly as my gaze lands on her.
She stands with arms folded, her posture smug, chin slightly tilted upward, eyes glinting with mischief dressed as mockery.
Her lips curl in a smirk that doesn't even try to feign civility.
The taunt stings more than it should, not for the words, but for the welcome they represent.
"What were you doing? Sleeping in like a queen?" His mother's voice cuts in coldly, as sharp and brittle as a cracked mirror.
I glance up and find her eyes— piercing, unwavering.
She doesn't blink.
"Don't you know you're a wife now? A daughter-in-law of this house. Manners, discipline, responsibility… you should wear them like your sindoor."
Her tone is not raised, but the weight behind each word lands heavy, pressing into my chest like invisible stones.
My fingers curl into trembling fists beneath the folds of my saree, hidden from their eyes but not from the fire burning in my chest.
My heart beats faster, a loud drum in my ears, echoing the anger I dare not speak.
Frustration simmers just beneath my skin, clawing to rise… but I swallow it.
Like always.
I steal a glance at him… just a flicker of a second; searching his face for silent reassurance.
His words echo in my mind like a whisper in a quiet corridor— 'If they ask, say that I didn't let you sleep the whole night.'
Yes... I remember now.
This is my shield.
My small rebellion stitched into his care.
"Um... it's his fault!" I blurt, my voice small yet firm as I lift a hesitant finger toward him.
A few gasps ripple softly around the table, barely audible under the weight of silence.
My eyes meet his for the briefest heartbeat.
In that fleeting gaze, I find a flicker of warmth… approval maybe… before I drop my gaze to the floor, cheeks flushing with a mix of guilt and relief.
"Don't you feel ashamed?!" his mother snaps, her voice sharp as cracked ice. "You're pointing your finger on your husband"
She leans forward, her narrowed eyes drilling into me like burning needles, judging me with every breath she takes.
The edge in her voice slices through the air like the cold wind of the early Calcutta morning, and I instinctively shift my weight, clutching the edge of my saree tighter.
"See, Maa! It hasn't even been a full day since the wedding, and look at her!" Ruchira exclaims, eyes wide with mock disbelief.
"She dares to raise her voice and her finger— at your son! Blaming him? Where is her manners? Her upbringing?"
Her tone rises, theatrical, every word dripping with gleeful poison.
She fans the flames with relish, like pouring spoonfuls of ghee into an already raging fire.
"But it's his fault!" I blurt, my voice rising before I can stop it. "He didn't let me sleep the whole night!"
The words spill out like a waterfall let loose, echoing louder than I intended, exactly as he had rehearsed with me.. if they ask, say this.
I blink rapidly, heart thudding, wondering if I've just set fire to the room.
The dining room plunges into stunned silence, thick and suffocating, as if every breath has been snatched away.
Ruchira gasps dramatically, her hand flying to her mouth as though I just uttered a taboo that shattered her delicate sensibilities.
Her eyes dart around, scandal gleaming in them like a prized jewel.
His mother stiffens, her face going rigid.
His aunties' eyes widen— shock, disbelief, perhaps shame… before they abruptly turn their faces, as if looking at me might sully their dignity.
"Bhabhi! Have you no shame?!" Ruchira shrieks, her voice slicing through the room like shattered glass.
She jolts to her feet, the legs of her wooden chair scraping against the floor with a harsh screech.
Her eyes blaze with indignation, mouth curled in exaggerated horror, as if my words had defiled the air itself.
I stumble a step back, a knot of confusion tightening in my chest.
Their outrage feels misplaced… explosive… and I can't fathom why.
My gaze darts to him.
He stands still, silent, eyes unreadable.
The words he whispered to me last night… his reassurances, his promise… ring in my ears like cruel echoes.
'You won't be alone, Malini'
Then why is his silence louder than their screams?
Why does his silence sting more?
"What did I say wrong?" I ask, voice shaking but firm. "I only answered your question."
I hold my ground, even as my heart drums with uncertainty.
I still don't understand why they're offended… but I won't take my words back.
I won't let them see my confusion.
"Shameless girl!" Ruchira hisses, jabbing her finger toward me like a blade.
Her lips curl in disgust, eyes ablaze with righteous fury, as if she's the guardian of family honor— and I, the defiler.
"Why am I shameless?" I retort, my voice rising, firmer now. "I only spoke the truth."
I cross my arms across my chest, more from self-protection than pride, though I pretend it's defiance.
If they want a battle, I will not cower.
"Enough!" his mother snaps, her palm slicing the air between us like a command from a general.
The sharpness in her voice hushes the room instantly.
Even Ruchira bites back her next insult, eyes flickering with suppressed rage.
"You— go make some sweet dish," she orders, jabbing her finger toward the kitchen like it's a punishment post.
Her voice is clipped, not angry… just full of that cold, unbending authority of someone used to being obeyed without question.
"I'm tired," I blurt out, louder than intended.
The words tumble from my lips before I can stop them.
The early morning chill still clings to my skin, and every muscle in my body aches from yesterday… and from the weight of all these strange walls pressing in on me.
Her brows arch in surprise, her lips tightening into a thin, unimpressed line.
It's clear— she didn't expect me to speak, let alone interrupt her.
"I—I didn't sleep the whole night and... my body's aching... so I'm just tired," I stammer, scrambling for any excuse that might make sense.
Each word feels clumsy, like a fragile shield I hold between myself and her looming authority.
I steal a glance at him, hoping.. maybe… for a nod, some support.
Instead, I find him grinning, eyebrows arched in amusement.
What's so funny?
My eyes narrow in confusion.
Why is he smirking when I'm being scolded?
~ His eyes hold me like I'm his divinity.
჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻.✾.჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻
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