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Abhishek's voice, calm yet firm as stone,
"I want her to call me 'Abhi', like she's known.
No disgrace, no sin - that's outdated thought,
In this house, respect will be equally brought."
His mother frowned, with traditional might,
"You're spoiling her, Abhishek!"— her stern light.
"Yes, I am," he said, with a gentle smile,
"I respect you all, but Malini's dignity's my aisle.
"Respect her, as you respect me, I implore,
She's my wife, my partner— no less, no more."
Malini's heart swelled with gratitude and glee,
Lucky to have Abhishek— mature, understanding, hers to see.
She felt protected, loved in his strong stand,
Taking position for her, against his own family's land.
A husband like this, she'd never seen before,
Abhishek's love wrapped her in safety's shore.
•·•·•·•·•·•·••●❍•❅•°•❈•°•❅•❍●••·•·•·•·•·•·•·•
15th April, 1846
Calcutta, Bengal
MALINI POV~
"You! How dare you call your husband by his name?"
The shrill voice slices through the quiet dining air, sharp as broken glass.
My eyes dart toward his mother, now standing slightly forward, her glare burning holes through me like blazing coals.
Her jaw is tight, lips drawn into a line of disdain, and her finger points at me as if I've committed a crime.
I freeze.
The weight of tradition slams down on my chest like a stone.
I slowly shift my gaze back to him, confused but not entirely afraid.
My eyebrows furrow instinctively… not in defiance, but in disbelief.
Is it truly such a sin?
I slowly glance at him.
His expression is composed… cool as a still pond.
He doesn't even look at her.
"Because I told her to," he replies, his tone calm as still water… but there's an iron edge beneath it.
He doesn't raise his voice.
He doesn't even look up at his mother.
Instead, he continues tearing a bite from the tortilla in his hand with serene purpose, like none of the tension at the table can touch him.
And then, he lifts that bite gently toward me again— steady, graceful, and deliberate.
It's not just a meal.
It's a message.
"Why?!" she barks, as though the very idea is an insult to her upbringing. "She's your wife! A wife doesn't call her husband by his name!"
Her words spit out like venom, shaking the calm of the dining room.
Her finger jabs in my direction like a dagger, trembling with anger… not just at me, but at the audacity of the new, silent rebellion unfolding before her eyes.
The air feels heavier.
The sound of silverware scraping the plate ceases.
No one dares to breathe too loudly.
"I'm her husband," he states, his voice still even, but laced with steel. "And I want her to call me by my name. That's my wish. And she's obeying my order. Any questions?"
The words land like cannonballs, shattering centuries of toxic tradition in a single breath.
As he speaks, he gently brings the bite to my lips again—his touch tender, almost reverent, as if feeding a child, or something more sacred.
His eyes never waver from mine.
The unspoken message is loud…. 'She belongs to no one but herself… and I stand by her side.'
"You're spoiling her, Abhishek!" she roars, her palm slamming down on the table with a thud that rattles the plates.
The echo rings across the room, silencing every whisper of breath.
"Yes," he answers, voice low and deliberate. "I am."
He doesn't flinch.
Doesn't blink.
Just breathes those three words like a vow.
Her face contorts with fury… brows drawn, lips trembling, eyes wild.
But Abhi?
He remains an immovable mountain beside me.
"Bhaiya! You can't speak against Maa!" Ruchira cries out, her voice shrill with indignation. "She's your wife's mother-in-law! Maa has every right to order her. It's her duty to obey!"
Her words sting like nettles.
I lower my eyes, the weight of their expectations suddenly crashing down on my shoulders again.
Beneath the table, I clench the fabric of my saree in tight fists, hiding the tremble in my hands.
The silk wrinkles under my grip like my own shrinking courage.
But beside me… he's still calm.
Still mine.
His presence alone shields me from the storm.
"Then why do you complain to Maa about your mother-in-law?" he asks, voice low and stern, like a hammer wrapped in velvet. "Why do you mention that she overburdens you with chores? That she taunts you? Isn't it your duty to listen to your mother-in-law too?"
There's a flicker of surprise in Ruchira's eyes, her lips parting slightly.
I bite my lip to suppress a smile.
A strange sense of amusement swells inside me, watching him turn his sister's own logic against her—clean and cutting like a mirror held up to hypocrisy.
"Be-because… um…" Ruchira stammers, eyes darting between her mother and brother.
Her fingers twitch nervously on her lap, and her lips tremble as if searching for a sentence that just won't form.
The silence hangs heavy.
Like the weight of truth she can't deny.
"Why are you dragging your sister into this?" his mother snaps, voice sharp like a cracked whip. "She's your own blood! Your own flesh!"
Her voice trembles… not with weakness, but with rage barely held together.
"But she… she's not your blood!" his mother spits out, her words dripping with venom. "She's a stranger. She's from someone else's family."
Her eyes settle on me, cold and burning at once.
I feel them rake over my skin like thorns, like I'm some object that doesn't belong in her well-kept garden.
"You are too," he replies calmly, yet each word slices through the air. "You're from someone else's family too, Maa. And yet, you've lived in this rajmahal ever since marrying my Baba."
The room falls dead silent.
Even the wind outside seems to still, as if listening.
His words hang in the air like thunder that refuses to fade.
"You're my son!" she cries out, voice cracking. "You should listen to me! How can you speak to me like this?"
Her hands tremble slightly as she sinks into her chair, as if the weight of his words suddenly aged her.
The authority in her voice falters, replaced by a wounded pride.
"Maa," he says gently, yet firmly, "I don't want to argue with you. I respect you. I always will."
He pauses.
Then his gaze shifts to me— steady, grounding.
"But you're not allowed to disrespect my wife."
His voice sharpens just slightly. "She can call me whatever she wants. That's her right. Because she is my wife."
A strange warmth unfurls in my chest— quiet, comforting, powerful.
I clutch my stomach, my fingertips lightly pressing against the soft fabric of my saree.
There's an unfamiliar fluttering sensation inside, like tiny waves stirring beneath my skin— rippling gently, like water lapping at the edges of a calm shore.
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips, hesitant yet warm.
It spreads, small and shy, as I think of him…. Abhi.
A rush of admiration fills me, nearly making my heart skip.
He has this effect on me, this quiet presence that can shift everything.
I lower my gaze, instinctively finding comfort in the small space between us.
His closeness is soothing, and a sense of safety washes over me.
I feel grounded beneath him, as if the weight of the world can't touch me while he's near.
He's like a canopy, a vast, protective shelter above me.
His warmth envelopes me in ways I never imagined… his aura, his touch, the gentleness in his eyes.
It's more than protection.
It's a sanctuary.
His presence, it feels like a shield, one I never realized I needed, but now, I can't imagine life without it.
I pause, a small question lingering in my thoughts.
Which deed of mine could possibly have earned me this?
It must be the millennium deed… the rarest, most deserving act of kindness that fate could bestow upon someone like me.
A soft chuckle escapes me, almost inaudible, but it bubbles up from somewhere deep inside.
I feel a lightness, a happiness that I hadn't known I could possess, and it's all because of him.
Yesterday, I cursed the cruel hand that fate had dealt me.
I questioned every step that led me here, every moment that felt like a betrayal.
But today, I'm no longer angry.
Today, I'm standing in awe of the one who penned my fate, the one who gave me this moment of peace, love, and belonging.
~ He's the home every girl dreams of.
჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻.✾.჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻
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