Sandhya's POV:
As usual, I woke up early and followed my morning routine — sweeping the floors, taking a cold shower, tying my wet hair in a towel, and preparing the pooja thali. The house smelled faintly of sandalwood and rose agarbatti. But today wasn't just any other day — there was a different kind of buzz in the air.
A special guest was supposed to visit in the evening, and my mother had handed my father a long shopping list. Which meant I had to go to the market with him. Which also meant... no time to go online. I sighed, closing my laptop after one last glance at the notification tab — 7 new comments on my latest story update. I'd read them later. Hopefully.
The streets were already crowded by the time we reached the market. Festive colors spilled from every corner — stalls with shimmering fabrics, pyramids of sweets, brass diyas, flower garlands, and too many loudspeakers blaring songs from decades ago.
As we strolled past a small jewelry shop, a pair of bangles caught my eye — thin silver ones with delicate carvings and tiny mirror beads that caught the light like stars.
"Chahiye?" my father asked, noticing the way I'd paused.
I quickly shook my head. "Nahi... bas aise hi dekh rahi thi."
But he smiled — that rare, fleeting kind of smile he gave only when he wasn't weighed down by expectations and society's opinions. "Arre le lo beti," he said and, without waiting for another word, bought the bangles.
I tried not to grin like a five-year-old. But I couldn't help it.
On the way home, I held them like a secret — the cool metal pressing softly against my palm. It wasn't just about the bangles. It was about him. My father. A man who had once laughed with me while teaching me math tables and then grown quieter as I grew older, more ambitious, more stubborn. There were days he didn't understand me at all. But then there were small moments — like this — when he did something so simple and kind, it made everything else blur.
We reached home just before noon. After making sure all the items from the list had been bought — haldi, mithai, new incense sticks, and that fancy coconut my mother insisted on — I quietly slipped into my room. The bangles clinked softly as I closed the door.
I needed to hide them before she saw them.
"Hey Mahadev," I muttered under my breath as my eyes fell on the person lounging on my bed.
Riya.
The devil in cotton salwar suits.
"Shaitaan ka naam liya aur shaitaan haazir,," I whispered dramatically, clutching the bangles behind my back.
She raised an eyebrow at me. "Kya chupaa rahi hai?"
"Khud se toh sab kuch chhupa leti hoon, duniya se kya chhupaungi?" I replied, smiling sweetly — the kind of smile that says you'll never find out what I've got hidden in my dupatta.
This was going to be a long day.
I slipped the bangles into the drawer beneath my books, placing them between old paperbacks and my diary. Safe.
Riya was still lounging on my bed, scrolling through her phone, probably checking the latest reels or spying on someone's life. She had this talent of being dramatic without doing anything. "You know," she said lazily, "Mom was saying some very high-level guests are coming today. Maybe even with a rishta for someone."
I paused mid-fold with my dupatta. "For you?" I asked, feigning shock.
She rolled her eyes. "Please. I'm not desperate."
Neither am I. But I didn't say that out loud.
By afternoon, the house transformed. Strings of marigolds were draped around the courtyard gate. A faint rhythm of temple bells and Bollywood music played from two different speakers — my mother's spiritual playlist versus my uncle's entertainment vibe.
I helped in the kitchen — frying pooris, stirring the kheer, and roasting the dry fruits for the halwa. My hands were busy, but my mind kept wandering back to my Wattpad. My story had been stuck in a twist for three days. Would readers wait?
Suddenly, Maa barged in with a steel katori in one hand and determination in her eyes.
Before I could react, she dipped her fingers into the bowl and smeared cold multani mitti across my cheek.
"Maa! Maa, aap kya kar rahi ho?" I shrieked, wriggling to pull away.
"Chup kar, zyada nautanki mat kar," she said, expertly dabbing the paste on my forehead now. "Tu woh sab kaam chhod, idhar aa ke baith. Yeh lagayegi toh chehra zyada khilega."
She sounded proud — like this muddy paste would unlock some secret beauty spell.
"Haan haan, jiji apni beti ko ache se sajao... aakhir sawli jo hai," came the sarcastic jab from my aunt as she walked by, her laugh laced with poison.
Riya snorted beside her, not even trying to hide it.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and stared ahead blankly.
Maa's fingers froze. She turned to glare at her bhabhi. "Toh kya hua? Gora rang leke kya taj mahal ban gayi teri beti?"
My aunt huffed and left. Riya followed, tossing a fake bangle of hers onto the floor, pretending it just slipped.
Maa sighed deeply. She didn't say anything else, just finished applying the paste gently, muttering under her breath about "nazar" and "kaala teeka."
I sat there, still as a statue, letting the mud dry on my face while the comments dried like salt on my skin.
After what felt like an hour, I quietly slipped into the bathroom and began washing it off. I stared at myself in the cracked mirror above the sink.
Same face. Same skin. Same Sandhya.
No brighter.
No fairer.
But maybe a little braver.
I patted my face dry and tied my hair back. I didn't need their approval. Not today.
As I walked out of the bathroom, I heard laughter from the guest room.
Maa moved around the hall like clockwork — refilling glasses, adjusting plates, serving steaming rotis and sabzi with practiced grace. The air smelled of ghee, haldi, and the thick scent of formal pleasantries.
Papa, Uncle, and Dadaji sat with the guest, all serious expressions and heavy talk about "settling" and "future." Words I pretended not to hear but couldn't help noticing.
I stayed in the bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed, watching Riya scroll endlessly through Instagram like it was her full-time job. Both my younger brothers were huddled in a corner, playing PUBG on one device, fingers tapping furiously, shouting "revive me" every five seconds.
I sighed, hugging my knees. My fingers twitched, itching to check notifications — to open my world, my safe space, my second home. A world where I wasn't the background, but the author.
A place where I didn't feel... excess.
I reached under the bed, pulled out my laptop, and opened it silently — the fan whirring faintly like a whisper of rebellion. Just five minutes, I told myself. Just a breath.
As soon as I logged into Instagram, a soft ping echoed from the corner of the screen.
A DM from @auryan_07.
My lips curled into a small smile.
It had been a few weeks since we'd started talking — first about writing, then slowly about life. He helped me edit my drafts, fixed the messy bits in my narration without ever asking for anything in return.
"You have a rare voice," he once wrote. "It deserves to be heard."
Today, he had shared a reel.
It was a little girl making dramatic faces while mimicking a film dialogue. I giggled softly, the kind that bubbles in your chest without warning.
I'd once told him how much I adored kids — how their innocence felt like a balm in a world that demanded too much.
Now, he sent me reels like this almost every day. Like he remembered things I had forgotten I said.
Like he listened.
I replied with a laughing emoji and typed,
"She's so adorable. This reminded me of Ishu — my neighbour's daughter. Same drama, same pouting."
His reply came instantly.
"Then you must be the calm older sister who lets her win every fight."
I chuckled.
Outside, someone called my name. I quickly shut the tab and adjusted my dupatta.
The world outside my screen didn't know who @inkedsoul was.
But Auryan did.
And somehow, in a world where even my own family measured my worth in chores and complexions — that was enough for now.
The evening dragged like wet cloth. I helped Maa and Chachi clear the table after the guest finished dinner. Riya, of course, sat on the sofa pretending to have a headache, while my brothers vanished the moment the last morsel was eaten.
I was wiping the steel plates when I heard Papa's voice from the veranda.
"She's a good girl. Knows how to cook, keeps her head down. We've kept her off social media too — no distractions."
My hands froze.
I took a step closer to the window, where the curtain fluttered like it, too, wanted to listen.
"She has a diploma in computers," Papa continued. "But nothing too bold, don't worry. She's not like these city girls."
A pause.
Then the old guest replied, "That's good. Simplicity is rare. We'll talk to the family and let you know."
My stomach dropped.
Was this a rishta meeting?
And they didn't even tell me?
I stepped back quietly, heart pounding. Something hot and bitter boiled behind my ribs. I wasn't angry they were discussing marriage. I was angry they were doing it like I was some object to be traded — praised for my obedience, sold for my silence.
I slipped back into my room. Riya was now fast asleep, her face lit by her phone screen. My laptop still sat where I left it.
I logged back in. Needed a moment. Needed to breathe.
Another message from @auryan_07 was waiting.
"You vanished. Everything okay?"
I stared at the screen.
My fingers hovered over the keys before I typed,
"Do you think I'm too silent? Too... boring?"
He replied almost instantly.
"No. You're quiet the way the sky turns soft before sunrise. Gentle doesn't mean dull. It means you choose your storms."
I didn't know what to say. His words wrapped around my ache like a second skin.
Another ping.
He shared a quote card this time:
"She wasn't waiting for a prince. She was waiting for someone who saw her sword behind the silence."
I stared at it, my chest tight.
He knew.
He always knew.
I glanced at the bangles hidden in my drawer — the gift that made me smile in the market and ache in my home.
I wasn't ready for marriage. I wasn't ready to be silenced again. But I was ready to fight. Quietly, if I had to.
This time, I would fight for me.
Alone, if I had to.
It was around one in the afternoon when Papa called me into his room. I wiped my hands on my kurti and walked in slowly, not knowing what to expect but already feeling a dull pressure in my chest.
He sat on the wooden armchair, fingers rubbing against each other like he was rehearsing a line. Maa stood behind him, her eyes glistening with silent tears she was trying hard to hide. When I looked at her, she quickly looked away.
"Beta, I wanted to talk to you," Papa said softly.
"Ji haan, Papa," I replied, sitting down beside him.
"Kal... kal tumhare rishtay ki baat ki thi," he began.
I didn't let him finish.
"Aapko pata hai na, main sirf bees ki hoon?" I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
He sighed.
"Toh kya hua? Tumhari toh shaadi atharah mein ho jaani chahiye thi," came a sharp voice from behind me.
My uncle. Of course.
I turned around slowly, my body stiff. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, eyes bloodshot—probably from last night's poison. I hated him with a kind of quiet passion I couldn't put into words. Not just for what he said... but for what he did.
My fists clenched at the memory.
That night...
I had woken up to drink some water. Thought I heard the front door creak. I found him stumbling into the hallway, drunk as always. I tried to ignore him, turned to the kitchen. But he followed. Blocked my way. The look in his eyes—disgusting, vile. I tried to walk past him, but he grabbed my wrist.
I still remember how his nails dug into my skin.
I tried to scream, but he pressed his palm over my mouth. Silencing me.
Then—thank Mahadev—Dadi stepped in. Her voice, stern but calm, had scared him just enough. He let me go, acted like nothing happened.
But later that night, she pulled me aside into the dark corner of the hallway.
"Yeh kisi ko mat batana," she whispered, her eyes sharp and commanding.
I blinked, confused, shaking.
"Ladke yeh sab karte hain. Lekin agar yeh baat bahar gayi, toh sab tumhari galti hogi. Tum humara muh kala karogi."
Her words became a scar that never faded.
I tried to tell Maa once. Her expression didn't even change. She just looked down and walked away.
And now they were asking me to get married. To another stranger. Like it was some gift. Like it was a solution.
"I'm not ready," I said, my voice quieter this time.
Papa looked at me. Something flickered in his eyes. Maybe guilt. Maybe fear.
Maa stood still.
But my uncle scoffed and said, "Naak katwaogi ek din. Tumse toh chhoti ladkiya baap ka ghar chhod chuki hain."
My vision blurred. Rage, grief, helplessness—it all tasted the same.
I stood up.
"I'm not a burden. And I'm not an object," I said.
And for the first time in a long time, no one had anything to say.
I walked back to my room. Shut the door behind me. My hands trembled, but my spine stood straight.
I opened my laptop. Logged in.
A message blinked.
@auryan_07: "You okay? You don't seem like yourself today."
I stared at the screen.
Then typed slowly,
"I'm not okay. But I will be. Someday. And I'll write the hell out of this story."
Because maybe that's what girls like me did.
We bled in silence.
But we healed on our own terms.
Write a comment ...