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The maids quietly served the dishes on the table. A soft smile played on my lips as I carefully placed the dish down, my heart pounding with a mix of nervousness and a flicker of hope.
Just then, he entered the room Kabirendra Ji. Exhausted. The butler followed behind, carrying his bag and suit jacket, deftly undoing his cufflinks.
All the others eagerly took their seats around the table.
"Kabir beta, aao, dinner khalo," his mother called gently.
Kabirendra Ji glanced at her with the same emotionless expression, then shifted his gaze to the food laid out. Without a word, he started to walk past the table.
"Bhookh nahi hai mujhe," he said flatly.
My smile immediately faded, the flutter of excitement in my chest crushed by his cold words.
His mother frowned, trying to reason, "Par beta... Aarohi ne tumhare liye yeh banaya-"
He cut her off sharply, "Aap logon ko khana hai, kha lijiye. Mujhe bhookh nahi hai."
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving the room stunned into silence.
I stood there frozen, my heart sinking as I stared at the untouched dish.
I stood there frozen, my gaze falling back to the dish I had so carefully prepared. The vibrant green of the methi, the golden potatoes glistening with ghee it all seemed so full of promise, so full of warmth. Yet now, it felt like a cruel joke.
A heavy weight settled in my chest, squeezing tightly with each shallow breath. I wanted to curl into myself, to disappear into the silence that filled the room.
Why? The question echoed relentlessly inside my mind. Why did he say that? Was it me? Was it something wrong with what I made? Or... was it never about the food at all?
I traced the edge of the plate with trembling fingers, the warmth of the dish contrasting sharply with the coldness that had settled in my heart.
Tears threatened to spill, but I blinked them back fiercely. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
Still, the ache was undeniable a quiet, searing hurt that whispered of loneliness and rejection.
All I had wanted was to do something small... something kind. To reach out in the only way I knew how.
And yet, here I was, feeling more invisible than ever.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to step back from the table, my hands clenched tightly at my sides.
No words came. No protests. Just the heavy silence between us, stretching longer than I thought it could.
"Meh... meh usse bulake laati hu," I heard his mother say softly, rising from her seat.
I watched her walk away, her steps steady but purposeful as she headed upstairs.
Why... why was he being like this?
What fault had I done?
My mind raced with questions, swirling in a storm of confusion and hurt. Had I overstepped? Was my gesture unwelcome? Or was the distance between us something deeper something I couldn't reach with food or kindness?
The room felt emptier now, colder. I glanced back at the untouched dish, the vibrant aloo methi now seeming like a symbol of all the unspoken things between us.
I clenched my fists, fighting the sting behind my eyes.
No matter how much it hurt, I refused to let this silence break me.
Maybe... just maybe... if I could keep trying, keep showing up in small ways, he'd see me not just as someone who cooks or serves, but as someone who cares.
And somehow, I hoped that was enough.
---
I entered their bedroom quietly, the soft thud of the door closing behind me barely breaking the silence. The faint smell of sandalwood lingered in the air, mingling with the faint rustle of fabric. There, on the sofa, sat Kabirendra Ji, his expression unreadable as he stared blankly ahead.
Careful not to disturb him, I moved silently toward the wardrobe. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for my clothes. Taking out my simple kurta and pant, I retreated into the attached bathroom to freshen up.
When I stepped out, the soft fabric of the kurta felt cool against my skin, a quiet contrast to the heaviness settling deep in my chest. I folded the sari I had taken off with delicate care, smoothing out the creases with methodical precision. The diamond jewelry I'd worn symbols of a new beginning, of promises whispered yesterday I handled as though they were fragile fragments of my own hope.
Slowly, I placed the diamonds inside their velvet-lined box, closing it with a gentle click that seemed too loud in the stillness of the room.
Just as I turned to leave, a shadow fell before me.
Kabirendra Ji stood there tall, imposing his cold eyes fixed on me like an unyielding storm.
"Meri baat thik se sunlo," he said sharply, his voice low but cutting through the quiet like a blade. "Ye bed mein tum soungi, aur sofa par mein. Aur ye baat ghar ke kisi ko pata nahi chalni chahiye. You get it?"
For a moment, I was frozen the words echoing in my ears, harder than any slap.
What...?
The man I had married just yesterday the man I had believed, even for a fleeting moment, might be different was now telling me this. Like a command. Like I was nothing more than a guest in his house, a shadow to be confined and hidden.
My throat tightened. My breath caught. The room felt suddenly smaller, as if the walls themselves were closing in.
I wanted to scream, to ask why, to plead for even a shred of kindness. But my voice was swallowed by the weight of his gaze.
Instead, I nodded silently.
No words came out. None were expected.
I stepped toward the bed, the cold mattress sending a chill through me as I laid down.
The ceiling above was an empty expanse, unchanging and uncaring.
A million thoughts crashed inside my mind, each one heavier than the last:
Was this my fate? To be hidden away like a secret?
Had I imagined warmth, hope, even for a second?
Was this coldness all there would ever be between us?
The sting of loneliness seeped into my bones, sharper than the chill in the air.
I remembered the untouched food, the sharp rejection, the forced smiles all pieces of the same puzzle I was struggling to fit together.
Was I invisible? Was I unwanted?
Tears burned behind my eyelids, but I refused to let them fall.
Instead, I curled into myself, a small island of fragile hope in a sea of coldness.
And as the night deepened, silence wrapped around me like a heavy shroud whispering a cruel truth
Sometimes, love was not about being held, but about surviving the spaces where it was absent.
---
I woke up early in the morning, my eyes still heavy but my heart heavier. For a moment, I just stared ahead at Kabirendra Ji sleeping beside me. His breathing was calm, his face unreadable, almost peaceful.
It was cruel, really. How he could sleep so easily after last night, when his words still rang in my ears like sharp blows.
The way his eyes had looked at me cold, almost as if I were a stranger trespassing in his world.
The way his voice had sounded flat, cutting, as though my very presence was an inconvenience.
Was he... not happy that I had made his favourite food?
Had I done something wrong again?
I still wasn't sure.
I had only wanted a simple wedding... a husband who would at least try to understand me, to speak to me, to be someone I could lean on.
But here... here I was, lying next to a man whose thoughts I could not reach, whose emotions were locked away behind walls I wasn't even allowed to touch.
And sometimes, it felt like my existence alone was enough to anger him.
Quietly, I pushed the blanket aside and got up. My feet were cold against the marble floor as I made my way to the wardrobe. I ran my fingers over the fabrics until they stopped on a sari velvet, beautiful yet simple, the kind I would have chosen even before marriage. I clutched it to my chest, almost as though it could offer comfort, and stepped out to freshen up.
---
By the time I entered the dining hall, the atmosphere was already tense. I sat down beside Kabirendra Ji. He didn't glance at me, didn't speak. His attention was fixed solely on the plate in front of him, each bite mechanical, devoid of any warmth.
It wasn't just me. He didn't look at anyone.
And when the family tried to talk to him, to draw him into conversation, his answers were clipped, a single word at most never enough to truly engage.
"Um... Kabir, aaj tum aur Aarohi uske ghar jaoge," his mother's voice broke the silence.
My hand froze halfway to my mouth.
Uske ghar.
Home.
That word still made my stomach twist. My breath felt caught in my chest. Meeting my father... was something I didn't want to face. Not now, not ever.
"Maa... please... I have office-"
"Kabir," his mother's tone sharpened, leaving no room for argument, "I'm not listening to anything. You will be going means you will. It's part of the ritual. At least you can respect this much."
I glanced at Kabirendra Ji from the corner of my eye. His jaw was tight, his fingers gripping the fork harder than necessary. His face was a mask of frustration, but his voice didn't rise.
And me?
I simply sat there, my heart thudding, caught between a man who didn't want to go... and a home I never wanted to return to.
---
The ride to my house was completely silent. I kept my eyes fixed on the passing scenery, watching the little tea stalls, the women balancing brass pots on their hips, and the stray dogs stretching lazily in the morning sun. Every sight felt more alive than the suffocating air inside the car.
Kabirendra Ji sat beside me, his posture straight, his eyes glued to his phone screen. His thumb scrolled with precision, his brows occasionally twitching as if the world on that small screen demanded more of his attention than the wife sitting inches away.
The driver didn't speak either. It was as if he knew this silence wasn't meant to be broken.
I let my gaze drift back to the world outside. Banaras roads always had their own rhythm chaotic yet oddly peaceful. But instead of comfort, my chest tightened. The word home felt foreign... almost poisonous. It carried too many memories I had long buried under layers of forced calm.
What would be my father's reaction when he saw me? Would he... be happy?
The thought almost made me laugh at myself. My father had never been the kind of man whose eyes softened at the sight of his daughter. Especially not a daughter who couldn't even speak. A girl child already an unwanted birth in his eyes and a permanent mute on top of it. I was a flaw stitched into human form.
Why did I have to be so imperfect?
Why couldn't I just... be enough?
I pressed my lips together, swallowing the lump in my throat. The city's temples flashed past, their bells echoing faintly in the air, yet not one note could drown out the ache inside me.
---
We soon reached our destination. Banaras. My home.
The driver slowed the car as the familiar narrow lanes appeared, where walls were stained with time and prayer flags fluttered above like fragments of forgotten wishes. The smell of incense mixed with damp earth.
I sat frozen for a moment, staring at the old wooden gate ahead. The same gate I had walked through countless times as a child, but today... it felt like a stranger's door.
My fingers tightened around the pallu of my sari.
Kabirendra Ji finally put his phone away, glancing out at the house with no readable expression. He didn't look at me, and I didn't expect him to.
Because right now, I wasn't his wife.
I was just the unwanted daughter returning to the place she once called home.
---
The door was opened by Kabirendra Ji, as he helped me out of the car. My feet touched the familiar earth of Banaras, yet it didn't feel like home more like a stage I had been called to perform on. Slowly, we walked towards the doorway where many relatives were gathered, smiling softly, murmuring words of welcome.
And among them... my father. Standing there with the same blank expression I had grown up seeing an expression that neither welcomed nor rejected, just... existed.
We stopped before him. Both me and Kabirendra Ji bent down to touch his feet.
"Jite raho dono."
The blessing rolled off his tongue effortlessly for him, but for me, it carried no warmth. His eyes immediately shifted to my husband, his lips curving into a faint smile.
"How are you doing, beta? How was the marriage?"
Their voices flowed like a conversation between equals.
And me? I stood there, my head bowed, hands clasped in front of me, feeling invisible just like always.
After the aarti, one of my chachis smiled, her tone polite yet formal, "Beta, apne pati ko kamre tak le jao."
I nodded and led the way. Inside, Kabirendra Ji silently opened his bag, took out his clothes, and headed towards the washroom without a word. I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands on my lap, staring at the patterns of the bedsheet, listening to the sound of running water from inside.
---
When dinner time came, I found myself in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and stirring pots, blending back into my old role like I had never left. My hands moved automatically, but my mind was somewhere far away until a voice sliced through the air.
"Sasural mein koi natak toh nahi kiya na?"
I froze. The knife in my hand paused mid-cut. Slowly, I turned my head. It was my father's elder sister, her sharp eyes fixed on me, her lips pressed into a thin line.
I quickly lowered my gaze and shook my head.
"Sahi hain," she said, her voice holding the faintest edge of warning. "Waise bhi sirf do din hue hain."
Her words lingered in the air even after she left, like smoke that refused to clear.
Two days. Only two days.
And already, it felt like a lifetime of walking on glass.
---
During dinner time, everyone was already seated in their respective chairs, talking in low murmurs while the aroma of freshly cooked food filled the air. I moved around quietly with the other maids, my footsteps barely making a sound against the marble floor. The clinking of cutlery, the occasional soft laughter, and the faint sizzling sound from the kitchen created a background hum that somehow made me feel... even more alone.
When I reached Kabirendra Ji's side, my hands hesitated in midair, the serving spoon hovering above his plate. For a few seconds, my chest tightened, almost as if my body was warning me Don't do it, you'll just hurt more. But I forced myself to take a deep breath and, with trembling hands, served him his portion.
He didn't even look at me.
Not a glance. Not a word.
Just quietly started eating, his eyes fixed on the plate as if I wasn't even standing there.
I swallowed hard, stepping back and clasping my hands in front of me. I stood a little distance away, head slightly bowed. Every few moments, my eyes would drift towards him, hoping no, begging for his gaze to lift just once, to acknowledge me. But he didn't. His focus remained entirely on his food, as if my presence was nothing more than an unnoticed shadow in the corner.
The ache in my chest deepened. It was the same heaviness from earlier, pressing against my ribs, making it a little harder to breathe. My gaze wandered across the table. Everyone else... they were talking freely laughing, sharing bits of their day, teasing each other. Their voices rose and fell like an easy melody, and I could almost imagine being part of it. Almost.
But here I was silent, invisible.
How could something so simple talking, laughing feel so far out of reach? I wished I could join in, wished I could speak without worrying if my words would be welcome... wished I could just belong.
---
After dinner, when the last person pushed back their chair and rose, I quietly stepped forward. One by one, I collected their plates, stacking them carefully so they wouldn't clatter. The water felt icy against my skin as I washed each dish, the faint smell of detergent mixing with the fading scent of food. I worked silently until the last plate was clean and in its place.
Only then did I take my own food and set it on the empty dining table. Eating alone... just like always.
As I took a small bite, a memory flickered in my mind.
Back in my childhood, I was never allowed to eat with everyone. My mother would serve the food to the whole family first, making sure every plate was full. And when everyone was done, when their laughter had faded and chairs scraped back, she would place food in front of me.
Sometimes she'd even feed me herself. I'd watch her then how she would eat in silence, her face carrying emotions I couldn't name back then. A heaviness in her eyes, a quiet sadness around her mouth. As a child, I didn't understand it.
But now... now I think I do.
That look the mixture of tiredness, acceptance, and loneliness felt painfully familiar.
She had been the only one who ever truly cared for me. And yet, even she had to carry her own silent battles. No one else... not a single person... had ever bothered to really see either of us.
---
Once I was done, I made my way upstairs, each step heavier than the last. My fingers curled around the door handle of my room, and I slowly pushed it open.
Darkness.
The lights were switched off, the air still and faintly warm.
My eyes adjusted enough to see the silhouette on the sofa Kabirendra Ji, already fast asleep. The steady rhythm of his breathing filled the quiet room.
A sigh slipped past my lips before I could stop it.
For a moment, I stood there in the doorway, looking at him this man who could so easily ignore me, yet still hold a strange kind of power over my heart.
I closed the door softly behind me, the sound almost swallowed by the stillness.
Somehow... the room felt colder than it had before dinner.
I slowly walked towards the bed and sat down.
It's ok Aarohi... It's ok. Everything is ok. Just try a little harder. Trying never kills. I will try, this is the least I could. And maybe... Just.. Maybe it will improve.
Improve.
I hope it does.
Of course it's not easy to win someone's heart or trust. And we have been just newly married, even I feel nervous around him. And would sometimes maintain distance. He must feel that as well. And we don't even know each other properly. So... who would be suddenly comfortable with all this actions.
I needed to act together and make a good space so that Kabirendra Ji would feel comfortable. So it's ok..
let's try more harder this time. I am sure I will be able to understand him properly.
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