Anika had once believed that becoming a woman meant earning a university seat, wearing a white coat, and walking the sterile halls of a hospital, saving lives. But the village had other ideas.
In their eyes, womanhood meant submission. Cooking before sunrise, keeping her voice soft, her gaze lowered, her desires buried.
She was only eighteen when her parents placed the heavy garland around her neck, whispering, "He's a good man. Don't make trouble." Her dreams died that day—quietly, without ceremony.
Her groom, Rajan, didn't smile much. He seemed just as bound by the ritual as she was, yet there was no cruelty in him. He offered her a glass of water before the ceremony, his hand shaking slightly. Their eyes met for a moment — not with passion, but with resignation.
Their first night was awkward.
He didn't touch her.
He didn't even sit close.
Instead, he laid a folded blanket on the floor beside the bed and mumbled, "Take your time. We don't have to be strangers, but we don't have to pretend either."
For the first time that day, her heart softened.
The house he brought her to was small but clean. A red-tiled roof, a cow tied to the mango tree, and rooms that smelled of turmeric and sandalwood. His father was old, but he nodded in approval at her quiet manners. His neighbors offered rice, bangles, and whispers.
Everyone expected her to settle in, become one with the walls.
So she did.
The first few weeks passed in silence. She swept the floors, learned the rhythm of the kitchen, watered the tulsi plant every morning. Rajan left at dawn for work in the fields and returned in the evening, dusty and tired. He always washed his feet before stepping inside and never forgot to ask, "Did you eat?"
They spoke little, but their silences grew companionable.
It was a fragile peace, but it was real.
Anika began to cook better — adding more spice, less salt, watching Rajan's expressions carefully. When he smiled after a meal, it filled her with a strange joy. Not love. Not yet. But something warmer than duty.
One morning, he brought her a jasmine garland, eyes fixed to the ground as he handed it to her.
"It suits your hair," he muttered.
She didn't answer, only took it with both hands and smiled. That evening, she wore it in her braid and made his favorite tamarind rice.
They didn't speak of affection. In their world, love wasn't confessed. It was cooked, served, ironed, and stitched. It bloomed in the unspoken.
Then one night, the monsoon arrived — loud, sudden, wild.
Lightning cracked across the sky as Anika rushed to pull clothes off the line. Rain soaked her saree, and by the time she stumbled back in, she found Rajan standing near the door, worried.
"You'll catch a cold," he said, grabbing a towel.
Their fingers brushed.
The moment hung, trembling.
For the first time, he didn't look away.
That night, they shared the bed.
It wasn't rushed, or fevered, or like anything the village girls had whispered behind their veils. It was careful. Shy. Almost sacred. He cupped her face like something precious, and she responded with hands that trembled, not from fear — but from awakening.
And in that moment, Anika felt it.
The shift.
The quiet but firm transformation of herself into a woman — not by the world's definition, but her own. Not because she had a man. But because, for the first time, she was choosing something. Someone.
She cried softly into his chest that night, not from sadness, but from the release of all that had been stolen from her — her dreams, her voice, her self.
He stroked her hair gently.
They didn't speak.
But they understood each other more in silence than words could allow.
The days after grew golden.
Rajan brought her papayas from the market. She sang while grinding spices. They laughed once — really laughed — when she tripped over the threshold and nearly dropped his lunch. His father began calling her "ma," like a daughter. Her life, though small, felt stitched together by quiet joys.
She even found herself reading again — Rajan had found her an old biology book in the attic, and she spent evenings flipping through the pages, whispering Latin terms under her breath.
"You're still a clever one," he'd said, smiling as he watched her trace diagrams with her finger.
"I try to remember," she whispered.
"Maybe one day, you'll teach our children."
She froze.
He didn't notice.
He had already turned away, humming an old folk song as he washed his hands.
But his words lingered.
She hadn't thought of children. Or tomorrow. Or what came next.
But in that instant, a seed was planted. Maybe this wasn't the future she wanted. But maybe it wasn't one she hated anymore.
Until the accident.