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Shame wraps her tight, like a second skin,
Malini's secret, a truth locked within.
Abhishek's gaze, a gentle, steady hold,
Urging her trust, her story to unfold.
Her eyes downcast, her heart a heavy stone,
A burden carried, a weight she's made to own.
He takes the cloth, a symbol of her pain,
A cycle's shame, a truth she'd rather hide in vain.
He guides her close, his touch warm and kind,
A haven offered, where her fears unwind.
Her body's ache, a wave of crimson tide,
A secret revealed, her vulnerability inside.
In his quiet strength, she finds a fragile peace,
A trust ignites, her heart's dark, hidden release.
No judgments spoken, only silence holds,
A bond forms slow, where her secrets unfold.
Her head on his chest, a whispered, mumbled truth,
"Because I'm dirty," a shame that's been her youth.
He hears her words, a gentle, soothing hush,
A love that wraps her, in a warm, tender rush.
•·•·•·•·•·•·••●❍•❅•°•❈•°•❅•❍●••·•·•·•·•·•·•·•
28th April, 1846
Calcutta, Bengal
MALINI'S POV~
"Then tell me," he says slowly, voice low but firm, "why you're using this cloth so late at night."
His gaze locks with mine, steady, unreadable.
I shake my head, unable to meet his eyes.
The ground blurs slightly as I stare at it, wishing it would just open and swallow me whole.
My cheeks burn.
My lips tremble.
The word— menstruation… sits like a stone in my throat.
"Y-You can't touch me… A-Abhi," I whisper, my palms trembling as I try to peel his warm hand off my waist. "You'll get sick…"
My voice barely audible, trembling with fear.
My palms press against his chest weakly as I try to push him away from me, but he doesn't budge.
His warmth seeps into my skin, making me feel more ashamed, more wrong, as if my touch could curse him.
He tilts his head, his brows pulling together in soft confusion.
"How would I get sick?" he asks, voice low and sincere, as though genuinely baffled by the idea… like the idea doesn't exist in his world.
How do I explain what I've been taught since childhood?
How do I tell you I'm bleeding?
How do I tell you that I'm impure now, that if you touch me, you too might carry that stain… at least that's what they say.
That the gods will look away.
That my touch, even my breath, could poison food, temples… even you.
How do I say that out loud?
The words swirl in my throat like stones I cannot swallow.
My fingers fidget helplessly, pressing into the soft cotton of my saree, trying to hold something in that cannot be stopped.
I press my thighs together, but I can feel it… the sticky warmth of fresh blood slowly sliding down between my thighs, soaking into the cloth tied around me.
Panic floods my chest.
Vulnerability wraps around me in waves, like a second skin— shame, fear, helplessness… all folding into one another.
I'm exposed.
Messy.
Unworthy.
"P-please, Abhi," I whisper, my lips barely brushing his chest. "Please… give me the cloth. I— I really need it now."
My voice cracks mid-sentence, thin and pleading, soaked with desperation, barely audible over the pounding in my ears.
The steady beat of his heart grounding me and terrifying me all at once.
I press my forehead against his chest, eyes squeezed shut, praying he won't ask more questions… just give it back.
Every second without it feels like a drop of blood marking my failure.
"You won't share your problem with me?" he asks softly, his hand gliding gently over my waist, slow and patient, like he's trying to soothe a frightened animal.
He caresses me gently…. not with desire, but with patience, as if urging me to trust him.
I bite my lower lip, hard enough to almost draw blood, a wave of guilt washing over me.
He's always been there— steady, listening, teaching me things I never dared ask aloud.
Always helped me understand the world I never felt part of.
And now, when it matters most, I cannot give him the truth.
But… but now, he can never understand.
He's a man.
A kind one, yes— but untouched by the things I've been taught to hide.
He might not even know the word.
Might not know the ache that pulses through my back, the cramps like twisted thorns clawing at my belly.
Might not know the shame that clings to me like a second skin during these cursed days.
How could he ever understand something I've never been allowed to say aloud?
"I… I can't tell you, Abhi. It's… the punishment," I whisper, pressing my face into his chest, as if hiding inside him might make me smaller, less shameful.
My voice cracks on the last word, heavy with all the whispers I've heard from other women.
That this pain is a price for being born a girl.
That this is the curse we carry.
He lets out a slow, thoughtful sigh and gently guides me back, his hands careful… not demanding.
The cold marble of the garden slab presses against the back of my knees as he nudges me toward it.
He settles on the edge, his legs slightly apart, guiding me to stand between them.
The heat from his body contrasts with the chill of the night air, wrapping around me like a quiet defiance of everything I've been taught.
I gasp, a sudden breath caught in my throat, as he pulls me gently but firmly onto his thigh.
"W-What are you doing?!" I yelp, my voice high-pitched, flustered, trying to squirm away like a startled bird.
My cheeks burn.
Panic prickles under my skin, mingled with a shyness so deep I feel it in my bones.
This is wrong.
This is not how girls are allowed to be held.
"Shhh… silence, Malini," he whispers, his voice as soft as the rustling of leaves.
He tilts his head, eyes gentle, as if asking me to trust him without forcing it.
The quiet around us feels thicker now, like the garden itself is holding its breath.
"You shouldn't do this! You shouldn't touch me!" I cry, pushing at his hand with trembling fingers.
My voice shakes, torn between fear and instinct.
Doesn't he know what this means?
That he'll be stained by my sin?
That I'm not pure enough to be held?
"Why?" he asks gently, leaning closer, his breath brushing my cheek. "Tell me the reason."
His eyes search mine… not to shame me, but to understand me.
I lean back instinctively, overwhelmed, my heart racing like it might shatter the silence between us.
"...Because I'm dirty," I mumble, my voice barely a thread, gaze fixed on the ground.
The word tastes bitter in my mouth.
It scrapes against everything I want to believe about myself.
"Dirty?" he repeats, his brow furrowing as he looks at me, really looks— eyes traveling from my disheveled braid to the folds of my saree. "But you look clean to me."
His tone is gentle, puzzled, like I've just spoken in a language he doesn't know.
"Not this one…" I murmur, rubbing my feet against each other, the soles dry and aching from the garden stones.
I can't meet his eyes.
I stare at my ankles instead…. at the skin that somehow feels stained even when no one can see it.
The shame isn't on my clothes.
It's somewhere deeper.
Somewhere no one's supposed to speak of.
I lean into him without thinking… his warmth a silent invitation… just as another wave of pain claws at my lower belly.
My brows furrow.
A gasp trembles in my throat.
The sting shoots through me like a lightning bolt, jagged and sudden, curling my toes in the air.
I clutch the edge of his sleeve, needing something to anchor me as my body rebels from within.
"Then which one?" he asks, voice softer now.
He places the dirty cloth beside him on the slab with care, like it's something sacred.
Then, his fingers reach for my cheek, brushing aside a strand of loose hair.
The contact is feather-light, reverent.
I flinch— not from fear, but from the aching tenderness of it.
"You won't understand," I groan softly, my voice tight with emotion. "You're a man."
The words slip from my lips like a curse and a truth all at once.
I rest my head against his chest, breathing in the scent of sandalwood and dusk.
His heartbeat thumps steadily beneath my ear— so steady, so calm.
Everything about him feels opposite to the storm inside me.
"Then make me understand," he whispers into my hair, his breath warm against my scalp.
His arms stay still… he doesn't pull me tighter, doesn't press.
Just waits.
Like he's offering a quiet space instead of demanding an answer.
The garden is hushed around us, the wind barely brushing the leaves.
For the first time, silence feels safe.
I close my eyes for a moment.
Everything blurs— my shame, my pain, his voice.
A strange tingling crawls down my legs, like pins and needles, but gentler… like my body doesn't know how to feel at all.
I don't know if it's the pain or his presence, or both.
My hands remain curled in my lap, unmoving, unsure.
"So, in the last... you won't tell me yourself, will you?" he murmurs, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint, unreadable smile.
I frown, puzzled.
A tight knot forms between my brows.
What is he talking about?
His eyes— warm but oddly steady… hold something I can't name.
"You'll never use this cloth again," he says quietly, eyes on the tattered fabric beside him. "Or any dirty cloth. Not during your bleeding days."
The air freezes.
My eyes widen, my breath snags halfway up my throat.
My spine goes rigid, like I've been struck by lightning.
No... No... he didn't just say that.
He knows?
When he gives me space and time to bloom not to burst open.
჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻.✾.჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻
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