Shattered Silences

Kavya's pov

The car ride home was silent. Not the comfortable silence couples share after a long family gathering, but the heavy, suffocating kind that pressed against my chest like a boulder. My hands clutched the fabric of my lehenga, its embroidery scratching against my palms, but I couldn’t loosen my grip. Kabir’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel, jaw rigid, eyes fixed on the dark road ahead.

Every time I shifted slightly in my seat, the tiny sound of my bangles clinking seemed too loud. Too bold. Almost as if even my breathing might provoke him.

By the time we reached home, midnight had already swallowed the city. The grand iron gates closed behind us with a clang that echoed like a warning. Kabir stepped out without glancing at me, slamming his door shut. I waited a moment before opening mine, hoping he would at least offer his hand like men do for their wives in front of the world. But no.

He walked ahead, his tall frame stiff, his black sherwani jacket unbuttoned at the top, revealing the crisp white kurta beneath. His hair was slightly disheveled from running his hand through it too many times — a habit he had whenever rage simmered under his skin.

Inside, the house was dark, only the faint glow from the hallway lamps illuminating the marble floor. The silence here was worse. At least at the wedding, there had been people, laughter, music to mask my reality. Here, it was only him and me.

And his hatred.

“Go inside,” he said coldly, his voice low but edged like a blade.

I obeyed. I always did. My heels clicked softly as I climbed the stairs, the heavy red lehenga tugging at my waist with each step. Kabir followed behind, and though I didn’t look back, I could feel his presence burning against me, his anger like a storm ready to break.

When we reached the bedroom, he shut the door with a thud that made me flinch.

I turned, my fingers automatically moving to remove my earrings, when suddenly his hand shot out.

He grabbed my wrist. Hard.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” His voice dripped with venom, his face close to mine. I could smell the faint trace of whiskey on his breath, mixed with the expensive cologne he always wore.

My lips parted, but no words came. His grip tightened, making my bangles press painfully into my skin.

“Smiling at my cousin, talking so sweetly,” he sneered, his dark eyes glinting. “You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you? You love that, don’t you?”

Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them away. “I was just being polite, Kabir… he was asking about the wedding rituals—”

“Shut up.” He yanked me closer until my body nearly collided with his. “Polite? Or desperate? Once a whore, always a whore. That’s what you are, Kavya.”

The word cut deeper than any slap. My throat tightened, but I forced myself not to cry in front of him. Not again.

He shoved me back. I stumbled, catching myself against the bedpost, my lehenga rustling as I tried to steady my breath. Kabir’s expression twisted into something darker, almost satisfied at the sight of me struggling.

“You don’t deserve this bed,” he spat, pulling off his sherwani jacket and tossing it carelessly onto the chair. “Tumhari jagah sirf zameen par hai. That’s where filth belongs.”

My heart sank. I followed his gaze to the cold marble floor.

“Spread your dupatta,” he ordered harshly, unbuttoning his cuffs. “Sleep there.”

“Kabir—”

“Do as I say, or I’ll throw you out in the middle of the night. Maybe then you’ll remember exactly where I found you.”

My hands trembled as I laid my heavy dupatta on the floor beside the bed, smoothing it out though it would never be soft enough. I lowered myself onto it, the chill of the marble seeping into my skin even through the fabric.

Above me, Kabir sat on the bed, pulling off his watch and placing it on the nightstand. His movements were calm, controlled — as if sending me to the floor was nothing unusual, just another routine punishment.

I curled onto my side, the embroidery of my lehenga digging into my waist, the weight of my jewelry pressing against me. My eyes burned, but I kept them open, staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling.

And then, memories came rushing in.

---

I was eight years old again, curled on the cold floor of my childhood home. The scent of incense still lingered from my mother’s last rites. I had asked my stepmother if I could sleep on the bed, just once, because it still smelled like Maa. She had slapped me across the face.

“This is your place,” she had hissed, pointing to the ground. “Girls like you don’t deserve comfort. Learn it now.”

Every night after that, I lay awake on the floor, listening to the sound of her soft laughter with her friends in the next room. I learned how to stay quiet, how to keep my tears silent, because no one wanted to hear them.

And tonight, years later, I was back on the floor. Different house. Different tormentor. Same pain.

---

I squeezed my eyes shut, clutching the end of my dupatta as if it could shield me from his words. But even in silence, Kabir’s presence loomed. I could hear the rustle of his shirt as he pulled it off, the creak of the mattress as he settled back.

“Don’t you dare look at me,” he muttered suddenly.

I hadn’t realized I had been staring at him — at the sharp lines of his profile in the dim light, at the hard set of his jaw. He opened his eyes, catching me.

He got up, footsteps slow, deliberate. My heart pounded as he crouched down, his face dangerously close to mine. His hand gripped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“Don’t look at me with those eyes,” he whispered cruelly. “You think you’re innocent? You think I’ll forget where I found you just because you wear my sindoor now? You’re nothing, Kavya. Nothing.”

His words lingered in the air even after he released me, standing tall again. Without another glance, he walked out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

The silence returned. Only this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was empty.

I stayed on the floor, staring at the door he had just walked through. My body ached, my wrist throbbed where he had gripped it, but my heart hurt the most.

Once, I had dreamed of marriage — of love, of safety, of a home filled with laughter. Tonight, all I had was the cold marble beneath me and the echo of his words in my head.

I turned onto my back, whispering into the darkness, “Maa… why did you leave me with this fate?”

And though the room stayed silent, I could almost hear my mother’s lullaby, faint and far away, wrapping around me like the comfort I had been denied for so long.

I closed my eyes, not because I was tired, but because reality had become unbearable to look at.