The early morning light streamed softly through the curtains, casting warm golden hues on the intricately carved wooden furniture in the room. Meera lay still in the bed, her eyes open but unfocused, staring at the ceiling as the events of the previous day replayed in her mind. Her wedding day had been a whirlwind of tradition, rituals, and unfamiliar faces, but it had been one of the most significant days of her life. She could still hear the faint hum of the priest’s chants, the sacred fire flickering as the smoke curled upward, and the blessings bestowed upon her by elders.

Yet, amidst all the blessings, Meera felt an odd emptiness. A strange silence filled the space around her—between her and the man she had married, Kabir. She had expected more from the day. She had hoped that perhaps they would share some words, some acknowledgment of their new bond. But Kabir, as she had quickly learned, was a man of few words, especially in the presence of others. The wedding had been a mere formality, done more for the family’s reputation than for their connection.

Meera’s thoughts were interrupted as she heard the soft sound of the door creaking open. She turned to see Kabir standing in the doorway, his sharp features partially shadowed by the dim light of the morning. His eyes, dark and unreadable, briefly met hers before he stepped inside.

"Good morning," he said, his voice a low murmur, almost too soft to hear.

"Good morning, Kabir," Meera responded, sitting up, her hands nervously adjusting the folds of her sari. There was an awkwardness in her words, a hesitation she couldn’t quite hide.

Kabir didn’t offer a smile, nor did he engage in any pleasantries. He moved towards the table and picked up a silver cigarette case, his fingers brushing the edges absently as though lost in thought. The silence between them felt heavier than ever.

"I have a meeting soon. I’ll be leaving in an hour," Kabir finally broke the silence, his tone curt and businesslike.

Meera nodded, though she wasn’t sure how to respond. It wasn’t that she didn’t have questions—her mind was filled with them—but the cold distance that Kabir maintained made her feel hesitant to ask. It was clear to her that his world was one of obligations, responsibilities, and duties, none of which involved her.

He turned towards the door, but before leaving, he glanced back, his expression unreadable.

"We’ll talk later, Meera," he said simply.

"Of course," she replied softly, watching as he exited the room.

As Kabir’s footsteps faded, Meera let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She didn’t know what to feel anymore. This was her new life, and it felt like she was living in a story that didn’t belong to her. The weight of being a wife, of living up to the expectations of a wealthy family like the Ahujas, weighed heavily on her shoulders. But more than that, it was Kabir’s indifference that unsettled her. What kind of man was he? And what would become of their marriage?

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Later that morning, Meera made her way down to the kitchen. The house was quiet, except for the sounds of servants preparing breakfast in the adjacent rooms. As she walked through the corridor, she heard the faint hum of voices coming from the room where the men of the household had gathered. Kabir’s father, Mr. Ahuja, was speaking, his voice strong and authoritative, while Kabir’s younger brother, Aarav, sat quietly beside him.

“I don’t understand why these young men are so eager to disrupt the peace of our nation,” Mr. Ahuja’s voice echoed down the hall. “The British bring stability. They bring order. What do these so-called revolutionaries hope to achieve by defying them?”

Meera paused at the doorway, unnoticed by the men inside. The topic of their conversation, like many others in the household, was centered around the British. Her father-in-law’s words echoed the sentiments of many in the wealthy class—those who saw British rule as something that brought prosperity and maintained order, at least for those in power.

Her father, Rajeev Goel, would never agree with such views. Meera’s family had always been active in the resistance movement. Her father, though soft-spoken, had long believed that independence was the only way for India to truly flourish. He often spoke of Mahatma Gandhi’s nonviolent protests and the sacrifices that were being made in the fight for freedom.

But Meera knew better than to openly challenge the status quo. She was married now, and her place in the Ahuja family demanded a certain level of respect for their opinions, even if she disagreed.

As Meera lingered in the doorway, trying to make sense of her thoughts, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to find Sita, the elderly servant who had worked with Kabir’s family for years.

“Chai is ready, ma’am. Would you like some?” Sita asked, her voice soft but filled with warmth.

Meera smiled faintly, grateful for the familiarity. “Yes, please, Sita.”

As they sat down at the small dining table in the corner of the kitchen, Sita served Meera a steaming cup of chai. The warmth of the tea in her hands was comforting, but the unease in Meera’s chest remained.

Sita, ever perceptive, leaned in a little closer. “I can see that you’re troubled, ma’am. Don’t worry. The household is… different, but you’ll get used to it. Kabir, he’s a man of few words. But he’s a good man. Just give him time.”

Meera didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she sipped her chai slowly, letting the warmth spread through her. It was difficult to describe what she was feeling—there was no clear way to voice it. Kabir was a stranger to her, and yet he was her husband. There were no grand gestures, no romantic exchanges. Just a cold indifference that seemed to stretch between them like an invisible wall.

But Meera couldn’t help but wonder—was it her fault? Was she the one who had failed to bridge the gap between them?

As the morning wore on, Meera busied herself with the housework, trying to distract herself from the growing tension she felt. Every time she looked out the window, she saw the bustling life of the city outside—the women in colorful sarees chatting in groups, the men speaking passionately about the struggle for independence. It felt like a different world, one that Meera was only distantly connected to. But still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to change.

Later that afternoon, Kabir returned home from his business meeting. He walked through the door, his expression as stoic as ever. His sharp eyes briefly scanned the room before he turned to Meera.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, his tone not unkind but distant.

Meera nodded, though her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. “I’m fine. It’s just… a lot to take in.”

Kabir didn’t say anything further, merely nodding as he took a seat at the table, his gaze shifting to a pile of papers in front of him. Meera stood silently beside him, unsure of what to do. There was a tension between them—unspoken, yet ever-present.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by the sound of a carriage arriving at the front gate. Meera looked out the window to see a man approaching the door, his attire formal, his face stern. It was Mr. Sharma, Kabir’s close business associate. As he entered the house, he exchanged a few words with Kabir, and then the two men disappeared into the study.

Meera couldn’t help but wonder about the life Kabir led outside the house. What did he talk about in those meetings? Was there something important, something hidden that he wasn’t sharing with her?

The day ended much like it had begun—quiet, filled with the soft hum of daily life, ye

t beneath it all, the weight of uncertainty loomed large.

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