"No, I won't go."
The words left Bani's lips like a storm breaking over a still sea. Simple to the ears, maybe, but to her—they were everything. A lifeline. A last stand. A refusal to be swallowed by the silence she had endured for far too long.
The room froze.
The old man in the white panche stirred uncomfortably in his seat. He was a relative from the groom's side—called in as a mediator. An elder who was meant to soothe tensions, not stir them. A calming presence. A neutral voice. Never one to shout or take sides.
"Bani," he began, his voice cautious, almost pleading. "Divorce is not the answer to every problem. Tell me, child, why do you want this? Let's talk. Let's try to understand where things went wrong."
She looked at him—an exhausted, bitter smile dancing on her lips.
"Where it went wrong?" Her voice was dry. "Uncle, it never went wrong. Because it never even began. This marriage... was never a marriage."
His brows furrowed, confused. A murmur swept across the room. Piyush sat stiffly, avoiding her gaze, while his parents fidgeted, visibly agitated. His mother whispered something to him, barely hiding her disgust.
The old man blinked, clearly thrown off. "What do you mean?"
Bani stood a little straighter. Her hands trembled, but her voice—her voice was unshaken.
"I mean," she said slowly, deliberately, "that after a year and a half of marriage, I am still a virgin."
The silence was absolute. Even the ceiling fan seemed to pause mid-whirl.
Piyush's mother jolted upright, her voice trembling with indignation. "Do you even know what you're saying, girl? Do you know what people will say? Divorce will bring shame to both families! Everyone will talk—"
"Let them talk." Bani's voice was sharp, clear, a blade cutting through the haze. "I would rather be the subject of gossip than the object of silent suffering. I deserve more than this farce."
The old man exhaled, his shoulders slumping under the weight of truth. "I see your pain, Bani," he murmured, guilt bleeding into his words. He turned toward Piyush's family, trying to summon words that would bridge the chasm—but before he could speak, another voice cut through the tension.
"Bani, beta..." said gayatri Aunty, an elder of both sides, someone who considered herself a matriarch-in-waiting. "Marriage isn't easy. It requires adjustments."
Bani laughed, bitter and loud. "Adjustments?" she echoed, her tone sharpening. "Let me tell you about my adjustments."
The room held its breath.
"When I moved into their house, I had no room. Not even a latch on the door for privacy. I was always on display. No space to breathe, let alone rest. And when they finally gave me a room—months later—it was in the outhouse. Far from the main house. I had to finish the day's chores—sweeping, cooking, serving—everything before I could even step inside it."
Her eyes burned now. "And by then, it was always too late. Too dark. Too cold. Too tired. We never even spoke, let alone lived like a couple."
She turned to Gayatri, her voice firm. "And everyone said the same thing: Adjust. Be patient. This is marriage. But tell me, how does a marriage survive when the husband and wife are strangers in the same life?"
No one answered.
"And my husband?" she scoffed. "When I asked to go out—to a movie, a dinner, a walk—he said, 'No leaves allowed.' But he had time for his friends' weddings. His cousins' birthdays. His office tours."
A pause.
"To him, I wasn't a partner. I was a worker. A placeholder. A cow they could milk emotionally, socially, domestically."
She turned to her parents now, sitting silently in a corner, caught between shame and concern.
"I'm not your sacrifice. Not your compromise. I won't burn quietly in the name of tradition. I'm done."
The room stayed silent, but this time, it wasn't discomfort.
It was respect. Or maybe, just awe.
She had said it. Finally. Unequivocally.
She had drawn the line.