Chapter VI
"A Truth Wrapped in Silence"
Sita stood quietly near the edge of her bed, the suitcase now zipped and sitting still — like a symbol of finality. Of decisions made. Of pasts packed away.
Then she looked at me.
Her gaze was steady, soft — but it carried a weight I hadn't seen before. Not anger. Not sorrow. But something far deeper. Something that had been waiting to be spoken.
And then, in a voice that trembled slightly around the edges, she asked:
"You're wondering, aren't you? Why someone like me — with a palace for a home, with a mother like that — would rush into marriage so suddenly?"
I didn't answer. I didn't have to. She had read the question in my eyes long before I could voice it.
Sita took a breath and stepped closer, her fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face as she continued.
"It's because I had no choice, Ved," she said. "Because my father had already decided who I would marry. Raveendra Nath — the son of his business partner, his 'dearest friend.' A deal sealed over cigars and handshakes, while I sat in silence in the room next door."
Her voice dropped lower now. A confession.
"I begged him, Ved. Over and over. I told him I didn't want this. That I couldn't live that life. But he didn't listen. Or maybe… he didn't care. He thought it was just fear. A phase. He thought I'd change."
She let out a bitter laugh, the kind that's filled with disbelief rather than humor.
"If I wasn't married — legally, officially — he would have done it anyway. Forced me down an aisle I never wanted to walk. Into a life that would have killed me slowly. A life where my body would smile beside a man, but my soul… my soul would've stood behind me like a prisoner."
Her words carved through the silence, each one striking a place inside me that understood pain — even if it was shaped differently.
I stepped toward her, my heart aching with something I couldn't name. But before I could speak — before I could even whisper comfort — she reached up and gently placed her hand over my lips.
"Shh…" she said, shaking her head ever so slightly. Her eyes darted toward the closed door.
And I understood.
This wasn't the place to go deeper. Not here. Not in this house.
Not with walls that listened.
So instead of speaking, I nodded.
I reached up and gently removed her hand from my lips, but I didn't let it go. I held it, quietly, between both of mine.
Her fingers were cold.
But her grip… her grip was strong.
We didn't say anything else for a long while. The air around us was heavy with the weight of unsaid truths — stories that would be shared someday, in safer places, under gentler skies.
But in that silence, something bloomed.
Not pity. Not urgency.
But understanding.
She had married to save herself — not from loneliness, but from erasure. From being silenced. From a future that would have drowned who she truly was beneath silks and ceremonies.
And I?
I had said yes… without even knowing what I was saving her from.
Now I did.
And I was glad.
Because if love meant being someone's escape… I would be the door she chose every single time.
We stood there — her hand in mine, the packed suitcase by our side, and a quiet promise between us:
One day, we would talk freely. One day, the truth wouldn't need to hide behind closed doors. One day… the world would know us not as a contract, or an accident, or a rebellion.
But as two people… who simply chose each other.
And until that day came — I'd walk beside her.
Wordlessly.
Bravely.
Willingly.
The quiet clink of luggage echoed softly as I began placing Sita's belongings into the trunk of the car — one bag at a time, careful, methodical. Each piece felt heavier than it looked. Maybe not in weight, but in meaning. It wasn't just clothes and books I was loading — it was memories, pieces of a life she was choosing to leave behind. A palace she no longer called home.
Sita stood beside me at first, silently watching. Then, when the last bag was tucked into place and the trunk clicked shut, she turned toward me — her expression softer than usual, almost thoughtful.
"Ved," she said quietly, brushing her hand against her dupatta, "I'm going to see Mumma before we leave. Just… to let her know I'm going."
I nodded, wiping a bit of imaginary dust off the car, trying to keep my voice light even though something tugged at my chest. "Alright. Go. And Sita," I added with a small smile, "you don't need to ask me for permission."
She raised an eyebrow, a playful glint returning to her eyes — the kind of mischief that always made her words dance. "Oh, I wasn't asking. I was just informing you," she said with a smirk.
I laughed under my breath and shook my head. "Of course. My mistake, Queen Sita."
She gave me a wink, then turned and started walking back toward the grand marble steps, her soft sandals making faint taps against the stone. I stood by the car, watching her figure retreat into the house — her back straight, her head held high. She wasn't walking like someone running away.
She was walking like someone who had finally chosen her direction.
And yet… there was a weight to her steps. A pause in her pace before she entered. I knew what she was feeling — that ache you can't quite name when you're about to say goodbye to someone who still means everything.
Even if you're doing the right thing.
Even if your heart is sure.
Because parting from a mother… is never easy.
I looked away, giving her that moment — the privacy to have a final word, a last embrace, maybe even a tear if it came. I didn't need to witness it. Some things are sacred in their silence.
While I waited by the car, a cool breeze drifted through the courtyard. The palace loomed behind me like a silent witness — its golden pillars still and unmoved.
To be continued…