By the end of the first week, the house had adjusted to Ananya's presence — at least on the surface.
Her name was spoken more easily now. Her tea preferences were remembered. Her footsteps were no longer unfamiliar in the hallway.
But beneath routine, something subtle continued to stir.
Expectation does not disappear simply because it is not mentioned.
It lingers.
It began with a suggestion.
Raghav's mother entered their room one afternoon holding a neatly folded sari.
"There's a small family ritual this Sunday," she said. "Just immediate relatives. You should wear something traditional."
Ananya smiled. "Of course."
Her mother-in-law hesitated before leaving.
"And…" she added carefully, "there will be a health check-up camp in the community hall. Many newly married couples attend."
Ananya looked up.
"Health check-up?" she repeated.
"Yes. General. For well-being," the older woman replied, not quite meeting her eyes.
The implication was clear.
Verification disguised as concern.
That evening, Ananya told Raghav.
"They want us to attend a medical camp," she said quietly.
He frowned. "Why?"
She gave him a look.
Understanding dawned slowly across his face.
"That's ridiculous," he said immediately. "We're not going."
She didn't respond right away.
"Are you sure?" she asked. "If we refuse, it becomes a statement."
"And if we go?" he countered. "It becomes permission."
She considered that.
He wasn't wrong.
But neither was the pressure simple.
"This isn't about health," she said finally. "It's about reassurance."
"Reassurance for whom?" he asked.
She didn't need to answer.
Sunday arrived with forced normalcy.
Relatives filled the living room again. Laughter echoed too loudly. Compliments were exchanged like currency.
Ananya wore the sari.
She smiled when expected.
She served tea when asked.
The community health camp had set up outside in colorful tents. A banner read: "Wellness for a Happy Marriage."
Irony had a sense of humor.
One of Raghav's distant cousins approached them.
"You both should go," she insisted cheerfully. "It's good to clear doubts early."
Clear doubts.
As if marriage came with a checklist.
Raghav opened his mouth to refuse, but Ananya gently touched his arm.
"Let's walk outside," she said softly.
They stepped into the courtyard, away from listening ears.
"Why did you stop me?" he asked.
"Because anger will confirm their suspicion," she replied.
"And compliance won't?"
She looked toward the tents thoughtfully.
"There's another option."
Ananya walked toward the registration desk alone.
Raghav watched from a distance, unsure.
A middle-aged nurse greeted her warmly. "Newly married?"
Ananya nodded.
"What tests would you like?" the nurse asked casually.
Ananya smiled politely.
"I'd like to know," she began calmly, "if there is any medical test that proves a woman's virginity."
The nurse blinked.
"No," she answered after a second. "There isn't."
"Is there any test that guarantees whether someone has or hasn't had intercourse?" Ananya continued.
"No," the nurse said more firmly now. "That's a myth."
"Would you be willing to say that publicly?" Ananya asked.
The nurse hesitated.
Around them, other women pretended not to listen.
"That's a sensitive topic," the nurse replied carefully.
"So is accusing someone silently," Ananya said gently.
There was no aggression in her tone.
Only clarity.
The nurse studied her face.
"You're educated," she observed.
"Yes."
"And brave."
Ananya didn't respond to that.
"I'll speak if someone asks directly," the nurse said finally.
"That's enough," Ananya replied.
She walked back to Raghav.
"We're not taking any test," she told him calmly.
"Obviously," he said, relief flooding his voice.
"But if someone pushes," she added, "we won't argue emotionally. We'll ask for evidence."
He looked at her with something close to admiration.
"You planned that."
"I prepared for it," she corrected.
There was a difference.
Inside, the subtle interrogation began.
Raghav's aunt leaned closer.
"You didn't register?" she asked, feigning surprise.
Ananya smiled politely.
"I spoke with the nurse," she replied.
"And?" the aunt pressed.
"There is no medical test that proves what you're thinking," Ananya said calmly.
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
The room quieted.
"That's not true," another relative muttered defensively.
Ananya kept her tone steady.
"If it is true, I'd be happy to see the scientific evidence."
No one produced any.
Because none existed.
The silence that followed was different from previous ones.
It was not heavy.
It was uncertain.
Doubt had changed direction.
Raghav's father cleared his throat.
"Enough," he said firmly. "We trust our daughter-in-law."
The statement was simple.
But this time, it sounded less like obligation and more like decision.
Ananya felt something inside her settle.
Trust spoken aloud reshapes rooms.
Later that night, Raghav found her sitting by the window again.
"You shook them," he said quietly.
"I didn't mean to embarrass anyone," she replied.
"You didn't," he assured her. "You exposed ignorance. That's different."
She watched the streetlights flicker below.
"Do you think they'll stop now?" she asked.
He thought for a moment.
"Maybe not completely," he admitted. "But they'll think twice."
That was progress.
Not victory.
Progress.
The next morning, something subtle shifted again.
Neha joined Ananya in the kitchen.
"I heard what you said yesterday," she whispered.
Ananya raised an eyebrow.
"Half the house heard," Neha admitted.
"And?"
Neha smiled shyly.
"I googled it," she confessed. "You were right."
Ananya laughed softly.
"Science usually is."
Neha hesitated before adding, "I think Bua won't bring it up again."
Ananya hoped so.
But she understood something now —
Myths do not die instantly.
They weaken when challenged consistently.
That afternoon, Raghav's mother entered her room quietly.
"I spoke to the nurse," she said without preamble.
Ananya looked up.
"She confirmed what you said."
There was no accusation in her tone.
Only contemplation.
"Why didn't anyone explain this before?" the older woman murmured, almost to herself.
Ananya answered honestly.
"Because questioning old beliefs feels disrespectful."
Her mother-in-law sat down slowly.
"I never questioned it," she admitted.
Ananya met her eyes.
"You were never encouraged to."
The vulnerability in the room was fragile.
For the first time, the older woman looked less like an enforcer of tradition and more like someone who had lived under it.
"I don't want my daughter to feel afraid," she said quietly.
Ananya felt her chest tighten.
"She won't," she replied gently.
And in that moment, the battle shifted again.
Not between women.
But between truth and conditioning.
That night, Raghav lay beside her, thoughtful.
"You handled it without anger," he said.
"Anger would've made it personal," she replied.
"And this wasn't?"
"It was bigger than me," she said softly. "That's why I couldn't shout."
He reached for her hand.
"You're changing this house."
She shook her head faintly.
"No. I'm just asking questions."
Sometimes that is enough.
As sleep slowly pulled at her, Ananya reflected on the day.
There had been no dramatic confrontation.
No screaming.
No rebellion.
Just a question asked in the right place.
Sometimes myths survive because no one asks the simplest thing:
"Show me proof."
And when proof fails to appear, belief begins to crack.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
But undeniably.