|ॐ नमो भगवते रूद्राय|

MEERA POV

The mornings in our house always begin before the sun.

Before the neighbor's radios crackle to life. Before the milkman's cycle bell cuts through the mist. Before the world remembers that it is tired.

I wake to the rhythmic, metallic groan of the hand pump in the courtyard. Chachi is already drawing water.

I sit up on my thin floor mattress tying my hair in a bun. The air is heavy with the scent of damp mud and the ghost-smell of last night's ashes from the chulha.

My eyes immediately fell on my henna tained hands. In the dim light, the mehendi looks like a dark, dried stain-a map of a future I never asked for.

For a few heartbeats, I stay perfectly still. In this tiny sliver of time-before I open my door, before I speak-I belong entirely to myself.

"Samudra vasane devi,

Parvatastana mandale,

Vishnupatni namastubhyam,

Paada sparsham kshamasva me."

I murmur.

"Oye Maharani! Uth ja bhor ho gayi. Kal teri shaadi hai aur ab tak so rahi hai? Sasural mein bhi aise hi kariyo!" Chachi's voice booms from the veranda, shattering my peace.

(Oh Princess! Wake up, it's dawn. It's your wedding tomorrow and you're still sleeping? Is this how you'll behave at your in-laws house?)

I don't answer. I simply fold my blanket.

Then the ritual begins. I become the girl the world expects me to be.

I bathe quickly, the cold water chilling my bones, and change into a simple red saree. Red-the color of celebration, or the color of a warning. I don't know.

The neem tree stands in the corner of our courtyard, slightly tilted, as if it has been leaning in to eavesdrop on this house for too long. At its base rests a weather-worn Shivling. It isn't grand or decorated with silver; it is just a stone darkened by years of oil and water.

I wash my hands, fill a small steel lota, and kneel. The ground is bitingly cool beneath my knees.

"Om Namah Shivaya," I whisper.

I don't say it for the world to hear. I say it just for Him. My mother used to tell me, "Shiv se dosti kar lena. Woh akela nahi chhodte." (Make Shiv your friend. He doesn't leave alone.)

I was ten when she left me. Since then, this stone has heard every secret I have ever swallowed. As I pour the water, watching it trickle into the mud, a strange restlessness stirs in my chest.

"Bas itna karna Shiv," I murmured. "Mujhe himmat dena." (Just give me courage.)

I don't know why I'm asking for courage. But the air feels charged, like the heavy, electric silence before a monsoon strike.

By mid-morning, the silence is dead.

The house is a swarm of relatives. Gold bangles clink against steel plates like tiny bells. Bowls of yellow haldi are prepared, their earthy scent filling the rooms. Whispers float through the corridors like suffocating smoke.

I stand near the kitchen door, a ghost in my own home. Chachi reaches out, grabbing my chin and tilting my face toward the harsh sunlight.

"Thoda muskura diya kar," she says, her voice devoid of warmth. "Kal se sasural jana hai." (Smile a little. From tomorrow you have to go to your in-laws.)

Tomorrow. The word lands with the finality of a gavel.

I look toward the veranda. He is sitting there. My "match." My soon to be husband.

He is fifty-six years old. A heavy gold chain sits like a noose against his thick neck. His eyes are small, dark, and they never seem to blink when they look at me. He laughs at something my uncle says, revealing teeth stained dark and jagged from tobacco.

My stomach turns. In the next room, I hear the distinct slap of cash being counted against a wooden table.

"Everything is set," my uncle's voice floats out, thick with satisfaction. "Kal subah phere ho jayenge." (Tomorrow morning, the rituals will be done.)

Set. Like a piece of furniture moved into place. Like a cow sold at a fair. No one asked me. They only informed me of my own fate.

"Dekho toh, mehendi ka rang kitna gehra aaya hai," one aunt exclaims, grabbing my hand. (Look at how dark the mehendi has turned!)

"Kehte hain gehra rang ka matlab pati bahut pyaar karta hai," another adds with a wink. (They say the darker the color, the more the husband loves you.)

"Aree karega hi," Chachi says, smiling gently at me, though the smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Thakurain jo banne wali hai," (Oh, he will surely love her,) (She's going to be the Thakurain of that house, after all.)

The afternoon is a blur of measurement. Women measure my wrists for bangles. They discuss the weight of the dowry jewellery. They press oil into my hair as if they are preparing a body for a funeral.

"Such a lucky girl," an aunt remarks, her mouth full of betel leaf.

I want to scream. I want to laugh until the walls shake. But even my voice doesn't feel like it belongs to me anymore.

By evening, the sky turns a bruised purple. Clouds gather-heavy, bloated, and dark. The wind begins to howl through the neem leaves, making the tree shriek.

I return to the Shivling when the house is distracted by dinner. I didn't bring water this time. I only bring my fear and a diya.

I sit near the tree, huddling close to the stone like a friend seeking comfort.

"Why don't you do anything? Shiv, If you don't want this for me," I whisper, my voice trembling, "then stop it na."

The wind lunges. The diya I lit flickers wildly, its tiny flame fighting for life before it is snuffed out into blackness. My heart stutters. Then, the sky splits open with a crack of thunder so loud the ground vibrates.

The first drop of rain lands on my hand.

Then another.

Within seconds, the sky breaks open.

I hurry back to my room as heavy droplets of rain hit my face.

Night falls, loud and crowded. Guests are curled up in every corner of the house.

In my room, my bridal saree lies folded. It is red. A red so deep and bright it looks like a fresh wound. Tomorrow, they will drape this weight over me. Tomorrow, my name will be erased.

A soft, frantic knock sounds at my door. My cousin slips inside, her eyes wide with terror and pity.

"Run," she breathes.

"What?" I gasp, my heart leaping into my throat.

She presses a small cloth bundle into my hand. Two hundred rupees. A spare shawl.

"Peechhe ka darwaza khula hai. Bus stand tak jaana, rukna mat." She whispered. (The back gate is open. Go until the bus stand, don't stop.)

"Agar unhone pakad liya toh?" I whisper, the blood rushing in my ears. (What if they catch me?)

"Isse achha toh yehi hai ki tum bhaagte huye pakdi jaao, kal yahan hone se toh behtar hai," she says, swallowing hard and stepping out. (It's better that you get caught running than being here tomorrow.)

Another thunderclap shakes the windowpanes. I looked around my room one last time-at the cracked plaster, the old trunk, the window where I spent twenty years dreaming of a life I was never allowed to have.

I reach into my pocket, making sure my mother's silver coin is tucked safely with the money.

I pick up the bundle and move like a shadow toward the back gate. The moment I step outside, the rain hits me. It is ice-cold and violent. It feels like a shock; it feels like being born.

I run.

I run through the sucking mud of the fields. I run through the blinding sheets of water. I don't look back when I hear a distant shout. I don't look back when my lungs begin to burn.

The storm swallows me, and for the first time in my life-I am breathing.

I don't know where the road leads. I only know it leads away.

Suddenly, the silence of the fields is broken by a sharp, piercing whistle behind me.

My blood turns to ice. I hear footsteps-heavy, splashing through the mud.

"Look at her! Where are you running, little girl?" a coarse voice shouts through the rain. There are three of them. I can hear their laughter, the sound of them mocking my struggle.

I clutch my bundle to my chest and push harder. I don't look back. I run like they say to run-like a woman whose life depends on the next step. My heart is a drum, my vision blurred by tears and rain.

Suddenly, my feet hit something hard and flat. The black concrete of the main road. But the transition is too fast. My muddy feet slip on the slick asphalt, and I stumble, falling hard onto the road.

The world turns white.

A deafening, metallic blast of a horn echoes in my right ear. I look up, blinded by two massive, glowing orbs of light. A jeep is barreling toward me at full speed, its tires shrieking against the wet road as it tries to stop.

The storm, the men behind me, the life I left-everything vanishes in the harsh glare of the headlights.

My body freezes. I couldn't move. My hands fly up to shield my face, as if that alone could stop the jeep.

To be continued....

Thank you for reading.