The Weight of Silence
Riya had learned to carry the weight of her trauma quietly, like an invisible bag she couldn’t set down. At seven, a fleeting moment of violation at a family wedding had left her scarred. Over time, she built walls—strong enough to keep people out and herself safe. She appeared normal to most, an introvert mistaken for rudeness. But inside, every touch she didn’t consent to reopened a wound, raw and unspoken.
Her father’s overprotectiveness only added another layer to her confinement. Dreams of pursuing a master’s degree at a prestigious university flickered like distant stars, but those stars dimmed every time he refused to let her step out of their hometown. “Safety first,” he would say. So Riya settled for a 9-to-5 job she detested, her heart breaking silently as she watched friends and classmates soar to heights she could only dream of.
Late at night, she studied by the faint glow of her desk lamp, hunting for remote opportunities that would allow her to reclaim some autonomy. But her self-esteem had eroded, leaving her to wonder if she deserved anything more than the life she led.
When her parents emotionally blackmailed her into marriage, they pressed every insecurity they had cultivated over the years.
“Who will marry you later? You’re not beautiful enough to be so picky.”
“This is a good match, from a respectable family. At least meet him.”
But Riya didn’t meet him. She didn’t leave her room during the shopping or preparations, enduring the taunts and anger of her family in silence. On the day of the wedding, she tried her bridal outfit for the first time. It didn’t fit. The blouse was too loose, and her mother’s frustration erupted.
“How many times did I tell you to try it earlier? Now we’re scrambling at the last moment!”
Riya didn’t argue. She fastened the lehenga herself, tied the dori tight, and her best friend tried to fix the blouse with safety pins. The fix wasn’t perfect, but Riya didn’t care. She moved forward to the mandap, resigned.
As she sat through the rituals, one of the pins came undone, piercing her back. The pain made her wince, but she masked it with the same stoic expression she had worn her whole life. Her husband, Aryan, noticed her discomfort. His eyes questioned her, but she avoided his gaze. She hadn’t looked at him directly even once, except when forced by the photographer.
The ceremony continued, and during the vidaai, as she bent to touch her elders' feet, the pin dug deeper. Tears slid down her face, part pain, part resignation.
In the car, she struggled to adjust the pin discreetly, but Aryan noticed her fidgeting.
“Are you uncomfortable? What’s wrong?” he asked gently.
She shook her head, denying everything, her voice silenced by years of conditioning.
When they reached his home, the teasing cousins faded into the background as Aryan trailed behind her to the room. As she stepped inside to change, he hesitated at the door. A glance upward revealed a thin stream of blood trickling down her back. His chest tightened with a mix of shame and anger—not at her but at the world that had forced her into silence, into this moment of hidden pain.
“Riya,” he called softly. She turned slightly, startled but unwilling to meet his gaze.
“You’re hurt,” he said, stepping closer, his voice a mix of concern and quiet determination.
For the first time, Riya didn’t move away. A part of her longed to be seen—not just her pain but the person she had hidden behind it. The wall she had built so carefully cracked ever so slightly, letting in a sliver of light.
It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was a beginning.
