Krishnapriya Devashree

104. No Longer Silent

"Let's talk."

The words left Devashree's lips like shards of glass. She did not look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the window, on the sheets of rain that carved their jagged trails down the glass. The storm outside was easier to face than the storm sitting across from her.

The silence that followed pressed down heavy and suffocating.

"Shree," Krishna's voice came soft, hesitant, like he was stepping onto fragile ground. "Priye, look at me. Please."

She didn't. Her eyes stayed fixed on the rain, on the world outside that did bent to his will. He could bent everything but not her. She would never allow it.

 "Don't call me that," she said. "Priye is for the woman who trusted you, who waited for you. I'm not her anymore"

Krishna moved towards her and she felt the warmth of his presence, the pull of his divinity, like a tide trying to drag her back. But she was stone now, unyielding. 

"Shree," he tried again, softer, rawer, "your words cut deeper than any asura's blade. Sita... her pain... I carry it too. I—But you know why I had to do it right....I-"

"Don't." She spun around so fast her angavastra flared. Her eyes locked onto his, and for the first time that night, she let him see the fury burning there. "Don't you dare speak her name like you understand. You don't. You never did."

His eyes flickered, wounded, and she felt the satisfaction curl sharp in her chest. Good. Let him hurt.

"You had forgiven me for that, Priye," he whispered, almost desperate.

He flinched.

"Yes, I had. I did forgive you. But don't you dare think for one moment that I forgot. I did not forget the way you silenced my pain.I did not forget how easily you put me beneath your kingdom, your people, your precious image."

He reached out a hand, futile, trembling. "Shree... please. Let's not do this. Let's talk about the present. Forget the past—"

"No..... I have been doing that again and again. I have been forgetting, forgiving, swallowing the shards you left in me. And every time I begin to heal, every time I dare to breathe, you—" her voice broke, then rose, trembling with fury, "you have the audacity to scratch the same wounds open. Again. And again. And again. So let's talk about it. Let's talk about her. Sita. She may have been in the Tretayug but she is me and I am her."

 "Shree..." His voice was breaking, pleading, raw. His lips formed her name like a prayer, but his voice trembled like a man begging for absolution.

She did not let him.

 "When you told Lakshman to take me to the forest all you cared about was your kingdom and your people. You had the power to defy societal norms but chose not to. You bent to that patriarchal society because you were afraid! You bowed to them...those men—and left me to rot because you were afraid of a public scandal. Afraid! You, who could face armies, demons, Raavan—yet you cowered before wagging tongues! You were afraid that it would bring such chaos into your kingdom that people would rebel! You were terrified not of death, not of war, not of sin, but of gossip. Of scandal that you thought could topple the peace of your kingdom!"

Krishna flinched.

"And so what did you do? Simple. You throw away the cause of the problem instead of solving it. You cast me into the wilderness like refuse because it was easier to discard me than to fight for me."

"Please... stop. You're cutting me open, Shree..." Krishna pressed his palm to his chest as though to hold himself together.

"That was pathetic," she hissed, her eyes burning. "And I will always be ashamed of what you did! You were supposed to be the best man on earth. The very best. And look what you did!"