The incessant drumming of the rain against the windows of the small house created a constant, rhythmic hum, kalboishakhi bringing a sound Arati had come to both dread and rely on. But today, it felt louder—like it was beating against her chest rather than just the glass. She sat in the corner of the living room, her back pressed against the wooden frame of the window, the notebook open in front of her. Her thoughts were scattered, but there was something important she was trying to piece together. Something she couldn't quite hold onto.

The soft click of the door made her look up. Rishi stood there, his face tense. For a brief moment, she felt a flash of hope. Had he spoken to his parents? Had they listened?

He didn't immediately answer, but she could see it in his eyes. She had known the moment she married him that the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but something inside her had dared to hope—dared to believe that together, they could face anything.

Rishi hesitated, his hands fidgeting at his sides. His voice, when it came, was almost too quiet. 

"Arati," he said, his tone uncertain, "I... I spoke to my parents about... your writing. About your desire to make films."

Her heart leapt, and then faltered. Here it comes.

"And?", she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"They... they want to speak with you," he said, his words tumbling out quickly, as if he were trying to downplay their significance, "We should go to them now."

The simple invitation to speak with his parents felt like a trial. The walls in their home, though familiar, now seemed to close in on her, the pressure of their expectations bearing down on her with every step. She stood up, the chair scraping the floor behind her as she walked towards the door where Rishi was already standing, waiting. She wanted to ask him more, to press him for details, but something in his face—a fleeting look of guilt?—made her stop.

She knew this wasn't going to be easy. She had spent days wondering what would happen when she finally spoke her truth, when she admitted the ambition that had slowly crept into her heart since she'd seen her first film. But this—this moment, this meeting with Rishi's parents—was the culmination of months of silent wondering. And now, it felt like she was walking into a storm.

The house was still, as always, filled with the quiet hum of domestic life. The heavy curtains blocked out most of the rain, and the smell of dinner—a rich, homey fragrance—wafted from the kitchen. Arati felt small in the familiar space, suddenly aware of every corner of the room and every pair of eyes that would soon be upon her.

Rishi's parents sat at the head of the dining table, the chairs across from them left empty. His father, the stern figure of authority in the house, glanced up from his papers and set them down with a deliberate movement. His eyes were sharp, his expression unreadable. His mother, always poised, looked up at them with a polite but distant smile, as though she were already anticipating the conversation.

"Rishi," his father said, his voice deep and authoritative, "you've brought your wife to speak with us. About her... ambitions."

Arati swallowed, feeling the weight of his gaze settle on her. She stood beside Rishi, who had become uncharacteristically quiet. His hand barely brushed against hers, but it felt like a lifeline she couldn't quite hold onto.

"Yes, Baba," Rishi murmured, his voice tight, "Arati has... been thinking about writing for films. She wants to become a director."

The words hung in the air for a moment, thick with uncertainty. Arati felt her chest tighten. Her stomach churned. She had dreamt of this moment—of being able to say it aloud, of being supported—but now that it was happening, it felt so much heavier than she had imagined.

"Films?", His father's voice was low, almost a growl, "Is this the kind of thinking you've been filling your mind with, Arati?"

Arati lowered her gaze, unsure of how to respond. There was nothing she could say. Nothing that could change the way they saw her, the way they saw women in general.

Her mother-in-law, always composed, spoke next, her tone crisp and dismissive. 

"Rishi," she said, her eyes flicking to Arati with barely concealed disdain, "you must understand that your wife has responsibilities now. She is a woman of this house. What kind of woman abandons her family duties to chase after such nonsense?" 

Her voice was smooth, but there was a cold edge to it.

Arati's heart sank. She looked at Rishi, desperately searching his face for any sign of support, any sign that he would defend her—defend her dreams. But instead, he stood there, awkward, his lips parted as though he was about to say something, but nothing came out.

His silence was like a wall between them, and the room suddenly felt too small for her to breathe. She turned away, her hands trembling at her sides, her heart crashing against her ribcage. She wanted to tell them that she wasn't just a wife. That she was someone with ideas, with a voice, with dreams. But the words stuck in her throat, trapped by the weight of their expectations.

"You must understand," his father continued, his voice laced with authority, "that a woman's place is not to seek such things. A woman's place is here—in the home, with the family. Your purpose is to care for your husband, to care for the household. You're no longer a girl with dreams, Arati. You are a woman now, and you must grow into your role."

Arati's vision blurred. The sharp sting of his words hit her like a blow, and for a moment, she thought she might crumble under the weight of it all. She had thought that Rishi might be different—that he might be someone who could understand. But now, in the silence that stretched between them, she realized that he was just like everyone else.

Her chest tightened, and she struggled to hold herself together. This is what they want of me, she thought, her throat tightening as she looked up at Rishi, hoping for some kind of support, some kind of understanding. But he looked away.

It felt as though the walls of the house were closing in on her, the weight of their judgment pressing down until she could hardly breathe. It wasn't just his father's words. It wasn't just her mother-in-law's dismissal. It was Rishi's silence. His unwillingness to stand by her when she needed him most.

"I understand," Arati whispered, the words barely escaping her lips, "I'm sorry for causing any trouble."

And with that, she turned to leave, her legs weak, her heart shattering with each step away from the table. She barely heard Rishi's soft, almost frantic voice calling her name. She didn't care.

She had hoped—hoped so badly—that there might be a place for her dreams in his world. But now, she realized the truth: in this house, in this world, her dreams would never have a place. Not now. Not ever.

In the quiet of their shared room later that evening, Arati sat on the edge of the bed, her back stiff, her hands clenched in her lap. The rain outside was still falling in sheets, a constant reminder of the storm inside her. She had expected Rishi to come to her, to explain, to comfort her. But he hadn't. He had simply left her to grapple with the weight of their silence.

The space between them felt vast now, like a chasm she couldn't cross. She had imagined their life together differently—full of shared hopes, shared dreams—but instead, she felt like an outsider in her own marriage.

Rishi stood in the doorway, his hand resting on the frame. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He took a hesitant step toward her, then stopped, his gaze flicking to the floor.

"I... I'm sorry, Arati," he murmured, "I didn't know what to say."

But she didn't answer him. She didn't know how to anymore.

Her heart, once full of hope, was now empty, hollowed out by the weight of his silence.

The room was shrouded in the dim light of the kerosene lamp, its flickering flame casting long shadows across the walls. Outside, the monsoon had softened to a gentle drizzle, but the quiet within the house was almost unbearable. Arati sat with her back to the door, her legs crossed beneath her, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She hadn't spoken a word since Rishi had entered their room. He stood now in the doorway, his posture hesitant, his expression unreadable.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

Arati didn't look at him. She couldn't. She was afraid that if she did, the dam of emotions she had been holding back all evening would break. The sting of disappointment, the sharp ache of feeling unseen, was still fresh. She had thought that Rishi would be different—that he would stand beside her when the world tried to crush her dreams. But he hadn't. In front of his parents, in front of their elders, he had said nothing. He had allowed her to be dismissed, silenced, just like every other woman.

She didn't know what hurt more: the cruelty of his mother's words or the resignation in his silence.

The bed creaked under his weight as Rishi sat down beside her. The proximity should have offered her comfort, but it only made her feel more isolated. The space between them felt like a chasm.

"I'm sorry, Arati," he whispered. His voice, so soft and uncertain, only deepened her pain. 

"I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to defend you. I... I just couldn't."

Arati's throat tightened, her chest constricting. She couldn't look at him, couldn't bear the vulnerability in his voice. 

"It's okay," she murmured, though she didn't believe her own words, "I understand."

She had to say it. Had to convince herself that it was fine. Because if she didn't, the words would spill out—the anger, the hurt, the betrayal—and she didn't want that. She didn't want to break, didn't want to be the kind of wife who made demands, who raised her voice when everything was supposed to be calm, and settled, and obedient.

But Rishi wasn't done. He shifted closer, his hand lightly brushing against hers. 

"Arati," he whispered again, a note of desperation creeping into his voice, "I should have stood up for you. I should have said something. But you know how my father is—he's always been... rigid in his ways. And my mother... she's just like him. I... I don't know how to change them. I'm sorry."

Arati bit her lip, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. She didn't want his apologies. She didn't need his regrets. What she needed was for him to be there for her when it mattered most.

"You didn't say anything," she said quietly, the words thick with emotion, "You didn't stand up for me. You let them speak to me like that, like I was nothing."

The sting of it was unbearable. To know that Rishi, the person she had trusted more than anyone in the world, hadn't fought for her—it shattered something inside her.

"I wanted to, Arati. I did," he said, his voice cracking slightly, "But... it's not easy. I don't know how to fight against them. I don't know how to fight against my own family."

Arati finally turned to look at him, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. 

"Then what am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do with all this?" 

She gestured toward the notebook on the small wooden table, the one that had once been her refuge, the one that had held her dreams, her ambitions. 

"You asked me to speak my truth, and I did. But now... now I feel like I was foolish for even thinking that it would be possible."

The words hung in the air between them, raw and painful. Rishi's face twisted in anguish, and for a moment, she saw the guilt in his eyes. He wanted to help her. She could see that. But the reality of their world, the expectations of his family, had overwhelmed him. And in the end, it had been easier to remain silent than to challenge everything he had ever known.

"I'm sorry, Arati," he repeated, but it felt hollow this time, like an apology that didn't change anything, "I... I want to support you. But I don't know how."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips, one she didn't recognize. It was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything she had been feeling. 

"You don't know how," she repeated, her voice trembling, "You don't know how to support your own wife."

Rishi looked at her, his face anguished, as though the words were too much for him to bear. But he didn't say anything. He didn't defend himself. Instead, he simply sat there, his hands hovering over hers, unsure whether to reach out or pull away.

Arati couldn't stand it anymore. She stood up abruptly, walking to the window where the rain had slowed to a mist. She could see the faint outline of the distant city in the darkness, a city that felt so far removed from the small, confining world she had been born into. She had grown to love Rishi, yes, love, and she believed her love for Rishi, his for her—could be a force powerful enough to change everything. But now, standing there, with the weight of her broken dreams pressing down on her, she realized how naive that had been.

Rishi's voice broke through the silence, "Arati... please, don't go."

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. The pain in his voice stung her, but she didn't turn around. Instead, she focused on the steady rhythm of the rain outside, trying to steady the storm inside her.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said softly, "I'm just trying to figure out what to do now."

She could hear him move behind her, his footsteps hesitant, but he didn't touch her. He didn't try to stop her. She was beyond words now, beyond the promises of support that had seemed so empty just moments ago.

The truth was undeniable: she was alone in this. She had been foolish to believe that anyone, even Rishi, could truly understand what she needed, what she wanted to become. In this house, in this world, her dreams would always be too big, too impossible.

And yet, some part of her refused to let them die. Even now, with all the weight of society bearing down on her, she couldn't let go of the vision that had taken root in her heart. It was like a fire that wouldn't be extinguished, no matter how much she tried to ignore it.

I'll find a way, she thought, even as her heart broke. I have to. For myself.

And with that, she turned back to face Rishi. He was still standing in the middle of the room, his eyes full of regret, his lips parted as though he were waiting for her to speak. But she couldn't bring herself to say anything more. The words, the apologies, the explanations—they no longer mattered.

Instead, she reached for her notebook, the pages soft from use, and held it close to her chest. For now, it was all she had left.