"I begged him," she said, her eyes fixed on the aging carpet beneath her feet. "I begged him, 'Take me with you. Let me meet your people, see your world.' And every time, he shrugged me off. 'It's just a trip. Why do you need to come?'"
Her voice broke slightly, a faltering pause betraying the pain she tried so hard to bury.
"What kind of marriage is this, Aunty Gayatri?" she asked, turning her gaze toward the elder woman seated beside Piyush's mother. "He had time for everyone but me. Even at home, he'd sit with his family, laughing and talking, while I was just… there. A shadow."
The words hung in the air, like incense smoke that wouldn't clear. No one spoke. No one dared.
Then, Aman stepped forward.
He had been quiet until now, standing in a corner like a sentinel—watchful, unreadable. Bani's younger brother, taller than most in the room, straightened his shoulders. His presence demanded silence, and the room gave it willingly.
"Enough," he said, voice calm but edged with authority.
He moved between Bani and Piyush, his tone never rising, but each word laced with quiet fury.
"You speak of my sister as if she hasn't tried," Aman said, locking eyes with Piyush, who sat stiffly on the opposite couch. "But tell me—when you married her, did you promise to understand her? To stand by her? Or were those just empty words?"
Piyush shifted, clearly uncomfortable. His knee bounced. His mouth opened, then closed again.
"It's not just me. Everyone says she doesn't try—"
"And you?" Aman cut in sharply, his eyes narrowing. "Did you try? Or did you expect her to carry the weight of this marriage alone while you sat back, waiting for time to fix everything?"
Silence fell like a gavel. The kind of silence that doesn't just fill a room—it suffocates it.
Aman turned his gaze to Piyush's parents.
"Marriage is about two people working together," he said, his voice steady. "If one refuses to invest, don't blame the other for walking away."
It was Piyush's father who finally broke the stillness. He leaned forward, his eyes flicking between the two families, landing reluctantly on Mr. Nagaraj.
"Brother, what do we do? Your daughter speaks like this—"
Mr. Nagaraj raised a hand, his posture unyielding.
"She speaks her truth," he said firmly. "Our children are grown up. We can't force them to stay in something that breaks them. If she chooses to leave, I will not stop her."
"But she's married!" Piyush's mother snapped, her voice rising for the first time. "She has responsibilities!"
Bani's voice rose to meet hers—clear, poised, not loud but impossible to ignore.
"It's my life. I've tried to make it work. But I won't go back and pretend everything is fine. I won't live a lie. I can't make him happy, and I won't be happy either."
Her words sliced through the room like the clean break of a blade.
Piyush's mother's face hardened. Her lips curled in disbelief. And then, with a dramatic tug at her hipbelt, she hissed:
"Well! If this is how it's going to be, we want everything back—down to the last grain of what we gave you! Let's start with the earrings we gifted you at the wedding."
Bani didn't flinch. Instead, she lifted an eyebrow, amused more than angered. Her voice, calm and slightly mocking, slid like satin over a knife's edge.
"The earrings? Ah—you mean the ones you kept safe after the wedding?"
A beat of silence followed. Thick. Awkward.
From Bani's side, her aunt spoke up, tone neutral but unwavering.
"That's fine. Our daughter will take back what belongs to her too."
The air bristled with unspoken calculations. The gifts from Bani's parents hadn't been extravagant, but they were given with love: a gold ring, a pair of earrings, some silver pieces. Traditions honored through sacrifice.
Then came the final blow.
"Remove your gold bracelet and the mangalsutra. Right now," Piyush's mother said, eyes blazing.
There was no hesitation. No theatrical pause.
Bani reached behind her neck and unfastened the mangalsutra. Her fingers moved steadily. No trembling now. No drama. She pulled the chain forward and carefully separated each part—the gold beads, the mangalya, the thread.
She held them for a moment in her palm, as if weighing the years gone by.
Then, she extended it toward Piyush's mother.
"Here," she said, voice sharp but composed. "These gold beads and the mangalya—they're yours. But the chain? That was a gift from my parents. I'm keeping that."
There was no chaos. No shouting. Just quiet clarity.
And in that moment, everything changed.
The decision had been made—a mutual divorce. The rituals didn't matter anymore. The silence spoke louder than any argument.
Bani stepped back. Her eyes met Piyush's once. No bitterness. Just distance.
"If you refuse," she said, coolly, "I'll file for compensation. And that won't help anyone. We're both 30. If this drags into court, it'll take 4 to 5 years easily."
Piyush's parents exchanged uneasy glances. They knew. There were bank transactions. Proof of the money they'd demanded. If it went to court, nothing would stay buried.
They agreed. Silently. Reluctantly.
But finally—clearly.
No one stopped her as she walked away.
Bani didn't look back.
Bani, her brother, and their parents boarded the train at Mandya. The platform was quiet, the sky painted with fading hues of orange. A warm breeze stirred the stillness, ruffling the ends of Bani's dupatta as she stepped onto the train, clutching a small overnight bag that felt heavier than it should. They found their seats and sat down silently.
No one spoke much.
The rhythmic clunk of the train's wheels over the tracks began as the engine slowly pulled them away from Mandya, inch by inch at first, then gathering speed. The town faded behind them like a page being turned. Bani leaned against the window, her forehead pressing lightly to the warm metal frame. Her brother sat beside her, quiet, fiddling with the edge of his shirt sleeve, unraveling a small loose thread that had somehow survived many washes.