The sun had barely risen when the news arrived—carried on dust-covered feet and whispered through trembling lips.
"Rajan is gone."
The words struck the village like lightning splitting a tree. Swift. Sudden. Irreversible.
Anika was kneeling before the tulsi plant when it happened, her fingers damp with water and sandal paste. She looked up to see a neighbor's son running toward the house, his chest heaving, his face drained of color.
"A tractor overturned in the eastern field," he said breathlessly. "Rajan was underneath it."
The ground fell away from beneath her.
She didn't cry at first. Not when she was told. Not even when Rajan's body was brought home, wrapped in white cotton sheets. It didn't seem real. His limbs lay still, too still, and yet she waited for his eyes to open. For his lips to move and ask, "Did you eat?" like he always did.
But he never did.
Instead, the cries of mourning rose around her. Wails split the sky as women beat their chests, men lowered their gazes, and children were pulled inside. Grief, thick and suffocating, filled every corner of the little house.
And Anika stood at the center of it all—silent, stunned, and suddenly hollow.
Within hours, she was stripped of the colored saree she had worn that morning. Her green bangles were smashed ceremoniously against the ground. Her jasmine braid was unwrapped and brushed into a plain knot. They draped her in white—plain, coarse, severe. A symbol, the elders said, of purity and penance.
"It's what a widow must wear," one of the older women whispered as she pinned the end of the saree to Anika's shoulder.
"She's so young," another murmured. "Barely lived. But now… she will wear white till her last breath."
They didn't say it to be cruel. But their words cut nonetheless.
"She mustn't wear color again. It will call bad luck."
"She should stay quiet. Stay clean. Stay still."
"She belongs to the dead now."
And Anika—still numb, still reeling—did not argue.
The funeral was held at sunset beneath the village banyan tree. The flames of the pyre roared toward the heavens as ghee and camphor fed the fire. Anika watched, unmoving, as the man who had once shyly handed her a jasmine garland dissolved into ash and smoke.
Behind her, the women muttered prayers and superstitions.
"She shouldn't cry too loud, it will disturb his soul."
"She mustn't eat sweets. No celebration in a widow's life."
"She must never cross a bride's path again."
The words came like poison wrapped in concern.
And Anika remained silent. The tears did not fall. Not then.
But that night, when the house fell into a hush and the oil lamps burned low, she sat by the window, wrapped in white, and sobbed into her hands.
The air outside smelled of burnt sandalwood and smoke. Inside, it smelled of loss.
Rajan's cot remained untouched, his slippers neatly placed by the door. The biology book he had brought her still lay open by the windowsill, a sprig of tulsi marking the last page she'd read.
She clutched it to her chest, rocked herself slowly, and whispered his name like a prayer.
But prayers did not return the dead.
The next morning, the village resumed its rhythm—roosters crowed, children chased each other barefoot, and women returned to their pots and pans. Life, cruel in its persistence, moved forward.
But Anika stood frozen in place.
The white saree clung to her like a second skin. It made her invisible and visible all at once. Men avoided her gaze. Women softened their voices when they passed her by.
"She mustn't laugh again."
"She'll never remarry. It's not done."
"It's fate," they said. "She was never meant to be a wife for long."
Each word chipped at her insides. Not because she feared loneliness—but because they had already written her fate for her. Sealed her future in ash and white cotton.
One afternoon, as she swept the front yard, a group of older women walked by, their bangles clinking, their sarees bright with turmeric and vermillion. One of them looked at Anika, then turned to the others.
"She's still pretty," the woman said, not unkindly. "But beauty in a widow is dangerous. It tempts fate. She mustn't wear flowers again."
"She mustn't meet men's eyes," another added.
"She must never step into a temple during festivals."
Anika lowered her gaze and continued sweeping, the broom brushing dust over her bare feet.
Inside, a storm brewed.
She did not want color. Not yet. She did not crave joy. Not now. But she wanted choice. The right to decide when her mourning ended. When her voice returned. When the flame inside her could light again.
But every eye in the village, every whisper behind her back, insisted otherwise.
"She must wear white forever."
As if her skin no longer belonged to her.
That evening, Rajan's father approached her gently.
"You've been quiet, child," he said.
Anika nodded.
He looked away for a long moment, then reached into a wooden chest and pulled out the same biology book Rajan had found in the attic.
"He kept this for you," he said. "Even told me he wanted to send you to the city someday… for college."
Anika's breath caught in her throat.
She took the book slowly, fingers trembling as she traced the faded cover.