The ribbon lay hidden beneath her pillow, its weight a constant, thrilling reminder. Each night since that stolen temple meeting, Ananya had slipped her hand beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing the folded paper as if drawing strength from its touch. His words pulsed like a heartbeat against her palm.
But words were not enough. Not anymore.
She had read and reread them until they burned into her memory, but the ache in her chest whispered of something else—a need to answer him, to prove she was still with him, still fighting. That she had not been broken by the cage around her.
The trouble was how.
Her parents' vigilance had sharpened since the whispers at the temple. Her father's gaze followed her like a hawk's. Her mother had doubled her prayers, urging her to "cleanse her mind of distractions." Even the cousin, once merely watchful, now lingered in doorways with a smirk that told her he suspected far more than he let on.
But Ananya's defiance was growing teeth.
The first chance came one afternoon, when her mother sent her to water the courtyard tulsi plant.
It was a small reprieve—just minutes alone under the pale sun—but she clutched at it as though it were freedom itself. She knelt before the clay pot, pouring water carefully at the roots, lips murmuring the ritual prayers. Her eyes, though, were on the boundary wall.
Beyond it, life went on. A neighbor's bicycle rattled down the lane. A child shrieked with laughter. A hawker's bell chimed faintly in the distance. All so near, yet impossibly far.
Her fingers trembled on the brass pot. What if Kabir walked past? What if—by some miracle—Riyan himself was close enough to see?
She had no words to send, no safe way to pass a message. But she had her hands. Her eyes. Small rebellions.
So she lingered. She poured the water slower, her fingers brushing across the leaves in deliberate strokes. Three times. A rhythm they once used in playful code during study sessions—three taps for I see you.
Her heart hammered. She wasn't even sure anyone was watching. But it didn't matter. The act itself was enough to keep her fire alive.
That night, she dared a bolder signal.
Her parents had ordered her shutters closed after dusk, but the moonlight called her. Carefully, she unlatched the window an inch, just enough for the night air to slip through. Her pulse thundered at the thought of discovery.
Then, with hands that trembled but did not falter, she tied her dupatta to the window lattice. A sliver of pale fabric against the darkness. A flag. A whisper.
Her signal.
She left it there for only minutes—five, maybe less—before pulling it back in. Long enough, she prayed, for someone to notice. For the message to slip across the silence like a secret carried on wind.
Her chest ached as she folded the dupatta again, tucking it neatly beneath her pillow beside the ribbon. Each small act left her both exhilarated and terrified, but stronger. Alive.
Days passed. The house grew tighter around her. Her father spoke of stricter routines, of suitors being "considered." Her mother watched her every expression, scolding even her sighs.
But inside, she clung to her quiet war.
Every gesture became a message.A glance held too long at the courtyard wall.A hand lingering at her throat when she thought of his letters.A flower she tucked behind her ear, the very marigold he once teased her about.
To her parents, they were nothing. To her, they were declarations.
The third signal came almost by accident.
It was a Sunday morning, when her cousin escorted her to the temple again. She walked with her head bowed, her steps demure, as expected. But the moment they passed the banyan tree near the temple steps, she let her hand trail along its trunk, her fingertips scratching faintly into the bark.
A single letter. The beginning of his name.
Her cousin tugged her wrist sharply, scolding her for dawdling. She lowered her gaze, biting her lip to hide the tiny, fierce smile tugging at her mouth.
It wasn't much. Just a fragment, a whisper carved into the skin of the world. But she imagined him seeing it, finding it, knowing she had left it there for him.
And that thought carried her through another day of locked doors and hushed whispers.
That night, as she lay awake again, the note pressed against her chest, she let herself imagine his side.
Did he know? Did he guess? Was Kabir telling him anything? Did he sense her defiance in the air, the way she sensed his presence every time the wind rattled the shutters?
Her parents could tighten their grip until her bones ached, but the truth was simple: she was no longer their obedient doll.
Every signal she sent was proof. Every stolen moment was rebellion.
And in the silence of her locked room, Ananya smiled—fierce and unafraid—for the first time in weeks.