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Midnight's shadows hide her silent pain,
Malini's ache, a cycle's secret strain.
She slips out, crimson stains her hand,
Afraid to face the Haveli's judging land.
In the garden's hush, she folds a cloth tight,
A makeshift shield for her vulnerable night.
Abhishek finds her—his eyes a quiet storm,
Her guilt exposed, her shame a heavy form.
He takes the proof, her cheeks burn with fire,
Her heart beats loud, her soul a captive wire.
She lunges to reclaim it, fear in her gaze,
Hiding her truth in 1846's suffocating haze.
The moonlight wraps them, a silent, tense space,
Her tears fall sharp, her body a wounded trace.
A secret revealed, a fragile, tender thread,
In his calm touch, her fears begin to shed.
In his steady grasp, the cloth's impure stain,
Her shame meets love, her heart learns to remain.
No words are spoken, only shadows move,
A bond forms slow, where her secrets find love.
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28th April, 1846
Calcutta, Bengal
MALINI POV~
My eyes flutter open to a dull, unfamiliar sting simmering in my lower abdomen— sharp yet oddly familiar, as though my body has been waiting for this moment in silence.
My fingers instinctively drift to my stomach as I curl into myself, the thin cotton sheets brushing against my skin.
A soft whimper slips from my throat as the ache deepens…. my fingers press firmer against the spot, seeking warmth, seeking relief.
I take a sharp breath through my nose, twisting slightly on the mattress with a winch.
The coarse cotton sheet scratches faintly against my skin as I prop myself up on a trembling elbow.
My eyes fully open now, and I freeze as the warmth spreads— a deep, pulsing ache anchoring itself in my belly like coals under my skin.
It isn't just an ache.
It's deeper, heavier, familiar.
My breath catches.
Could it be…?
I slide off the bed with a sudden urgency, the rush of movement making the ache throb harder.
Barefoot and silent, I tiptoe across the cool stone floor, slipping out to the garden's edge where a modest, covered bathing area stands beneath the neem tree.
I lower my eyes to my stomach, palms trembling slightly as they press to the source of heat and tension.
Then, careful, I glance over my shoulder… hecking the shadows, the windows… hoping no one sees me in this vulnerable state.
I let out a sharp, shaky sigh, retreating further into the shadow of the garden wall, hidden from the house.
My trembling fingers gather the edge of my saree and draw it up carefully, the fabric whispering against my ankles.
Inhaling deeply, I slide my hand beneath, the soft cotton brushing against my bare legs until my fingers meet the sticky warmth between my thighs.
A flutter of dread rises in my chest. I slowly pull my hand out, holding it up to the silver-blue moonlight.
Crimson glistens on my fingertips— bright, wet, undeniable.
I bend down slowly, careful not to spill the quiet grief welling in my chest.
My hand closes around the rim of the bronze bowl beside the bath area.
The metal is cool beneath my fingers as I tilt it, letting the water trickle gently over my stained hand.
It flows in delicate streams, washing away the red… but not the flutter of fear clinging inside me.
I scrub quietly, as if trying not to wake the garden itself.
I hurry back into the room, my footsteps light, the stone beneath my feet still cool from the night air.
I glance toward the bed— he lies there, chest rising in a gentle rhythm, one arm resting gracefully over his chest.
A strand of hair falls over his brow, untouched by the storm inside me.
I tiptoe past him, breath held, praying the creak of the terracotta floor won't betray me.
My fingers find the edge of the old almirah door, its hinges groaning softly as I open it with care.
I reach inside and pull out a faded cotton cloth… frayed at the edges, worn soft with age and many washes.
I cradle it against my chest for a moment before stepping back into the garden's hush.
Sitting on the low stone ledge, I fold the cloth slowly, precisely— one crease, then another… until it forms a makeshift pad.
My hands move automatically, as if guided by memory I didn't know I had.
"What are you doing?"
The deep voice slices through the night air like a blade.
I jolt violently, my breath catching in my throat as my heart pounds against my ribs.
Spinning around on trembling feet, my saree rustles like startled leaves.
There he stands— Abhi… My husband…. standing tall in the shadows, arms crossed, eyes looking at my soul.
His eyes are narrowed, lips tight, gaze sharp with suspicion… but also something else.
Understanding?
Disgust?
The moonlight glints off the edge of his jaw, making the moment feel colder than it already is.
My throat tightens.
What is he doing here?!
Wasn't he asleep moments ago?
Then why is he here now, watching me like I've just been caught stealing secrets from the dark?
I instinctively shove the cloth behind me, my fingers gripping it like a guilty child caught red-handed… hiding the evidence.
"N-nothing… I… I just came out to… pee," I stammer, my voice barely audible.
My fingers twitch nervously behind my back, tangled in the folds of the cloth, damp from both shame and sweat.
My eyes dart away from his, unable to bear his stare.
"With a piece of dirty cloth?" he asks, one brow rising with mock disbelief, his head tilting just slightly, like a schoolteacher catching a lie.
His tone is low, almost amused, but there's a sharpness beneath it… a blade sheathe in silk.
"W-where…? Where? Which cloth?" I fumble, taking an uncertain step back— instinctive, my back nearly grazing the garden wall.
"Do you really want me to pull that dirty cloth out," he asks, voice still maddeningly calm, "or will you hand it over yourself?"
His words are smooth, but I can feel the steel hidden underneath— coiled and quiet.
"There's… there's no cloth," I whisper, lowering my gaze…. barely able to meet his eyes, my voice shrinking into the night.
My cheeks burn with shame as I take another step back.
My bare foot brushes against the cool edge of the garden's stone path.
My breath hitches as he takes a step toward me, slow but certain.
Purposeful.
Unhurried.
I try to slip past him, heart racing, but before I can take more than half a step, his hand wraps firmly around my waist in one swift movement.
He pulls me flush against him, my gasp swallowed by the sudden closeness.
His grip is strong, not rough, but it halts me instantly.
"Abhi…" I breathe, part shock, part pleading.
The sudden motion causes a fresh rush of warmth to trickle down my inner thigh.
My body stiffens as I feel it… the betrayal of blood, seeping with quiet shame.
The coppery scent clings faintly to the air, mortifying, humiliating and raw.
"Let me go!" I hiss, squirming in his hold, my body twisting with urgency.
I need to clean myself… now… before the blood stains more than just my thighs.
My fingers twitch around the cloth hidden in my palm, its damp warmth a constant reminder of my shame.
I freeze as his hand slides down my arm, fingertips brushing against my wrist.
A jolt runs through me— half alarm, half confusion.
His touch travels to my palm, where the cloth rests, warm and crumpled.
With one smooth movement, he tugs it away from me.
The night air feels colder without it, and I feel exposed.
He lifts the cloth in the moonlight, inspecting it with exaggerated curiosity.
"Then what is this? Food?" he teases, one brow arching like he's testing my patience.
"D-don't touch that! It's dirty!" I cry, my voice cracking as I lunge toward him, arms outstretched.
The cloth flutters in his hand like a flag of my humiliation.
"So, you know it's dirty," he says with unnerving calm, lifting his arm high above his head.
I jump, trying to reach it, but he's too tall— too determined to keep it from me.
"P-please, Abhi," I beg, pulling at his shoulder, "give it back… you shouldn't touch it… it's—it's impure."
My voice trembles with shame, tears pricking the corners of my eyes.
"Then tell me," he says slowly, voice low but firm, "why you're using this cloth so late at night."
His gaze locks with mine, steady, unreadable.
I shake my head, unable to meet his eyes.
The ground blurs slightly as I stare at it, wishing it would just open and swallow me whole.
My cheeks burn.
My lips tremble.
The word— menstruation…. sits like a stone in my throat.
The hidden pain are not always hidden.
჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻.✾.჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻
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