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A secret revealed, a truth unfolds,
Malini's shame, in Abhishek's gentle holds.
He calls it divine, a gift of life's creation,
A cycle sacred, a woman's pure vibration.
Her eyes widen, in wonder and dismay,
As he explains, in a soft, soothing way.
The pain and bleed, a part of her design,
A mark of strength, not a curse or shame's confine.
He takes her hand, in a gentle, loving grasp,
Guiding her through, this emotional, fragile clasp.
The world outside, fades into the night,
As he shows her, the beauty in her light.
A saree and cloth, he brings with care,
A symbol of love, beyond compare.
She dresses slow, her heart still unsure,
But with each moment, her soul starts to endure.
In his calm gaze, she finds a peaceful shore,
A love that accepts, and asks nothing more.
The shame fades away, like morning's mist,
Replaced by a sense, of being truly kissed.
A gift of creation, a life to unfold,
Malini's story, a tale of love to be told.
With Abhishek's help, she finds her way,
To embrace her truth, and seize a brighter day.
•·•·•·•·•·•·••●❍•❅•°•❈•°•❅•❍●••·•·•·•·•·•·•·•
28th April, 1846
Calcutta, Bengal
MALINI'S POV~
"You'll never use this cloth again," he says quietly, eyes on the tattered fabric beside him. "Or any dirty cloth. Not during your bleeding days."
The air freezes.
My eyes widen, my breath snags halfway up my throat.
My spine goes rigid, like I've been struck by lightning.
No... No... he didn't just say that.
He knows?
Blood rushes to my ears.
My skin burns beneath my saree.
"W—what?" I stammer, barely finding my voice.
My head jerks up, and I meet his gaze.
His calmness frightens me more than if he'd yelled.
"I know you're menstruating, phoenix," he says softly, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
His thumb draws slow, mindless patterns over the cotton of my saree at my waist… a touch that calms and burns all at once.
The word— menstruating… hangs in the air between us like forbidden smoke.
He said it.
Without shame.
Without flinching.
I drop my gaze, heart thudding wildly inside my chest.
He knows.
He knows.
The one thing I never wanted anyone to see… he's already seen through.
Will he leave me now?
Will he see me the way the world does— impure, unclean, untouchable?
I curl my fingers into my palms, trying to hold my breath together.
"N-no… I… um… w-what… what are you saying?" I stammer, barely able to string the words together.
My throat feels tight, voice no louder than a trapped breath.
Heat blooms beneath my skin, prickling the back of my neck as if I've been caught in some secret.
"Shh… listen, Malini," he murmurs, his voice a soft hum that vibrates against my skin.
His palm cups my cheek, warm and steady, grounding me like an anchor in a storm.
"You're not dirty," he says, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from my temple. "You're divine."
I frown, confusion knotting in my forehead.
Divine?
How can I be anything but filthy… when this blood won't stop staining me from within?
"Menstruation," he says gently, like he's teaching a truth the world has stolen from me, "is a natural rhythm every girl's body follows. It's not dirty, Malini. It's the source of life."
My eyes widen, just a little, startled by the weight of those words.
Source of life?
I've only ever heard it whispered like a curse.
"How?" I whisper, furrowing my brows as if trying to solve a riddle.
My voice cracks like dry leaves.
I don't even know what I'm asking for— answers, truth, or permission to believe him.
"It's the cycle that marks a woman's ability to give life," he explains softly, fingers tracing the curve of my cheekbone like he's painting reverence into my skin. "Without it, none of us would exist."
His voice carries no hesitation… only quiet certainty.
My toes curl into the cool stone below, a subconscious attempt to root myself in something real.
His words swirl inside me, clashing with years of shame, doubt, and silence.
Is it true?
Could this pain I bear... be something sacred?
"So… if the blood doesn't come… babies won't be born?" I ask slowly, the words sticking to my tongue like dried honey.
I bite my lower lip, the coppery taste grounding me in the moment.
My brows knit together in innocent confusion, trying to bridge this new truth with all the silence I've grown up with.
"No," he says softly, his fingers combing gently through my hair like the breeze combs the surface of a quiet lake. "Without this, a woman's body cannot carry life."
"Why?" I murmur, my voice laced with wonder and a soft ache.
I lean instinctively into his touch, like a child leaning into the sun for warmth, as if his palm holds answers my world never dared to offer.
"Because it's a boon," he says, his voice unwavering, "a sacred gift from God— bestowed only on women to nurture life."
As he speaks, his hand glides down gently, resting over my lower abdomen.
His fingertips tap lightly, like he's speaking directly to the pain… like he's trying to soothe it.
"It's not a boon. Not a gift. It's a punishment… a curse," I whisper, my voice trembling as if each word bruises my lips.
My eyes drop, stinging with tears I hadn't planned.
A lump rises in my throat, heavy and shapeless, and I feel like crying…. though I don't even know why.
"Shh… it's not a punishment," he whispers, his breath fanning my temple. "And certainly not a curse. It's divine, Malini. A gift of creation— of becoming the origin of life itself."
He slowly presses his palm over my lower abdomen, firm but gentle, like he's shielding me from the ache.
His warmth radiates into me, steady and comforting.
"No… it hurts," I croak, the words spilling out in a flood of frustration and ache. "It stings. It bleeds and bleeds, never stopping. My back feels like it's breaking under invisible stones. My legs… they feel numb. Empty."
My voice cracks as I wrap my arms around his waist, burying my face into his chest. "I just want to cry. This can't be a gift… it can't."
"I know," he murmurs, his hand gently rubbing circles into my back. "I know it hurts more than I'll ever understand. And I know I can't feel what you're feeling… but I'm here."
He lifts my chin slowly, coaxing my gaze back to his. "You don't have to carry this alone. Share it with me, phoenix. I'll do whatever I can to ease it."
He brushes away the teardrops trembling on my lashes, as though they're sacred.
Then he leans in, pressing a soft kiss on my forehead— silent, steady, and filled with promises he doesn't have to speak.
I blush, warmth unfurling like a soft flame beneath my cheeks and spreading to my ears.
He does it every day… without warning, without planning… simply when his heart tells him to.
A gentle kiss on the forehead… so simple, yet it feels like a quiet confession each time.
It's been ten days since our wedding, and still, each press of his lips sends tiny ripples through me.
Like wind disturbing the surface of still water.
I feel cherished.
I feel seen.
I feel safe.
And— of course, shy, like a girl with a secret.
"Change now," he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "I'll bring you another saree and a fresh cloth. And don't you dare wear this dirty cloth again—it's not good for your skin."
His tone is stern, but the corners of his mouth soften the warning.
He gently shifts me from his lap, placing me beside him with the same care one might give to a morning dew.
My gaze drops— and I freeze.
A gasp escapes me as I spot the dark maroon stain on his white dhoti, right where I'd been sitting.
"It's… I-I'm s-s-sorry!" I stammer, heart skipping with shame, my voice trembling as my fingers hover uselessly over the mark.
The blood feels like an accusation.
"Shh… it's alright," he says calmly, taking my hand before it retreats in guilt.
How can he not be disgusted?
Why is he not angry?
His thumb moves in slow circles over my knuckles, grounding me. "I'll change too. There's no need to panic."
I slowly calm down, my breath evening out as I bite my lower lip, trying to suppress the lingering embarrassment.
Then—
A sudden jolt of realisation strikes.
My eyes fly wide, and a sharp gasp escapes me.
Twisting at the waist, I frantically tug the draped edge of my saree forward, craning my neck to glance over my shoulder.
There it is— a faint maroon patch blooming against the fabric near my lower back.
Oh no.
Before the dread can completely settle, a familiar chuckle breaks the silence.
"It's okay. You gasp too much… like a fish out of water," he says, his voice laced with mischief.
My head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing into a playful glare.
He raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning. "Okay, okay, I won't tease anymore. You clean up, I'll bring your saree and the cloth."
He stands, brushing invisible creases off his dhoti, and walks back into the room with calm, unhurried steps.
I exhale and turn around, stepping into the small, secluded space built for bathing.
The walls are simple, the air cool, and the light filtering in through a high jali window casts soft shadows on the earthen floor.
I raise one arm and gently peel off the saree from my shoulder, letting the fabric slide down my body like a silent waterfall. The material is slightly damp in patches, clinging to my skin.
Reaching for the brass bowl, I dip it into the water stored in a clay-lined tank. It makes a soft splashing sound, echoing slightly in the quiet room.
The moment the water touches my wrist, a chill shoots up my spine.
I shiver… tiny goosebumps prickling across my arms and shoulders, as the cold water flows over the warmth of my skin.
My fingers tingle, momentarily numb from the contrast.
Crouching low on the bathing stone, I tilt the bowl and pour the water over myself, starting from my waist downward. The stream snakes down my skin, carrying away the discomfort of the blood, leaving only coolness behind.
It's quick, practical… but every motion feels heightened by the silence, by the privacy, by the strange blend of shame and relief.
"Malini."
His voice floats through the thin wooden door— gentle, low, threaded with care.
I turn my head instinctively, the damp ends of my hair brushing against my shoulder.
Still crouched, I slowly rise to my feet, feeling the cool touch of the floor against my bare soles.
I step toward the door, water dripping softly from my fingertips.
My heart gives a faint flutter— half nervous, half expectant.
With a small creak, I push the door open just a little, peeking out.
There he stands, the soft dawn light casting a pale glow on his face.
In his arms, neatly folded, are my clean clothes— saree, blouse, petticoat, and a fresh cotton cloth, padded together like a parcel of care.
"Here. Do you need anything else?" he asks, his eyes meeting mine as he holds them out.
"N-no. Thank you," I murmur, reaching out.
Our fingers brush.
A tiny spark…va soft jolt of awareness skates across my skin.
Something warm unfurls in my stomach, delicate and fleeting like butterfly wings.
I quickly take the bundle from his hands, eyes darting downward as heat rises to my cheeks.
I close the door quietly with a low thud, the sound echoing in the stillness.
Cradling the fabric against my chest, I lower my gaze and stare at the muted colors of the saree— fresh, clean, soft beneath my fingers.
Shaking my head lightly, I exhale through my nose and begin to focus on dressing, willing my heartbeat to calm.
When each press of his lips on my forehead makes me loved.
჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻.✾.჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻
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