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A dream takes flight, a heart's desire,
Malini's passion, her soul's sweet fire.
A teacher's role, a heart's delight,
Empowering young minds, shining bright.
With every word, a story unfolds,
Of courage, strength, and love that holds.
Abhishek's support, a guiding light,
Illuminating her path, through day and night.
The clock ticks on, the moments pass,
Anticipation builds, as love grows vast.
Malini waits, her heart beating fast,
For Abhishek's return, a love that will last.
The carriage arrives, a sigh of relief,
Abhishek's presence, a heart's sweet grief.
Malini's anger, a fleeting thought,
As love and joy, her heart has caught.
In this moment, she finds her peace,
A love that's pure, a heart that release.
The caged firebird, now free to soar,
Malini's heart, forever Abhishek's, forevermore.
•·•·•·•·•·•·••●❍•❅•°•❈•°•❅•❍●••·•·•·•·•·•·•·•
06th February 1849
Calcutta, Bengal
MALINI'S POV~
"So…" I glance around at the curious little faces, their eyes wide and sparkling. "Do any of you have any problems?"
"No, Sister!" they chime in unison, their voices rising like birdsong in the crisp afternoon air.
A soft chuckle escapes me, and I nod with warmth swelling in my chest.
"If ever you do," I say, setting the chalk gently on the worn wooden table, "don't be afraid to speak. No one here will judge you— understood?"
Their heads bob earnestly, and I feel a silent surge of pride ripple through me.
Then—
The old wall clock chimes a soft, familiar tune, its echo bouncing gently off the high ceilings and sunlit walls of the back hall.
"Yayyyyy! Dismissal time!" the children cheer, laughter spilling like a chorus of freedom as they scramble to pack their bags.
I laugh quietly, watching the flurry of small hands and excited feet, the scrape of wooden benches and rustle of cotton satchels filling the room with life.
One by one, they rush past me with cheerful bows and wide smiles.
"Bye! Take care and don't be late tomorrow!" I call, my voice light, playful.
I turn slowly toward the blackboard, my fingers brushing chalk dust off my saree as silence softly folds around me again.
I still can't believe it—
A dream once buried beneath rules, whispers, and expectations… now breathes around me in every corner of this room.
I'm a teacher.
A woman teaching young minds inside my very own home.
The bungalow walls that once echoed with silence now dance with the laughter of children.
Their voices— bright, stubborn, curious… cling to the wooden beams like sunlight.
True— colleges and universities still shut their gates on women like me.
They say we aren't 'qualified enough.'
That we're too emotional. Too soft.
But what they call weakness… I call strength.
And still, despite it all… this, right here… is enough for me.
More than enough.
And it's all because of him—
My Abhi.
The man who once saw fire in me when I only felt ashes.
He stood by me when no one else would.
He argued with elders, faced insults, even turned against the comfort of his blood family… all to protect my dreams.
When I doubted myself, he placed books in my hand and hope in my heart.
Without him…. I might've survived.
But I would not have lived.
I take the small square of cloth and begin wiping the blackboard, slow strokes clearing each line of chalk.
The dust clouds faintly in the air, catching the golden slant of the afternoon sun.
As each word vanishes, I feel something quiet inside me settle…. peace, perhaps.
A soft sigh escapes my lips, curling into the still air like a secret.
I glance at the clock on the wall.
The thin golden hands tick toward evening— 5:06 p.m.
My eyes widen, a flutter of excitement blooming in my chest.
He'll be home soon.
Setting the cloth gently on the table, I can't help myself…. I dash out of the hall.
My feet skim across the polished floor, the familiar jingle of my anklets dancing through the corridor like laughter echoing off the bungalow walls.
The soft fabric of my saree whispers around my ankles as I turn the corner, heart racing with mischief.
I reach our room and gently push open the door.
The warm scent of sandalwood greets me, mingling with the lingering softness of jasmine oil.
I slip inside, clicking the door shut behind me with a quiet finality that feels like a secret held between walls.
I stand before the mirror, eyes twinkling with anticipation, and slowly untie my hair.
Silky strands tumble over my shoulders cascading down till my knees, catching the golden hue of the setting sun that filters through our window.
I reach for the tiny glass bottle of coconut oil on the wooden shelf…. my fingers already tingle in memory.
Just a few drops into my palm.
I begin to massage it into my scalp with slow, deliberate strokes— half routine, half invitation.
Because I know him.
I know that if he sees me like this, he won't resist joining in.
I glance over my shoulder toward the closed door, heart skipping a beat.
Any moment now.
I tuck a stray strand behind my ear and suppress a smile… but fail.
A giggle escapes my lips— light, giddy, almost girlish.
My fingers continue moving through my hair, slower now… just enough to tempt fate.
I tap my foot on the cool terracotta floor, its reddish surface warm from the sun that poured in hours ago.
My eyes flicker to the wall clock again—its second hand ticking like a nagging reminder.
"It's 5:27 p.m.," I murmur, my brows pinching together. "Why is he taking so long today?"
A soft pout forms on my lips as I glance at the wooden door, fingers clutching the edge of my saree.
The silence around me hums with anticipation, but the doorway remains stubbornly empty.
"It's just been twenty minutes, Malini," I whisper to myself, trying to sound convincing. "He's probably caught up with something. He'll come."
I force a small smile, pressing my palms together to coat them with the leftover oil.
The scent of jasmine curls into the air, soft and nostalgic.
I run my fingers through my hair slowly… each stroke a silent prayer of patience.
The minutes slip away, dragging their feet until they pile into hours.
I glance at the clock again— 8:45 p.m.
The minute hand stabs at my chest.
Where is he?
Is he alright?
Has he hurt himself?
My mind spirals, questions crashing into each other like waves in a storm.
I clutch my arms, suddenly aware of the oil's stickiness clinging to my fingers.
The sweet scent of jasmine now makes my stomach churn.
The oil bottle lies forgotten on the dresser.
I no longer pretend.
I just wait… heart thudding louder than the silence that has filled this room.
I perch on the edge of the bed, the cotton bedsheet cool and soft beneath my fingers as I tug at it absentmindedly.
My feet tap the floor in uneven rhythms, each tap echoing louder in the stillness of the room.
The room feels too big now.
The walls, once comforting, loom around me like silent observers.
The lamp's golden light flickers gently, but it does little to chase away the shadows growing in my heart.
Suddenly, a sharp neigh breaks through the evening stillness.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves grows clearer by the second, weaving into the quiet like music long missed.
My heart skips.
My eyes widen, catching a glint of light as hope surges through me like a wave chasing away the dark.
He's here!
I shoot up, nearly tripping over my saree in my hurry.
My bare feet pad across the cool floor as I dash toward the small garden that hugs the side of our room.
The air outside is thick with the scent of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine.
I lean against the stone railing, peering through the rustling leaves and tangled bushes.
A lantern flickers on the carriage.
Through the veil of trees, I spot the familiar silhouette stepping down.
"He's here!" I squeal, my voice catching with relief.
I squint, brushing a few strands of hair from my face to get a better look.
There he is…. stepping down with that same composed grace that both soothes and irritates me.
Not a scratch on him.
I scoff, arms folding tightly across my chest.
So he's fine.
Perfectly fine.
Then why was he so late?
My eyes narrow, tracking his blurred figure as he walks through the main door, his posture calm— too calm.
Unbelievable.
"I'm not going to talk to him," I huff, muttering beneath my breath like a sulking child. "I waited for hours. And he just strolls in like a king returning from war."
I march back to the bed, the hem of my saree dragging behind me.
Throwing myself onto the mattress with dramatic flair, I pull the cotton blanket over my head.
The fabric smells faintly of sandalwood and him.
Ugh.
No.
I'm still mad.
He believed in me before myself.
჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻.✾.჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻
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