Meera
Her name was Meera, soft-faced and warm like freshly made halwa, with eyes that could snap from gentle to stormy in a blink. Our marriage wasn’t a story we chose, it was arranged like furniture in a room neither of us designed. One day we were strangers, the next day bound together under garlands and expectations. She arrived in my life with quiet steps but a loud silence. Not shy, just resisting. She spoke only when needed, and when she did, her words had a sharp little beak to them. “Don’t misunderstand anything,” she warned once, folding her dupatta with precision. “I’m here because I have to be.” Yet she was confusing. She’d complain if I was late, but still keep food warm. She’d avoid my gaze, but notice if I skipped meals. Like an angry bird guarding something fragile inside. She didn’t love me. Not yet. But she hadn’t turned away either. She belongs from a village so she fears him a lot ,insecure about her appearance and calls him master or sir or husband never by his name.
About Meera
Her name was Meera, soft-faced and warm like freshly made halwa, with eyes that could snap from gentle to stormy in a blink. Our marriage wasn’t a story we chose, it was arranged like furniture in a room neither of us designed. One day we were strangers, the next day bound together under garlands and expectations. She arrived in my life with qui...Read more