Small imaginary stories

 Months passed. The world, which once seemed trapped inside one marriage, moved on without asking permission. Festivals came and went. Rain returned to the town. Children played in the lanes. Weddings filled halls with music. And Rashi began building a life that belonged to her. She enrolled in a certification course. She started tutoring children in the evenings. She opened a small savings account in her own name. She laughed more naturally now. Not every day was easy. Some mornings grief still visited. She mourned not only Sunny—but the dream she had built around him. Yet healing is strange. It does not erase pain. It teaches you how to carry it without bending. Sunny, meanwhile, had changed in ways people noticed. He became quieter. He stopped staying out late. He attended counseling after pressure from an older cousin. He apologized to his mother for things she did not fully understand. Regret had entered him where ego once lived. He wrote messages to Ras...

 When Sunny woke, Rashi was already dressed. A small travel bag rested near the door. For a moment, he looked confused. “Where are you going?” She folded the bedsheet she had slept on and placed it aside. “To my parents’ house.” “For what?” She met his eyes. “To think clearly. Away from fear.” He sat up. “Don’t create drama in the morning.” “This is not drama. This is consequence.” The word irritated him. “So now you’ll run to your parents after one fight?” “One fight?” she asked quietly. “Was it one insult? One humiliation? One lonely night? One slap?” He looked away. “You know how pressure is on me.” “I know. I lived under it too.” “You always exaggerate.” “No,” she said. “I minimized everything for too long.” He had no answer ready for that. Outside, the household was beginning to wake. His mother entered halfway and froze at the sight of the bag. “What is this now?” Rashi turned respectfully. “I am going home for some time.” People who ignored sufferin...

 Morning came, but nothing felt new. The sun entered the room as it always had. Birds called from the neem tree outside. Water boiled in the kitchen. Doors opened and shut. Yet for Rashi, the world had shifted. Her cheek still ached faintly. But the deeper pain was elsewhere. In the place where trust once lived. She rose before anyone else and looked at herself in the mirror. A light redness remained near her face. She touched it gently. Then she looked into her own eyes for a long time. When had they become this tired? When had the girl who once laughed at college corridors become a woman who feared footsteps at the gate? When had love become permission for suffering? She covered the mark with powder and walked outside. His mother avoided her gaze. His father read the newspaper. Sunny had already left for work. No note. No apology. No shame visible in the house. Only silence. Rashi made tea for everyone with steady hands. Something inside her had become calm....

 There are days that divide life into two parts. Before it happened. After it happened. For Rashi, that day began like any other. She woke before dawn. Prepared breakfast. Packed Sunny’s lunch. Swept the front step. Watered the tulsi plant. Moved through routine like a woman trying to keep peace alive with chores. Sunny had been tense for weeks. Work losses. Arguments with his father. Money pressure. Pride wounded from many directions. Rashi knew the signs now. The tightened jaw. The sharp replies. The restless pacing. She stayed careful. That afternoon, his mother complained that groceries were finished early. His father criticized expenses at lunch. Sunny left the house already irritated. When he returned in the evening, rain had followed him. He entered wet, angry, and silent. Rashi brought a towel. He took it without thanks. “Coffee?” she asked softly. “No.” She waited. “Did something happen?” He threw the towel onto a chair. “Must I report everything to y...

 The house had become strangely quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Not restful quiet. The kind of quiet that grows after too many arguments, too many swallowed tears, too many things left unsaid. Sunny still came home each evening. Rashi still opened the door. Dinner was still served. Clothes were still washed. Lights were still switched off before sleep. Everything necessary remained. Everything loving had faded. They now moved around each other like strangers trained in routine. “Coffee?” she asked. “Hm.” “Dinner?” “Later.” “Do you need anything?” “No.” Words had shrunk to utility. Even their room felt divided. Sunny slept on one side with his back turned. Rashi slept on the other, staring into darkness. Between them lay more distance than miles could create. She stopped trying to start conversations. Every attempt had become either dismissal or irritation. One night she said softly, “We cannot go on like this.” Sunny did not turn. “Then don’t.” She waited for ...

 Silence would have been easier. Rashi could have lived with distance. She could have lived with less laughter. She could have lived with tired conversations and busy evenings. But silence was only the road. Cruel words were the destination. Sunny had begun speaking to her with an impatience that arrived without warning. “Can’t you understand simple things?” “How many times must I repeat?” “Use your brain sometimes.” At first, he said them in anger and apologized later. Then he stopped apologizing. Then he stopped noticing. Rashi kept telling herself it was stress. Work pressure. Family pressure. Money worries. She gathered reasons for him the way broken people gather excuses for those they love. One morning, she accidentally spilled coffee near the dining table while serving breakfast. It was only a few drops. Sunny looked up sharply. “Even coffee you can’t carry properly?” “I’ll clean it.” “That’s not the point.” “It was an accident.” “Your whole lif...

 Rashi began measuring her days by Sunny’s moods. If he entered the house quietly, the evening might pass in peace. If the gate shut loudly, she knew to speak carefully. If he removed his shoes with force, silence was safer than questions. This was not the life she had imagined. Yet she still believed things could improve. Every marriage has phases, she told herself. Every man has stress. Every house has tension. So she adjusted more. She stopped asking why he was late. She stopped telling him when relatives hurt her. She stopped buying small things she liked. She stopped laughing loudly because he once said it was childish. Piece by piece, she edited herself for peace. Sunny noticed less and less. He now spent longer hours outside—work, friends, errands, reasons that changed daily. When home, his phone occupied him more than conversation. At dinner, she served him. “How was your day?” she asked. “Fine.” “What happened at work?” “Nothing.” “Will you have more ...

 Months passed, and from the outside, their marriage looked perfect. They attended family functions together. They smiled in photographs. They arrived on Sunny’s bike, matching in colour without planning it. Relatives praised them as a “love marriage success.” No one saw what lived behind closed doors. Inside the house, tension had begun collecting like dust in corners. Sunny’s father compared him constantly. “Look at Sharma’s son. Already bought land.” “Your cousin earns double.” “When will you become serious?” His mother complained in softer ways. “You come late now.” “Since marriage, everything changed.” “Earlier you listened more.” Even small household issues somehow became Rashi’s shadow. If Sunny was late—she distracted him. If he spent money—she influenced him. If he looked tired—she did not care enough. Rashi heard these things indirectly, through tone more than words. Still, she tried harder. She woke earlier. Cooked better. Spoke less. Smiled more....

 The first morning as a bride began before sunrise. Rashi woke to unfamiliar walls, a heavier silence, and the weight of jewellery she had forgotten to remove. For a moment, she did not know where she was. Then she felt the mangalsutra against her neck. Wife. Sunny still slept beside her, one arm over his eyes like a careless boy who had nothing to worry about. She watched him quietly. This was the same face she had loved in rain-soaked college corridors. The same smile that had promised forever. She smiled to herself and rose softly. Outside the room, reality had already woken. His mother was in the kitchen. An aunt arranged vessels loudly. Someone discussed breakfast. Another voice asked whether the new bride knew how to make proper coffee and tea. Rashi straightened her saree and stepped into the world that was now expected to be hers. The first weeks passed in ceremony and adjustment. Relatives visited daily. “Show us the bride.” “Does she cook?” “Is she shy?” “...

 The house had not slept for three nights. Women moved like whirlwinds through rooms. Sarees were ironed, jewellery polished, sweets packed, flowers ordered, and instructions shouted across every corner. Rashi sat in the middle of it all, like a lamp everyone decorated but no one asked about. Her hands were covered in mehendi. Dark vines curled across her palms, hiding Sunny’s name between the patterns. Cousins teased her endlessly, trying to find it. “See how dark the colour is,” one aunt said. “Your husband will love you very much.” Everyone laughed. Rashi smiled too. Inside, she was trembling. This was the day she had imagined through college corridors, lonely nights, whispered phone calls, and tears shed in secret. She was going to marry the man she loved. At the marriage hall, lights glowed like stars brought down to earth. Garlands hung from pillars. Brass lamps burned at the entrance. The scent of jasmine and sandalwood floated through the air. Relatives who had ...

 Love changed the shape of ordinary days. Morning messages became the first smile. Missed calls became secret signals. A glance across campus could carry enough warmth to last until evening. Rashi and Sunny were careful. Their town was small, and small towns often watched more than they spoke. So they met in quiet places. The back bench near the garden wall. The stationery shop lane after class. The temple road where evening crowds made privacy easier. Sunny had become gentler with her. He carried her heavy books. He remembered her exam dates. He brought her groundnuts in folded newspaper because she once mentioned liking them. And Rashi loved him in the quiet ways women often do. She noticed when he was tired. She knew when his smile was false. She remembered every careless sentence he had forgotten saying. One afternoon, while sharing coffee from paper cups near the bus stand, Sunny said casually, “We should marry one day.” Rashi nearly dropped the cup. “Just...

 By the time winter touched the town, Rashi and Sunny were no longer strangers pretending to meet by chance. They had become a quiet habit in each other’s days. If Sunny missed college, Rashi felt the campus strangely empty. If Rashi was absent, Sunny found reasons to pass by first-year classrooms. Neither admitted it. But everyone around them had already begun to smile knowingly. Their conversations grew longer. He waited for her near the library after class. She lingered near the canteen longer than necessary. They spoke of simple things at first—teachers, exams, favourite songs, dreams after graduation. Then one evening, while sitting on the far bench near the college garden, Sunny asked, “What do you want in life, Rashi?” She thought for a moment. “A peaceful home.” “That’s all?” “A place where no one speaks harshly. Where people respect each other. Where laughter stays.” Sunny looked at her more seriously than usual. “You think deeply for someone who pretends ...

 After the day of the fallen books, Sunny no longer passed Rashi like a stranger. He would nod when he saw her in the corridor. Sometimes he smiled. Sometimes he simply looked at her long enough to disturb her thoughts for the rest of the day. And Rashi, who once walked through college unnoticed by herself, had begun noticing everything. The sound of his laughter near the canteen. The rhythm of his footsteps on the staircase. The way girls turned to look when he crossed the courtyard. She told herself she was only observing. But her heart knew better. One morning, she was waiting alone at the bus stop when a bike slowed near her. Sunny. He removed one hand from the handle and waved casually. “Miss First-Year Literature,” he called. She tried not to smile. “I have a name.” “Yes,” he said. “Rashi. I remember.” Then he drove away before she could reply. That one sentence stayed with her all day. He remembered. Soon their meetings became frequent, though never planned....

Rashika had always been called Rashi by everyone who loved her. Her mother said the name softly when waking her in the mornings. Her father called it proudly when introducing her to guests. Friends stretched it into laughter-filled songs in college corridors. But Rashika herself had never believed in love. To her, love belonged in cinema songs, wedding decorations, and the secret whispers girls shared after class. Real life was different. Real life meant helping at home, catching the morning bus, studying hard, and carrying dreams too carefully to speak aloud. She was nineteen when life changed silently. That morning, rain had washed the town clean. The roads gleamed, leaves dripped fresh drops, and the college campus smelled of wet earth and notebooks. Students ran through corridors laughing, holding bags over their heads to escape the drizzle. Rashi stood near the notice board, trying to read the timetable hidden behind a noisy crowd. “Excuse me… little to the side,” a voice said be...