Neelima Verma
The Wedding Dream
The mehendi hadn’t yet faded from her palms when Siya stepped into the grand foyer of her new home—her new home. The deep maroon stain curled along her fingers in delicate paisley patterns, a reminder of the rituals, the singing, the whispered jokes between cousins, and the scent of jasmine that still clung to her hair. Her wrists were heavy with glass bangles, red and gold, and they jingled with every hesitant step she took across the marble floor of the Malhotra mansion.
Her heart fluttered with a strange mix of excitement and nervousness. At twenty-four, Siya Sharma had always imagined her wedding day to be the beginning of a beautiful journey. And in many ways, it had been just that. The ceremony was flawless. The venue sparkled with fairy lights, marigold garlands, and the scent of sandalwood incense. Guests gushed about the decor, the food, and the couple who looked like they belonged on the cover of Bridal India magazine.
Raghav Malhotra—her husband now—had been every bit the dream. Tall, well-spoken, impeccably dressed, and carrying the quiet confidence of a self-made man. At thirty-four, he was already heading his family’s real estate empire in Delhi, commanding boardrooms and social circles with ease. When their families had introduced them, Siya had been skeptical. A man ten years older? She had her concerns. But then came the conversations. The long phone calls. The coffee dates where he listened, really listened, to her dreams.
“I want to practice law,” she had said once, nervously.
“Of course,” he’d replied without hesitation. “The world needs more women like you in courtrooms.”
It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. As though he believed in her even more than she did herself. His words wrapped around her like soft velvet, reassuring and seductive. He told her she was more than her looks. That her mind was sharp. That he respected ambition. And when he proposed—privately, without the fanfare—she felt seen. Not just loved, but respected. And so, she said yes.
Everyone back home in Bhopal had been thrilled. Her father, a retired railway officer, had called Raghav “a rare gentleman.” Her mother couldn’t stop talking about the diamond set he had gifted Siya on their engagement. Even Siya’s younger sister, usually protective and cynical, had admitted, “He seems like one of the good ones, Didi.”
And maybe he was. At least, that’s what Siya believed as she stood in the bedroom they now shared, surrounded by gold-embroidered cushions and a neatly made bed strewn with rose petals. Everything looked like a movie set. The mirrored wardrobe reflected her red lehenga, the sindoor in her hair, the shy smile on her face. She looked… married.
Raghav walked in then, smiling, the sleeves of his white kurta rolled up casually. “Finally alone,” he said with a grin, and she laughed, cheeks flushing.
He took her hand, examining the mehendi. “Looks like someone’s going to love her husband a lot,” he teased, referring to the old saying that darker mehendi meant deeper love.
“I already do,” she replied softly, almost surprised at her own confession. It came out so naturally.
“Good,” he said, kissing her knuckles.
That night was tender. Gentle. He held her like porcelain, whispered that he had waited so long for this, for her. Siya drifted into sleep that night feeling safe. Chosen. Loved.
The first week passed like a dream. A whirlwind of family lunches, temple visits, and gifts. Siya tried to memorize every relative’s name, every custom she wasn’t used to. Raghav was patient, holding her hand when she got overwhelmed, winking across the table during awkward questions about babies and cooking. He always said the right thing. Always smiled at the right moment.
But by the second week, the smiles began to slip.
It started subtly. The first shift was barely noticeable. One evening, she wore a pale pink kurta to dinner, a gift from her college friends.
“You’re going to wear that?” he asked, frowning slightly.
Siya blinked. “Why not?”
“It’s too casual. You’re my wife now. People look at you differently. Dress like it.”
It stung, but she let it go. Maybe he was right. Maybe she should try harder to fit in.
Then came the question about her phone.
“You’re always on that thing,” he said one morning, watching her reply to her friend’s message. “You don’t need to talk to everyone every day.”
“I was just replying to Neha,” she said, confused. “She sent some wedding pictures.”
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t talk to your friends,” he said, smiling. “Just… be present here. With me. This is your home now.”
His tone was calm, but something about it felt loaded. Controlling. But again—maybe he was right. Maybe she was too attached to her old life.
The next day, her phone went missing for hours. The help said they hadn’t seen it. When she finally found it in the kitchen drawer, it was switched off.
She laughed nervously when she told Raghav.
“Oh? Must’ve been your forgetful brain,” he said. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Still, Siya didn’t question it.
After all, marriages take adjustment.
Right?
Her father had said during the bidaai, eyes wet, “Compromise, beta. Relationships are built on patience. Don’t give up too easily.”
She remembered that now. Every time something felt a little… off.
When Raghav told her she didn’t need to think about work yet—that she had “a lifetime for courtrooms”—she nodded.
When he told her not to wear lipstick to temple—that “simple looks better on a married woman”—she washed it off.
When he frowned at her laughing too loudly in a family gathering, she smiled less.
Each moment, individually, seemed too small to fight over.
But together, they were beginning to weigh her down.
And yet, whenever doubt crept in, Siya reminded herself of the man she had married. The man who had once told her she was brilliant. The man who had kissed her hand on their wedding night.
Maybe this was just a phase.
Maybe she just needed to be more understanding.
After all, dreams don’t shatter overnight.
They crack—quietly.
The First Blow Wasn’t a Slap
It started with a voice—sharp, sarcastic, and laced with something Siya hadn’t heard from Raghav before: disdain.
“You’re going to wear that in front of my friends?” he asked, arms folded, eyes raking over her light blue kurta. “A wife should have some sense of decency. You don’t need to show your arms at a dinner table.”
Siya paused, confused. “It’s just cotton, Raghav. It’s what I’ve always worn.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” he said with a cold laugh. “You’re not in Bhopal anymore.”
It felt like a slap, even though it wasn’t. That was the first blow.
She changed the kurta. Silently. She didn’t want to argue. Maybe he was just stressed. His friends were high-profile people; maybe she didn’t understand Delhi society the way he did.
The second time came just two days later. Siya had been laughing at something her friend had sent her on WhatsApp—an inside joke from college. Raghav was walking past when he noticed her.
“Why do you need your phone so much?” he asked. There was no anger in his voice, but his gaze lingered longer than necessary. “You’re married now. Focus on us.”
“I was just—”
He held up a hand. “I’m not saying don’t use your phone. Just… everything in moderation, Siya. You need to grow into your role.”
The words felt odd. Grow into her role? What role? Wasn’t she still herself?
But she nodded, smiling awkwardly. “Of course.”
The next day, her phone’s password didn’t work.
She tried it again. Once. Twice. Locked out.
Raghav walked in and saw her fumbling. “Oh, I reset it,” he said casually. “We should share everything, right? I used your birthday—it’s easier.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He kissed her forehead, the way he always did when cameras were around. “You’re too sensitive, Siya. It’s just a phone.”
Later that week, her outgoing calls stopped going through. When she asked the housemaid about the landline, the woman shrugged. “Sir says beti should rest. Not talk too much.”
The word “beti” made her stomach turn.
The subtle invasion turned into a regime.
Her favorite jeans were gone from the cupboard. She asked about them, and Raghav simply said, “You won’t need them. You’re not a college girl anymore.”
Calls to her parents were permitted once a week. On Sundays. On speakerphone. Time limit: fifteen minutes.
“You know how they worry,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, “and they’ll misinterpret everything if you tell them you’re tired or upset. Let’s keep it light, okay?”
He still smiled for family pictures. He still told her she was beautiful. He still brought home flowers when guests were coming.
But when they were alone, his voice was colder. Clipped. Controlled.
“You didn’t iron my shirt?”
“I—I didn’t know you needed—”
“You’re not a mind reader? Great. So what can you do?”
She started second-guessing every action. Was the tea too sweet? Was her hair too messy? Should she avoid asking to go out? Was he angry because she didn’t stand when he entered the room?
One evening, she dropped a spoon. It clattered loudly against the marble floor. Raghav was in the living room, reading.
He looked up. “You’re careless.”
“It slipped—”
“Of course it did. Like everything else in this house.”
She bent down, flustered, trying to pick it up quickly. Her heart pounded in her chest. She knew that tone. She had heard it growing colder, sharper, more humiliating with each passing day.
The next day, he threw a coaster at the wall. It missed her by inches. She flinched so hard, her head bumped the wall behind her.
“You call this dinner?” he sneered. “My office cook makes better food.”
She didn’t reply. Her mouth was dry. The food was fine. In fact, she had followed the recipe from Tarla Dalal’s website word for word. But there was no logic anymore. Only landmines.
Still, she made excuses in her mind.
He was stressed.
He had deadlines.
He had always lived alone—maybe he wasn’t used to sharing space.
She tried harder. Cooked better. Dressed more traditionally. Spoke less.
But it didn’t matter.
The day it happened was a Thursday.
She had forgotten to close the balcony door. A gust of wind had knocked over a vase in the living room.
Raghav stormed in like a cyclone.
“You careless little idiot!”
“I’m sorry—I was watering the plants—”
SLAP.
Her cheek exploded with heat. Her vision blurred. She tasted blood.
Time froze.
There was no warning, no yelling first. Just the crack of skin on skin.
She stood there, holding her face, gasping like she’d fallen underwater.
He didn’t look apologetic. He didn’t even look shocked. He just stared at her, jaw clenched.
“Look what you made me do,” he said, as if she had moved his hand for him.
She didn’t cry—not at first. She walked to the bathroom in silence. Locked the door. Looked at her reflection.
The woman in the mirror had a red print on her cheek and a trembling lower lip.
She didn’t recognize her.
Whispers in the Walls
The house was silent, but it wasn’t peaceful.
It had a kind of stillness that felt like a clenched jaw—tense, watchful. Every step Siya took echoed a little too loudly, every drawer she opened seemed to creak with accusation. Even the wind that rustled through the curtains seemed to whisper things she couldn’t bear to hear.
Siya had once thought of homes as places of warmth and laughter. She had grown up in a modest two-bedroom flat in Bhopal where her mother hummed old Hindi songs while chopping vegetables and her father chuckled at his own terrible jokes. In that small space, there had been joy, freedom, and noise. But here, in the Malhotra mansion, space was abundant—yet every corner felt colder than the last.
It had been five days since the slap.
Raghav hadn’t apologized. He hadn’t even acknowledged it. The next morning, he’d simply asked, “Did you boil the milk?” as though nothing had happened. His voice had been smooth. Normal. That was what frightened her most.
She hadn’t slept properly since.
The bedroom had turned into a theatre of silence. She lay beside him each night, her body curled to the edge of the bed, afraid of his nearness, of his unpredictability. His breath was steady. Hers was shallow.
She had considered calling her parents, but she hadn’t. What would she even say?
Then, one morning, after Raghav had left for a meeting, she saw his mother in the puja room, adjusting the brass diya. Siya hesitated in the doorway. Her throat felt tight.
“Mummyji?” she said softly.
The older woman looked up, her face devoid of expression.
“Yes?”
Siya stepped in slowly, eyes on the floor. Her heart was pounding. “Can I… talk to you?”
Raghav’s mother didn’t respond. She simply folded her hands and turned toward her.
“He hit me last night,” Siya whispered.
The silence that followed was louder than any scream.
The elder woman’s eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. She picked up a cotton cloth and began wiping the silver idol of Lord Krishna with calm, robotic motions.
“Don’t create drama,” she said, her voice flat.
Siya blinked. “I’m not—I just—”
“Every man loses his temper. You must have said something.”
“No, I—”
“Don’t shame the family,” she said, sharply now. “These things are private. If you want respect, learn to behave.”
Siya felt the room tilt slightly. Her hands trembled. Shame. That was the word. Not for Raghav, not for the violence—but for her, for speaking about it.
She stood frozen in the doorway as Raghav’s mother lit incense and began chanting softly, as if to cleanse the room of her daughter-in-law’s words.
That night, Siya cried in the bathroom with the exhaust fan turned on, hoping the sound of the blades would swallow her sobs. But even the tears felt traitorous—like she had no right to them.
When she finally gathered enough courage to speak to her parents on their weekly call, she brought it up gently.
“Ma… Baba… sometimes… Raghav gets very angry,” she said carefully. “He hit me last week.”
There was a pause on the other end.
Then her mother’s voice, low and worried but not panicked: “What did you say to upset him?”
“I—nothing—I just forgot to close a door—”
“Beta, you’re married now,” her father cut in. “You have to adjust a little. These are small things. Don’t overthink.”
“But—”
“These are early days. Everything will be fine. Just give it time.”
Time.
That word became a noose. Give it time, and the bruises would heal, the screams would dull, the pain would tuck itself under the carpet of tradition. How much time? How many slaps? How many apologies never made?
She sat in the vast, decorated drawing room later that evening, staring at the ornate wall clock as it ticked loudly, as if mocking her. The walls were covered in textured cream wallpaper, adorned with family portraits—Raghav as a child, Raghav graduating from college, Raghav at a conference. Not one photo of a woman looking back at her.
The house help, once neutral, had grown watchful. Siya could feel their eyes on her. Her movements were noted, her habits whispered about in corridors.
She once overheard two maids talking near the kitchen.
“She’s not like the last one.”
“The last one didn’t talk much.”
“She learned quickly.”
Siya wanted to ask who the last one was. But fear stitched her lips shut.
She began to journal, writing silently in the margins of an old recipe book, because Raghav checked her phone regularly. She wrote down her feelings, her fears, her confusion—each line a small act of rebellion.
But some nights, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d walk down the hall and press her ear to the wall between their bedroom and his mother’s room. She didn’t know what she hoped to hear. Support? Regret?
She heard nothing.
Only the occasional clicking of prayer beads. The rustling of a silk saree. Sometimes a sigh.
The walls were thick—physically, yes—but emotionally too. Made not of concrete, but of obedience, of silence passed down through generations of women told to endure.
Siya had never known that a house could imprison without locks. That eyes could become walls. That whispers, or the lack of them, could drown a woman’s voice more effectively than a scream ever could.
She was trapped.
Not by chains, but by expectations. Not by doors, but by duties.
And slowly, she began to realize: the house wasn’t built to protect her.
It was built to absorb her.
The Red Diary
In desperation, Siya began to write.
There was no one to talk to. No one who listened. Her words, when spoken aloud, vanished into the silence, dismissed by tradition, by family, by fear. So she turned inward.
She found the diary one afternoon while cleaning an old drawer in the study—its red cover faded at the edges, unused, unassuming. A wedding gift, perhaps. It had a delicate clasp, and its pages smelled faintly of ink and dust.
She ran her fingers over the smooth cover and knew instantly: this would be her secret.
That night, when Raghav was asleep—his breath slow, chest rising and falling like a beast at rest—she crept out of bed and tiptoed to the bookshelf. She picked up a thick novel she knew he’d never touch, hollowed out by time and disinterest, and slid the red diary behind it.
Then, with trembling fingers, she opened the first page.
“Day 1. I’m writing because I have no one else to tell. Today, he called me stupid. He said no one would love me but him. And for a moment, I believed it.”
Her pen shook as she wrote, the words almost alien, like she was describing someone else’s life. But the more she wrote, the more real she felt. Each sentence was a lifeline, an anchor in a world that had begun to drown her.
The next night, she wrote again.
“Day 2. Last night, he threw the lamp. It missed me. Barely. I didn’t cry. I just picked up the pieces and cleaned the glass so no one would know. Today, he kissed my forehead like he always does in public. That kiss makes me sick now.”
She began writing every night—sometimes only a line, sometimes whole pages. She poured into that red diary what she couldn’t say aloud: the small humiliations, the calculated cruelty, the shifting between warmth and rage that left her constantly guessing.
“Day 5. I haven’t seen sunlight in three days. I told him I wanted to step out, just for a walk. He laughed. Said, ‘What’s out there that you miss so much?’ I smiled. Said nothing. Came back to the room.”
The diary became her friend. Her confessional. Her mirror.
When she spoke to her parents on Sunday, she smiled. Laughed. She even described the rasgullas she had “learned to make.” But the diary knew she’d spent that afternoon scrubbing blood off the corner of the dining table, after a ceramic bowl had shattered and cut her hand.
“Day 8. I smiled today in front of everyone. They said I looked radiant. I felt dead inside.”
Some entries were simple, sparse:
“Day 10. He didn’t yell today. He didn’t speak at all. I’m scared of the quiet more than the shouting.”
Other times, she raged in ink:
“Day 12. He said I’m ungrateful. That he gave me everything. But I had peace before him. That’s everything.”
She began to hide little things—herself, mostly. Her laughter, her opinions, her favorite poems. She knew which words triggered him, which silences provoked more wrath. The diary was the only place she could be unfiltered, whole.
One evening, she wrote:
“Day 17. I remembered today that I used to want to be a lawyer. I had dreams. I was going to help women like me. How did I become one of them?”
It hurt to admit it. But it also gave her clarity.
The writing began to change. It was still painful, still raw, but it became sharper. Less about surviving each day and more about noticing the patterns. Naming the abuse. Understanding the manipulation.
“Day 21. He tells me I’m lucky to have him. That no one else would tolerate my moods. I realized today—that’s not love. That’s control.”
“Day 24. His mother told me good wives stay quiet. I wanted to scream. Instead, I wrote. I think writing is louder.”
She began to document more than feelings—specific incidents, exact words, times, dates. The diary began to resemble a case file. She wasn’t planning anything. Not yet. But somewhere in her subconscious, a part of her was preparing.
Some nights, she read back old entries. Not to relive the pain, but to remind herself it had happened—that it wasn’t all in her head, as Raghav often claimed.
“You’re being dramatic,” he’d say. “You always twist things to make yourself the victim.”
But the diary didn’t lie. The diary remembered.
It bore witness to the reality she was told to forget.
Sometimes, in the stillness of the night, she wondered if anyone would ever read it. If something happened to her, would someone find it and believe her? Or would it disappear like she felt she was disappearing—one page at a time?
And then, slowly, a seed was planted.
Maybe this wasn’t just for her.
Maybe the diary was her voice. Her future argument. Her only evidence in a world that doubted women like her.
She began ending her entries with a single line:
“I am not mad. This is real.”
The walls of the house were still whispering—whispers of shame, silence, endurance. But the pages of the red diary shouted the truth, loud and clear.
And for the first time since the mehendi had darkened her palms, Siya felt a flicker of strength.
It was small.
But it was hers.
Zoya Returns
The message lit up Siya’s screen just after dinner, while Raghav sat across the room, sipping his whisky and watching the news.
“Hey Siso! Saw your wedding pics! Stunning. We MUST talk.”
Zoya.
It had been nearly eight months since they’d last spoken. Life had swept them into different cities—Zoya to Mumbai for a media job, and Siya into a gilded cage in Delhi.
Siya stared at the screen. Her finger hovered over the reply button. Her heart raced.
She typed: “All good! Married life is busy haha.”
Deleted.
Tried to call you yesterday! Let’s talk soon?
Deleted.
She rested the phone on her lap, then picked it up again.
Finally, after a deep breath, she wrote:
“I’m not okay.”
The message was short. Stark. A whisper of truth sent into the void.
Zoya’s reply came within minutes.
“What happened?”
“It’s not safe to type here. Please.”
Zoya didn’t need another word.
A week later, Siya heard the honk of a taxi at the gate just as the afternoon heat began to settle into its sticky silence. She rushed downstairs, the bruises under her eye hidden poorly by makeup and a loosely draped scarf.
The front door opened, and there she was—Zoya Khan. Curly hair tied in a messy bun, sunglasses perched on her head, a canvas tote on one shoulder, and fire in her eyes.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t say hello.
She stepped forward, took one look at Siya’s face, and whispered, “No.”
Then louder: “No. This ends. Now.”
She brushed past the gate like she owned the house. Siya followed her in, trying to calm her, whispering, “Zoya, please. Just… not like this.”
But Zoya wasn’t here for politeness.
Raghav was already in the living room, perfectly poised in his designer kurta. He looked up from his tablet, feigning pleasant surprise.
“Zoya, is it? Siya’s friend from school? What a surprise.”
Zoya dropped her bag on the table.
“I’m not here for tea.”
He smiled—charming, composed, snake-like. “Clearly. You didn’t even call ahead.”
Siya stood between them, panic rising in her throat. Her hands shook.
Zoya stepped closer. “She told me she’s not okay. And I can see why.”
He laughed, but there was steel behind it. “Your friend seems… emotionally unstable. Marriage is new. People overreact.”
Zoya didn’t blink. “And you seem criminally composed.”
For a moment, the air froze.
Then he shrugged, picked up his glass, and said, “You’re not family. I don’t owe you anything. Siya will call you when she’s ready.”
“I’m not leaving her,” Zoya said.
That night, they locked themselves in Siya’s bedroom. Raghav pounded the door once, muttered something under his breath, then left them alone.
Siya took out the red diary from behind the novel, her hands trembling.
Zoya opened it like it was evidence in a trial.
And then she read.
Page after page.
Her fingers occasionally clenched, her brows furrowed, her breath hitched. She didn’t speak until the last entry.
When she closed it, her voice was low and tight.
“You’ve been living in a hell disguised as a home.”
Siya looked down, her voice barely audible. “I thought I could survive it. For my parents. For… appearances.”
Zoya took her hand. “Siya, this isn’t about shame anymore. This is survival. You are not the one who should be hiding.”
Tears welled up in Siya’s eyes. “I wanted to believe it would change.”
Zoya looked at her, firm but kind. “They always say sorry. They always promise. But change doesn’t come after a slap. It comes before the first one.”
There was silence.
Then Zoya pulled out her phone. “We’re going to do this smart. Safe. On your terms. But you are getting out.”
Siya shook her head. “He’ll never let me walk out.”
Zoya’s eyes gleamed with resolve. “Then we don’t walk. We plan. We run.”
That night, Siya cried—not from fear, but from the smallest taste of relief. Someone knew. Someone believed her. Someone had arrived not with flowers or platitudes—but with anger, with defiance, with unconditional love.
It was the first night in months that she slept without fear.
Not because the house had changed.
But because she finally wasn’t alone.
The Escape
The clock on the wall ticked away the slow hours, its steady sound almost deafening in the silence of the house. It was 3 a.m., the darkest hour, when the world held its breath.
Siya’s heart pounded in her chest like a trapped bird. Every sound—the creak of a floorboard, the rustle of fabric—made her flinch. But the time had come.
She had packed the essentials in a small bag the night before—some clothes, a phone charger, the little red diary. That diary, fragile yet fiercely alive, was clutched to her chest like armor.
Zoya was waiting quietly in the shadows of the hallway, her eyes scanning the dimly lit corridor, ready to move.
“Ready?” Zoya whispered.
Siya nodded, swallowing her fear. There was no room for hesitation now.
They slipped out of the house like ghosts, careful not to disturb the silence that cloaked the night. The driver of the taxi was waiting outside—a kind-eyed man who didn’t ask questions when Zoya silently handed over the address. In a world that often judged, here was one small kindness: quiet discretion.
The car pulled away from the neighborhood, the familiar streets blurring into darkness. With every passing mile, Siya felt the weight of her past loosen its grip, even if just a little.
She looked down at the diary once more—its red cover worn but unbroken, just like her. It had witnessed her pain, her terror, and now, her courage.
After what felt like hours, they reached the shelter—a modest building tucked between towering apartments, buzzing faintly with the lives of women seeking refuge, strength, and new beginnings.
Zoya opened the door, and Siya stepped inside, the heavy burden of fear lifting off her shoulders like a cloud breaking apart.
For the first time in months, Siya slept without the echo of Raghav’s voice or the threat of his wrath lurking in the corners. She closed her eyes, and the quiet was not empty—it was peace.
Morning sunlight filtered gently through the curtains, painting hope on the walls.
Zoya was already on the phone, her voice sharp and determined.
“You have to meet her. Siya Malhotra. She’s ready.”
The lawyer who arrived an hour later was nothing like Siya expected. Fierce, intelligent, and fearless—like a warrior in tailored suits.
“You’re not alone anymore,” the lawyer said firmly. “We will make sure your voice is heard. The law is on your side.”
Siya felt a flicker of hope ignite deep within her chest. The case was filed. For the first time, Raghav Malhotra’s name appeared on the other side of the law—not as a husband, but as a defendant.
It was the beginning of a new fight—a fight for freedom, dignity, and justice.
The Trial
Courtrooms were never quiet.
They buzzed with whispered conversations, rustling papers, shuffling feet, and the occasional sharp clap of a gavel. But within that chaotic hum, Siya found an unexpected silence—the silence of her own strength.
The first day of the trial, she walked into the courtroom like a ghost from a distant nightmare—bruised, fragile, but unbroken. Every pair of eyes seemed to bore into her, some with sympathy, others with skepticism.
Raghav sat on the opposite side, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his smile practiced and cold. His lawyers, polished and ruthless, whispered strategies as if this was just another game. But for Siya, this was the battleground for her very soul.
Her lawyer, fierce and unwavering, stood beside her. Together, they presented the evidence: photographs of bruises, medical reports, and the most powerful weapon—Siya’s diary.
The red diary.
Each page a testament to the nights filled with fear, the days overshadowed by control and cruelty, the moments of despair she had poured into words when no one else would listen.
The judge flipped through the pages, his face unreadable.
Then came the defense.
Raghav’s lawyers launched their attack, trying to dismantle Siya’s story piece by piece.
“She is unstable,” one said. “This is a case of a woman who is vindictive, perhaps even rebellious.”
They painted Siya as a liar, a troublemaker, a woman who misunderstood a man’s ‘love’ and ‘discipline.’
But Siya stood firm.
Her voice, once trembling behind closed doors, was now clear and steady as she recounted the years of silent suffering.
She described the slow erosion of her freedom—the locked phone, the vanished clothes, the whispered threats.
She spoke of the first slap, and the countless times after when fear was her only companion.
Her words pierced through the courtroom air, raw and real.
The diary, her written witness, couldn’t be silenced or twisted. It was her truth, unvarnished and unwavering.
As days passed, the courtroom became her stage for courage.
Witnesses came forward—family friends who saw the bruises, neighbors who heard the screams, even the house help who had secretly supported Siya in small ways.
Piece by piece, the mask on Raghav began to crack.
Behind the polished facade was a man desperate to control, to dominate, to hide the monstrous truth beneath the charm.
On the final day, as the judge prepared to give his verdict, Siya felt a quiet hope rise within her.
This was more than a legal battle.
It was a fight for every woman silenced behind closed doors.
For every whispered plea for help.
For every diary hidden in the shadows.
And for Siya, it was the reclaiming of her voice—and her life.
The Verdict
The waiting was the hardest part.
Six months.
Six months of uncertainty, fear, and quiet hope stretched endlessly before Siya. Days bled into nights as she navigated the slow, grinding wheels of the legal system. Each hearing was a reminder of the trauma she had survived—and the long road still ahead.
But through it all, Siya held onto one fragile truth: justice would come.
The courtroom was packed on the day of the verdict. Reporters, advocates, and supporters had gathered. For Siya, this was more than just her case. It had become a symbol—a beacon for every woman trapped behind closed doors, every voice waiting to be heard.
Raghav sat stone-faced, his usual charm nowhere to be seen. The man who once smiled so easily now seemed small, diminished under the weight of the law.
The judge entered. The room fell into a hush so deep it felt like the entire world was holding its breath.
“After reviewing all evidence, testimonies, and the facts presented,” the judge began, his voice steady and grave, “the court finds the defendant, Raghav Malhotra, guilty of domestic violence, emotional abuse, and unlawful confinement.”
A ripple of shock and relief passed through the courtroom.
Siya’s heart pounded—her eyes welled with tears she had held back for so long.
For the first time in months, she felt the heavy chains of fear begin to shatter.
The judge continued, “The court orders protective measures for the plaintiff, Ms. Siya Malhotra, granting her full custody of her personal freedom and safety. Further, the defendant is restrained from any form of contact or interference with Ms. Malhotra’s life.”
Freedom. Justice. Dignity.
Words that once seemed distant dreams now blossomed into reality.
Outside the courtroom, cameras flashed. Advocates cheered softly. But Siya, wrapped in a simple shawl, felt a quiet triumph that no noise could match.
Her lawyer clasped her hand. “You did it, Siya. You stood up. You fought.”
Siya’s voice was steady but soft. “This is just the beginning—for me and for so many others.”
She thought of the diary—the red book that had witnessed her darkest moments and had now become a symbol of courage.
As she stepped out into the sunlight, Siya breathed deeply. The air felt different—lighter, filled with promise.
She was free.
Not just from the man who had hurt her, but from the silence that had nearly swallowed her whole.
The road ahead would be long, and healing would take time.
But today, Siya reclaimed her life.
And in doing so, she ignited a spark of hope for all women who dared to dream of freedom.
After the Silence
Siya’s life after the trial was a world transformed.
The woman who had once trembled behind closed doors now stood tall in public spaces, her voice ringing clear and strong.
She had become more than a survivor—she was a warrior, a beacon of hope for countless women trapped in similar shadows.
Working with a women’s rights organization, Siya traveled to different towns and cities, sharing her story with crowds large and small. Every lecture, every meeting was a chance to light a spark in someone else’s heart, to show them that they were not alone.
She spoke about the hidden wounds of domestic violence, about the courage it took to break free from silence, about the power of reclaiming one’s voice.
Her words were raw, honest, and full of fire.
She smiled more now. It was not the tentative smile of a frightened bride, but the radiant smile of a woman who had faced darkness and come out stronger.
The red diary remained with her—a symbol, a reminder, and a trophy of survival.
Its pages, once filled with pain and despair, now carried new entries of healing, hope, and dreams.
The last page held her greatest truth:
“I was broken, but I rebuilt.
I was silenced, but I spoke.
I was afraid, but I survived.”
She hadn’t remarried—not because she feared love, but because she valued her freedom too deeply.
Siya had learned that her worth was not defined by a husband or a wedding, but by the strength she carried within.
Her parents had become her staunchest supporters, ashamed of the silence they once urged her to keep but proud of the woman she had become.
Her friendship with Zoya remained unbreakable—a sisterhood forged in fire.
Most of all, Siya had found peace—not in forgetting the past, but in owning it.
She knew that her journey was far from over.
There would be days of struggle, moments of doubt.
But armed with her voice and the lessons of her pain, Siya was ready to face whatever came next.
Because after the silence, there was a roar.
And Siya’s roar was just beginning.
End
