Madhabi Mukhopadhyay The Home and Her Silence The wind rustled through the neem trees beyond the boundary wall, carrying with it the distant chants of a protest—not loud, but insistent, like the cry of a bird refusing to leave the sky. Meera stood by the open window, the carved wooden shutters pushed aside, her fingers resting on the brass handle like a thought she had not quite committed to holding. Outside, the world moved. Inside, time waited. She had grown accustomed to silence, not as absence but as presence—thick, lingering, almost breathing. Their home, an old zamindari bungalow on the…