I never thought love would feel this heavy.

It’s been six months since I married Shakuntala—six months of stolen glances, whispered promises, and nights wrapped in each other’s arms. She makes tea the way my mother used to, hums old film songs while cooking, and looks at me like I’m the only man in the world. But my father hasn’t spoken to me since the wedding. He called her a ‘village girl with no place in our world.’

Today, I stood at the gates of our haveli, hoping he’d at least see her. He didn’t. Instead, his servant handed me a letter: ‘Return alone, or remain dead to me.’

Shakuntala found me sitting on the railway platform, the letter crumpled in my fist. She didn’t cry. She just sat beside me, took my hand, and said, ‘You don’t have to choose me. I’ll understand.’

But I do have to choose. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough.