The college hallway smelled of old books and ambition. A place once filled with nervous curiosity now felt like a stage. Eyes followed her — not just because of the vermilion in her parting or the glass bangles tinkling softly against her wrists. It was the change.
Hiya Basu.
A name spoken in hushed tones now. The quiet girl from the village… now the wife of Dev Basu — final-year topper, researcher, the faculty's pride.
Some looked at her with admiration. Some… with doubt.
"Of course she topped," someone whispered behind a pillar.
"Wouldn't you, if your husband was correcting your papers?"
"Why did he even marry her? He could've had anyone."
Hiya paused near the stairwell, her fingers curling around her books tighter. She had heard it — not just the words, but the unkindness laced in every syllable.
When she entered class, even her closest seatmates hesitated before offering space. Sourav, once warm and helpful, gave a stiff nod and turned away.
A professor, kind but too blunt, smiled too tightly. "Congratulations, Mrs. Basu. Looks like you have everything a girl could dream of now — grades, a home, and a husband with connections."
Hiya flushed. Her throat dried. She wanted to vanish into her scarf.
Dev didn't know.
He hadn't returned to college yet. Residency hours kept him buried in hospitals. But he still called her in the evenings, his voice low and tired.
"How's it going?"
"Fine," she always lied.
"Anyone bothering you?"
"No," she whispered.
But one night, she sat at the study table, staring at her notes. Her pen wouldn't move. She felt the weight of those whispers behind the benches. The stolen glances. The smirks.
That's when Riddhi knocked softly. "Soup's ready. Dev will be home late today."
Hiya looked up, eyes glassy. "Didi… why do people hate what they can't have?"
Riddhi paused. Then she smiled, slow and knowing. "Because they can't bear to look at what they let slip through their fingers."
That night, Hiya didn't sleep. She replayed every whisper. Every comment.
She didn't tell Dev — not yet.
But the next morning, when she dressed for college, she left the vermilion out of her parting. The bangles stayed in her drawer. Her scarf wrapped around her neck like armor.
If they were going to make her feel small…
She would make herself invisible — until she was strong enough to not care.
But behind the bench, Mira noticed.
The absence of red. The dull clothes. The quiet in Hiya's step.
And she smiled.
Because silence, she knew, could be broken with the right wound.