Where Silence Learned to Love - Part 4

 

The Weight of Good Intentions

Ananya’s mother began noticing things.

Not anything obvious—Indian mothers rarely needed proof. They sensed change the way they sensed rain before clouds gathered.

“You’ve become quieter these days,” her mother said one morning, folding sarees neatly. “Is college too stressful?”

Ananya shook her head.
“No, Amma.”

That was the truth. College wasn’t stressful.
Her heart was careful.

Her father, meanwhile, had started speaking about the future—casually, as if it were a distant thought.

“Next year, we should start looking at good coaching options,” he said one evening over dinner. “A girl must stand on her own feet, but within limits.”

Ananya nodded. She always nodded.

Limits were familiar. Comforting, even.

At college, Arjun felt a similar shift.

His uncle visited one Sunday, bringing sweets and unsolicited advice. Between cups of tea, the conversation drifted naturally—as it always did.

“You’re doing well in studies,” his uncle said. “Soon, responsibilities will come. We must think ahead.”

Arjun listened silently.

That night, his mother sat beside him, her voice gentle.
“Focus on what matters now. Life becomes complicated if feelings enter too early.”

Arjun didn’t ask which feelings she meant. In Indian homes, some topics were understood without explanation.

The next day in class, Ananya sensed a difference.

Arjun seemed more… distant. Not absent—just guarded. His notebook was closer to him, his posture straighter, as if he were protecting something invisible.

She wondered if she had imagined their silent connection all along.

That thought hurt more than she expected.

During a group assignment, fate placed them in the same team.

It was unavoidable. Names assigned alphabetically. No escape.

They sat at opposite ends of the table.

The room buzzed with discussion, but between them, there was a careful space—untouched, respectful.

When Arjun spoke, he addressed everyone, never just her. When Ananya spoke, her eyes stayed on her notes.

At one point, she pushed a paper forward—accidentally, perhaps intentionally.

Arjun took it.

Their fingers didn’t touch.

Yet both felt it—the weight of what they were choosing not to do.

Later, as they packed their bags, Arjun spoke for the first time directly to her.

Just two words.

“Thank you.”

Her heartbeat skipped.

She looked up, nodded once, and replied softly,
“It’s okay.”

That was all.

But that night, Ananya lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan slicing the darkness. She realised something frightening.

This wasn’t a passing feeling.

This was becoming a discipline—the discipline of restraint, of respect, of loving within boundaries drawn by family, society, and fear.

And discipline, once learned, is hard to unlearn.

Outside, the neem tree rustled in the wind—unchanging, patient.

Inside two young hearts, something was growing that neither family, nor rules, nor silence could fully contain.

And yet… neither dared to ask for more.

Because in their world, good intentions carried weight
and that weight often decided the direction of a life.