love a superwomen

It was nighttime. Dark clouds had gathered in the sky. Lightning flashed repeatedly, as if even the sky trembled in deep restlessness. It wasn't raining, but the winds seemed to have gone mad — slicing through tree branches and whistling as they brushed against the old mansion in the center of the village, a place no one dared visit anymore. That mansion once belonged to the richest landlord in the village. Now, only his only daughter — Shivani — lived there, all alone. She was a widow. After her husband’s death, she neither left the village nor the mansion. Her doors had been closed for years, and from behind the curtains on the windows, her face would occasionally flicker, but no one had ever seen her completely. The villagers had begun to whisper— > “Shivani isn't right in the head. She cries at night, then laughs. Sometimes, she’s even seen walking on the rooftop of the mansion.” Some said — she was no longer human, but a shadow. Women in the village avoided the mansion even during the day. When children ran toward it while playing, their mothers would scold them and pull them back. But something strange happened that night. Lightning struck with a loud crack — and suddenly, the silhouette of a woman appeared on the rooftop of the mansion. She stood there, hair loose, wearing a white saree flowing in the wind — staring straight at the sky. For a moment, as the lightning flashed, her face was visible — Shivani’s beauty wasn’t the kind you saw in ordinary women — it was something else, something different. A beauty felt more by the heart than seen with the eyes. Her hair was like the darkness of night — long, thick, and when fluttering in the wind, it seemed like it was flowing in some invisible river. Her eyes — they didn’t look like they belonged to this world. Big, deep, and dark. When she looked at someone, time itself seemed to stop. There was fear in that gaze. And yet, you couldn’t look away. That very night, a child went missing from the village. Now the winds carried not just fear, but hatred too. Whenever anything went wrong — a cow went missing, a child fell ill, something fell into the well — all eyes would turn to that old mansion. Whispers would begin, slowly turning into angry cries: "O Kamli! I’m sure it was that witch who ate your son!" The women would say, "First she consumed her young husband. Now she’s casting her shadow over the entire village." Old men would raise their hands toward the sky and plead, "Oh God! Save us from this witch!" Shivani, once the landlord's only daughter, had now become the most feared shadow in the village — without proof, without mercy. She never said a word, just watched from the mansion’s window — with the same silence that felt like the calm before a storm. When the landlord, Diwan Singh, heard people using the word “witch” for his daughter, the rage buried within him for years threatened to erupt like a volcano — but he swallowed it. His mustache stiffened, his eyes turned red, but his face remained composed — the kind of stillness that only those who’ve lived with power and pain together carry. Only one thought echoed in his mind — "What did I not do for these people? My wealth, my land, my mansion... I gave it all for their welfare. And now, these same people call my daughter a witch?" He spent several nights alone in silence. Gradually, he decided that he would have Shivani married again — so she could have a life, a sense of dignity. But every proposal they brought, every family they contacted, had heard the rumors — “There’s a shadow following that girl from the mansion.” And each time, there would be some excuse, some polite refusal. Eventually, Diwan Singh, out of options, approached his childhood friend, Pandit Deen Dayal — the only person he could still speak to openly. Pandit Deen Dayal was no ordinary priest. He and Diwan Singh had been childhood friends, growing up in the same courtyard, studying together, and later helping each other manage the landlord’s estate. But time had taken them down separate paths — Diwan Singh grew in wealth and power, while the Pandit immersed himself in religion and devotion. For years, Pandit Deen Dayal had stood by the villagers in their joys and sorrows, but even he had seen how society labels women as either goddesses or witches, whichever suits them. He felt both sympathy and concern for Shivani. Then there was Shravan — the son of a laborer who once worked in Diwan Singh's fields. He lost his parents at a young age. Diwan Singh had raised him in the mansion — not by educating him in books, but by teaching him loyalty, discipline, and hard work. Shravan and Shivani had grown up under the same roof, but always with a silent distance — she, the landlord’s daughter; he, a servant. Pandit Deen Dayal, with his years of wisdom and humanity, had seen the concern and quiet devotion in Shravan’s eyes toward Shivani. There was never any desire — only care. And maybe, that made him a worthy life partner. When he suggested this to Diwan Singh, it wasn’t just a solution — it was the culmination of years of reflection and quiet rebellion. A silent declaration — that the walls built by society must fall. When Diwan Singh returned to the mansion after meeting the Pandit, his heart felt like stone. His steps were heavy, his eyes tired. Walking through the dark corridors of the mansion, he reached his room — where everything was the same — filled with living memories, and yet empty. He lay on his bed and looked at the wall where his late wife’s photograph hung — the same gentle smile, the same loving eyes. His eyes met hers, and his lips whispered, "Do you see, Shivani’s mother? This is what we’ve come to — that I must marry off our daughter to our own servant. The girl I once dreamed of sending off with bridal music and celebration will now leave under the shadow of silence." He sighed deeply and closed his eyes — then, as if suddenly deciding something, rang the bell. Within moments, Shravan entered — head bowed, as if he already knew. But today, his eyes held something else — a heavy responsibility, a mix of fear and respect. Diwan Singh said in a low, weighty tone: "Shravan. I want you to marry my daughter, Shivani." Time seemed to stand still in the mansion. The silence in the room began to breathe. Shravan's eyes widened, his lips trembled, and Diwan Singh’s gaze sought just one thing — an answer that could preserve dignity, and save his daughter. Shravan stood frozen for a moment. His lips were dry, throat choked. He looked into Diwan Singh’s eyes, then lowered his gaze to the ground. His breaths were heavy, but no words came. After a moment, he spoke — softly, shakily: "Sir... You’re like a father to me. And Didi... she’s like..." He couldn’t complete the sentence. His eyes were moist, but his expression held respect, fear, and deep inner conflict. "Who am I, sir? I'm not worthy of your daughter. Never in my dreams did I imagine my name being taken with hers." Then, after a brief pause, he asked — "Is Didi willing to accept this relationship?" Diwan Singh gave no reply, just turned his gaze away. Shravan said again, "If this marriage protects your honor and brings peace to Didi, I’d gladly give my life. But sir... can you truly say this marriage won’t make her even lonelier?" A storm raged within him. Shravan didn’t understand Shivani, but he had never ignored her either. He had seen her silences, her sleepless nights, and the pain that couldn’t find words. "If you command it, I am ready. But sir, have you ever really listened to her silence? I just fear — this silence may destroy us both." Diwan Singh looked at him — for the first time, not as a servant, but as a man. To the villagers, it remained a mystery — why Diwan Singh, now called “Dayan Singh” behind his back, no longer lived in the same mansion as his daughter. But the truth was, there was never a wall between father and daughter — it was society that built it. Ever since Shivani’s husband had died mysteriously, and screams began echoing from the mansion at night, people had labeled her a “witch.” They hurled insults — "First she killed her husband, now she'll bring down her father too!" At first, Diwan Singh resisted, but then thought — "If my presence brings her more shame, maybe I should distance myself... so she might live in peace." He had a smaller home built for himself — Kothi Number-4, away from the main mansion. It was smaller, yes, but every wall echoed with memories. Meanwhile, Shivani stayed in the main mansion — alone, cut off from the world. They spoke no words during the day, but on every full moon night, Diwan Singh would sit on the roof and gaze at the mansion where his daughter lived — as if speaking through the silence of the moon. And on one such night, as the moon shone brightest in the sky, Shivani too was on her rooftop — not looking at the sky, but toward her father’s home — at the window where a shadow often sat. She closed her eyes and whispered in her heart: "Father, you left to protect me from the poison of society. But don’t you know — that poison has seeped into me? I no longer live in your shadow — I live like you do. Alone, burned, but standing tall." Then she smiled softly, a sad smile — "You sit on the rooftop, so I know you’re still with me. Then know this — I come to the rooftop every night, so you know — I’m still your daughter. Not a witch." That night, something was different in the air. The moon shone in full glory, as if it wanted to lessen the distance between the two homes. Diwan Singh stepped out of Kothi Number-4, walking alone. He carried nothing — just a decision in his heart and a thousand questions in his eyes. The door to the mansion creaked open gently — almost surprised to feel its master’s footsteps after so many years. Shivani sat in the veranda — a book open in her lap, but her eyes were elsewhere. When she saw her father, something flickered in her eyes — not joy, not anger — just a still restlessness. "Father..." she said softly. Diwan Singh looked at her for a while — her empty forehead, cold eyes, and that silence that was louder than any scream. He stepped forward and sat on a wooden chair. Then said: "Daughter. I’ve come to say something. Something a father should perhaps never have to say to his daughter." Shivani said nothing, just looked at him. "I want you to marry." Shivani’s eyelashes didn’t even flutter — as if she had already heard it. Diwan Singh continued: "To Shravan. The boy who grew up with me. Whom I raised like a son, but always called a servant." Now, for the first time, a wave stirred in Shivani’s eyes — not surprise, but a weight. "Why?" She asked, just one word. "Because I’ve taken everything from you — a mother’s love, a husband’s support, society’s respect. What little is left, I wish to give back. I know this marriage is being forced upon you. But that boy — he might understand you. Maybe more than this world ever will." Shivani stood up and walked slowly to the window — from where Kothi Number-4 was visible. After a long silence, she spoke: "I’ve endured a lot, Father. And now, there’s a wall within me. No relationship, no name can cross it." She turned to face him and said in a broken voice: "Father... Shravan? The boy I once rocked in my arms? Who is five years younger than me? Do you truly want me to marry him?" She paused, seemingly struggling with her own words. "I’ve seen him since he was a child — when he cried, I soothed him. When he fell, I blew on his wounds. And now, you want me to become his wife?" Her eyes welled up, but her voice turned firm. "This isn’t about love or life. This is just an attempt to slap society in the face. But the storm inside me — no Shravan can ever understand that. At least, not now." ---