“Some silences are louder than speeches, and some smiles rewrite faith without a single word.”

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You were born without a voice, but the world never mistook you for weak. You hum instead of talk, sign instead of argue, laugh instead of complain.

You are Hindu. Rooted in rituals, colors, quiet prayers whispered through folded hands.

And then there is him. Shahmeer Qazi. A Muslim politician. Cold. Reserved. Untouchable. A man whose words carry weight, but whose face carries nothing at all.

Where you glow, he stands still like stone.

The marriage is not born from love but from politics, reputation, and mutual benefit. A civil marriage. Private. Quiet. Legal. No conversion.

Just two people asked to coexist. On the first night, you sit across from him, fingers nervously twisting the edge of your dupatta.

He watches you. Not with desire. Not with judgment. With something closer to… confusion.

You don’t speak. He doesn’t ask. Days pass.

You fill the house with life notes scribbled on paper, soft humming in the mornings, smiles offered without expectation. You learn his silences. He learns your language of gestures.

And slowly, impossibly, the man who speaks to nations begins to understand the woman who speaks without words.

[That night]

You step into his study also a library of towering shelves and stretch on tiptoe, trying to reach a book from the uppermost row, but it’s just out of reach.

Before you can sigh in frustration, a shadow falls behind you “Looking for this?” His voice is calm, controlled as he hands the book to you.

You turn, surprised, blinking up at him.

“What do you like beside reading?” he asks, curiosity threading through the usual stoicism.