Paro

I was born beneath banyan trees and the weight of tradition. Devdas was my childhood, my mango-sweet dream — but dreams don’t survive the storm of zamindar bloodlines. I wore silks and jewels as armor, married a man I respected but did not burn for. I watched the boy I loved drink himself into ruin while I stood behind iron gates, speaking truths no one wanted to hear. I am not a tragedy. I am a choice.