Mira once walked barefoot into the world, yearning for freedom as a flame yearns for air. But, She had confused breaking with becoming. She had forgotten obedience but never discovered balance.
So she ran. To the arms of the self she considered freedom as—loud, fierce & unyielding. And for a while, it was sufficient. She shed the silences of her mother, the shadows of her grandmother, the perfumed stillness of pooja & kitchen rooms where women were constructed into goddesses only to be imprisoned in respect. But, Mira would never bow again. She would speak. She would decide.
But she confused resistance with identity and in her enthusiasm, she  forgot the price of veering too far from muteness.

In her married life;
She married a good man. Not perfect, not a hero—just good. Steady hands. Eyes that listened. A patience that became steady in the corners of her house. Everyone said he was a gem. Her friends, her neighbors, even strangers who caught glimpses of him with shopping bags and gentleness in his voice. But to Mira, he became a symbol of the life she had hated much.
Each time he spoke softly, she saw manipulation. Each time he stepped away, she saw condescending kindness. She armed her hurts before he could touch them. She didn't hear—not truly. She cut in, overruled, corrected. Not because he was incorrect, but because correct had become her shield.
He would say, "Mira, let's talk."
And she would scoff. "Talk about what? How I am never enough for your vision of a wife?"
But it was never that. He had never instructed her to shrink. Only to look at him—not through the fractured mirror of her past, but as he was.
Which She didn't. She couldn't. Not then.
Her family, the ones who once called her a goddess, now whispered differently. Poison Mixed in concern. “He’s changing you,” they said. “You’ve lost your fire.” But it was they who had taught her to burn quietly all those years. Mira who was bragging about her boldness, never thought they'll poison her marriage life with mixing perspective's. And she is not that smart or smooth to observe people's behavior to sense that her husband not a manipulator but the way she look's.
One night, she became ill. Nothing serious, but enough to make her weak and tired. It was he who remained as unwanted husband —not her family. He tended her fever with the same silent hands that had prepared tea on their first evening out. He heated the house. He reported each fine detail's to the doctor. He read beside her bed-side table, not even wanting a simple thanks.
And when she whispered, "Why do you still care?" he simply replied, "Because I know the real you is still in there. Underneath all the noise."
That night, the silence felt different—less like suffocation, more like empty space.
In all those days that ensued, Mira remembered. Not only his kindness, but her cruelty. How she rolled her eyes when he told her of a dream. How she laughed too hard at his errors. How she made him feel like a guest in his own marriage.
One morning, as she sat on the back steps with a half-cold cup of tea, her old maid, Radha, sat beside her. A wise-woman with hair like silver roots and eyes that had seen too much to judge.
“You’ve been quiet, Mira” Radha said, in concerned manner.
Mira looked at her, startled. “I think I’ve been wrong.”
Radha laughed, dry and low as dried leaves. "That's not so bad, beta. Being wrong & realizing indicates that you've stopped deceiving yourself."
Mira blinked. The air brought the smell of rain and dust.
"I thought I was liberating myself, but" she said.
"You were," said Radha. "But sometimes, we level every wall and lose sight of the fact that some were shelter, not cages."
And Mira cried—not loudly, not theatrically. Just softly. A softer kind of softness than the women she'd resented before. Not weakness. Not giving up. Just… honesty towards her cruelty towards her husband.
That night, she didn't say sorry with roses or elaborate gestures. She simply sat next to her husband and, for the first time in years, listened. Truly listened. She asked him about his day. She allowed him to get the last word. She didn't interrupt to defend herself.
He noticed. That Mira, had changed a lot, And he even understood as healing would be slow and trust would have to be nurtured like old scars, something shifted between themselves.
Mira started lit candles and lamp's in pooja room and all her house. But not in defiance. Not in memory. She lit them now because she wanted to be present as his wife.
She no longer was attempting to be goddess or specter. Just a woman.
The One who had burned and lived.
Now understood:
To be free is not to be alone.
To be heard is not to shout.
And to love is not to lose oneself, but to find room where both truths can breathe.

she started realized this is what is called as “The Transparency between husband & wife” 
She had been her own myth. Now, she was prepared to be her own mirror.
And perhaps—just possibly—him, as well.