My Husband Gave Me the Silent Treatment for Months. I Finally Ignored Him Back, and He Snapped.

Kunti’s voice carried the same measured calm she used to announce dinner, not the dissolution of his life.
“You will marry Subhadra before the next moon.”

Arjun heard the sentence the way a man hears an arrow sink flesh: first the impact, then the delayed burn. He stood in the small council chamber, afternoon light slicing across the maps of Kuru lands pinned to the wall, and felt every border close around his throat.

“Say something,” Kunti prompted.

What he wanted to say was that Draupadi’s laughter still cracked against the inside of his skull at night, that her final words—“You love your pride more than you ever loved me”—were carved on the back of his teeth. Instead he swallowed the taste of iron and asked, “Why Subhadra?”

“Because the Yadavas require a gesture of unity and you require a wife who will not shame us further.” She folded her hands, gold bangles clicking like shackles. “The scandal with Panchal’s princess ends the moment you take Subhadra’s hand.”

He almost laughed. Scandal. As if betrayal could be scrubbed clean by exchanging garlands.

Outside the latticed window the palace bustled with preparations that had clearly begun days ago—bolts of silk carried past the doorway, priests measuring rice for auspicious symbols, servants whispering about which jewels the new bride might wear. They had decided for him, then waited only for the courtesy of telling him.

Kunti added, softer, “She has always held affection for you.”

Affection. The word felt obscene. He remembered Subhadra at fourteen following him through the gardens, asking if the stories of his archery were true; he had ruffled her hair like a child and walked away. Now that child was to be his punishment, a daily reminder stitched into his bed-sheets.

The wedding took place in the small rose court usually reserved for oath-takings. No drums, no dancing—Kunti wanted solemnity, not celebration. Subhadra arrived veiled in crimson so deep it looked wet. Through the gauze he saw the curve of her smile, steady, practiced. He stared over her head at the ceremonial fire, letting the smoke sting his eyes until they watered. When the priest asked him to repeat the vows, his tongue moved automatically, binding himself to a woman whose hand felt like a stone in his.

Only once did their eyes meet: just before the final circuit of the fire she lifted her gaze, searching his face for some sign of welcome. He looked away first, fixing on the blackened bricks, and felt her fingers slacken inside his grip.

The feast afterward blurred into clatter and distant music. He drank enough wine to dull the edges, not enough to erase the picture of Draupadi walking out of the assembly hall, braid snapping like a whip. When the guests finally released them, he entered the marriage chamber already unbelting his sword, its weight more familiar than the woman standing beside the bed.

Subhadra spoke his name, barely a whisper.

He set the blade on the windowsill, lay down fully clothed on the far edge of the mattress, and turned his face to the wall.

The lamp burned low, throwing long shadows across the carved sandalwood panels. He listened to her undress: bangles sliding over wrists, the whisper of silk pooling at her feet. Each sound was deliberate, careful, as if she feared waking a sleeping animal. When the mattress dipped under her weight he felt the vibration travel through his own ribs. She settled at the opposite edge, leaving a cold trench of embroidered counterpane between them wide enough for three more bodies.

Minutes passed, measured by the drip of oil in the lamp. He kept his breathing shallow, eyes fixed on the grain of the wall where moonlight painted a pale stripe. Behind him her hair released the faint scent of crushed jasmine; he had always liked that smell, and the recognition needled him. She shifted once, drawing up the light blanket, then stilled.

A sigh—so soft he almost missed it—brushed the air. Not relief, not sorrow, only exhaustion. The sound entered his ear and traveled straight to the base of his spine, where it lodged like a splinter. He pictured her lying on her back, staring at the canopy, palms open at her sides, waiting for something he would never offer. The image pleased him in a dull, aching way; if he could not wound Draupadi with silence, he could at least wound the woman who had been offered up as consolation.

He waited for her to speak again, to plead or question, but the chamber remained quiet except for the distant bark of a night watchman. The quiet grew thick, pressing against his eardrums until he thought it might burst them. Still he gave her nothing—no movement, no acknowledgment that another person shared the room. Power, he discovered, could be measured in withheld syllables.

When the lamp finally guttered out, darkness erased the furniture, the wedding garlands slung over a chair, the copper tray of auspicious rice now cold. In that darkness he felt her presence more acutely: the warmth rising from her skin, the measured rise and fall of her breathing. He imagined her eyes open, reflecting the faint starlight that leaked through the lattice, watching the rigid line of his back. Let her look. Let her understand exactly what she had married.

Sleep did not come. His shoulder began to throb where it pressed against the hard mattress, but he refused to shift. Sometime before dawn he heard her turn onto her side, facing away, the smallest surrender. Only then did he allow himself to close his eyes, the silence he had forged settling over them both like a blade laid between their bodies.

He rose before the sun, when the corridors still smelled of extinguished lamps, and walked to the archery field barefoot so the gravel would bite his soles awake. The servants found him there at dawn, shirtless, forearms bleeding from the bowstring’s kiss, quiver empty. They brought fresh arrows; he sent them all into the same palm-width circle until the center of the target shredded and fell out. Then he moved the mark farther and started again.

When the heat grew unbearable he switched to sword work, drilling with the palace guards until their wrists cramped and they begged leave to fetch water. He fought two at a time, then three, sweat stinging his eyes, lungs burning, the clang of steel the only conversation he could tolerate. If he pushed hard enough, the memory of Draupadi’s voice lost its shape; if he kept moving, he did not have to notice the way Subhadra’s gaze tracked him from the balcony where she came to dry her hair.

He returned to their chamber only after the torches were lowered, muscles trembling, mind scraped clean. The door would be unlatched, a single lamp burning low. On the first night he saw the flowers—white star-blooms floating in a bronze bowl—and walked past them to the washing stand. By the fourth night the petals browned at the edges; by the seventh they were gone, the water clouded, and still he said nothing. When the bowl disappeared he felt a small, mean triumph, as if he had won a round of combat.

Meals arrived on a tray: rice molded into a crescent, lentils glossy with ghee, fish steamed in banana leaf. He ate standing at the window, looking out at the practice yard, chewing mechanically. If the food was cold he did not notice; taste was another thing he had decided to forgo. The next morning the untouched portions were gone, replaced by fresh portions he would also let cool. He never saw her carry the tray, yet the rhythm never faltered—warm food, cold food, disappearance—like a rite performed for an idol that refused to bless the worshipper.

One afternoon he found his hunting tunic folded at the foot of the bed, the tear beneath the right sleeve closed with thread so fine he had to angle the lamp to see it. He ran a thumb over the neat stitches, felt something twist in his chest, and ripped the seam open again with one jerk. The next day the tunic was gone entirely; he wore an older one and told himself the scratch of homespun against his skin was preferable to gratitude.

She never spoke first. When he entered she would look up from her scroll or her spinning, acknowledge him with the smallest dip of her chin, then return to her task. Her silence was different from his: patient, deliberate, a wall built brick by brick while he watched from the other side. Sometimes he caught himself studying the line of her shoulder, the way her hair kinked where she had twisted it while bathing, and he would wrench his gaze away as if she had burned him.

Weeks passed this way—targets replaced, blades sharpened, muscles growing hard as the calluses on his palms. In the hush before sleep he listened to her breathing, steady and even, and wondered how long she could keep it so calm. He told himself the answer did not matter; he had already learned to live inside the space her absence created, and it was large enough to hold every arrow he would ever shoot.

The sun pressed against the courtyard stones like a branding iron. Arjun’s fingers were slick with sweat, the bow grip sliding against his palm as he drew. He had shot two hundred arrows since midday; the straw target sagged, its painted heart torn away. Around him the guards drooped, their own practice abandoned for the shade of the colonnade. He ignored them. Each release was a small exhalation of fury, the thud of impact a syllable of silence he could still control.

A shadow crossed the dust at his feet—smaller, lighter than the guards’. He did not look up. The next arrow nocked itself by muscle memory. Only when the cup appeared at the edge of his vision, beads of water threading down its bronze sides, did his arm pause.

Subhadra held the drink in both hands, elbows tucked to her body as if she feared occupying too much space. Her sari had been looped up to free her ankles; the end clung to her calf, dark with perspiration. She spoke so quietly the words were almost lost under the cicadas.

“You’ll make yourself sick.”

He took the cup. The metal was shockingly cold, probably carried from the underground storeroom where the blocks of Himalayan ice lay wrapped in sawdust. He drank it empty in one pull, water spilling from the corner of his mouth, running along the dust on his throat. When he handed the vessel back he kept his eyes on the target. A single straw fiber fluttered in the breeze; he imagined driving the next shaft through it.

She did not move. “How far is that mark?”

He set another arrow. “Ninety paces.”

“I used to watch you at eighty and hit it blindfolded.”

The bowstring kissed his cheek. He released. The arrow struck low, quivering where a throat would be. He reached for the next.

Behind him her sandals scuffed the grit. Still she stayed. He could feel the guards watching, their pity a damp cloak across his shoulders. One of them coughed—a small, embarrassed sound. The shame arrived sharp and sudden, like grit in the eye, and he crushed it beneath the more familiar weight of anger.

“Leave the cup,” he said, voice flat. “Go back inside.”

A pause, long enough for him to wonder if she would disobey. Then the bronze weight lifted from the air; her steps retreated, measured, unhurried. He did not turn until the archway swallowed her. The guards looked away quickly, suddenly absorbed by their own bootlaces.

He raised the bow again, drew, held the tension until his shoulder shook. When he finally let go the arrow sailed wide, skimming past the target and burying itself in the sun-baked mud beyond. He left it there, a dark quill in the cracked earth, and walked to the opposite end of the yard to begin again.

The dining hall smelled of ghee and sandalwood smoke. Long bronze lamps threw overlapping circles of light across the low tables where the family sat in order of age. Arjun took his place between Bhima and Subhadra, the silk cushion still warm from the servant who had tested it for comfort. Dishes were carried in on silver trays—quail roasted in pomegranate, lentils tempered with asafoetida, rice fluffed into separate pearls. He watched the steam rise, counting breaths.

Kunti began the customary questions about the day’s drills. Yudhishthir answered, measured as always; Bhima bragged about splitting a practice dummy in half; Nakul described a new horse, his voice bright. Arjun kept his gaze on the rim of his cup. When the conversation reached him he gave a single nod, as if that sufficed. No one pressed.

Subhadra sat with her ankles folded to the left, spine straight, the way royal tutors had drilled into them both since childhood. She lifted the serving spoon, offered him the first portion of quail. He took it without meeting her eyes. Her sleeve brushed his forearm; the contact lasted less than a heartbeat, yet it lodged under his skin like a splinter of heat.

Across the table Nakul leaned forward, telling a story about the horse refusing to enter the river. His mimicry of the animal’s indignant snort was accurate enough to draw laughter. Subhadra’s laugh arrived soft, unforced, a low ripple that ended in a small exhalation through her nose. The sound was intimate, almost private. Arjun felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. He told himself it was irritation at Nakul’s theatrics, nothing more.

Bhima nudged him. “You should have seen the stallion—same stubborn look you wore this morning.”

Arjun lifted a shoulder. “Horses are predictable.”

Nakul grinned. “So are certain archers.”

More laughter. Subhadra’s eyes stayed on Nakul, mouth curved in a half-smile that showed the edge of a tooth. Arjun’s thumb pressed against the base of his cup until the bronze dented slightly. He pictured the moment her gaze would return to him, expected it, then hated himself for expecting. When she finally turned he was already staring at the wall, pretending to study a tapestry of the rajasuya sacrifice.

Kunti spoke of an upcoming caravan from Anarta, asking Subhadra whether Yadava weavers still produced the indigo silk threaded with gold. Subhadra answered, voice calm, describing the looms on the banks of the Yamuna, the way dye set in winter frost. Her hands moved as she spoke, slender fingers sketching shuttle motion. Arjun noticed a faint callus at the base of her thumb—probably from the wooden practice sword she used with Sahadeva. The detail annoyed him; he did not want to know the texture of her skin.

Servants replaced empty dishes with sweetened milk thickened with almonds. Subhadra nudged the bowl toward him first. He shook his head. She left it between them, close enough that he could smell cardamom whenever he inhaled. Conversation drifted to the festival of Indra next month. Yudhishthir asked whether Arjun would enter the archery contest. He grunted a noncommittal sound. Subhadra’s hand rested on her knee, inches from his. He shifted away.

When the meal ended, Kunti rose; the rest followed. Subhadra waited for him to stand first, the prescribed deference. He rose slowly, deliberately turning his back before she straightened, and walked toward the corridor. Behind him her bangles chimed once, then went still. He did not look back, but the image of her laughing at Nakul’s joke clung to the inside of his eyelids, bright and unnecessary, like a spark that refused to die.

The dream had been the old one: Draupadi’s hair uncoiling like a black river, her hand pulling free of his, the corridor stretching until she was a grain at the far end. He woke with the snap of a bowstring, chest heaving, fingers already reaching for an arrow that wasn’t there. For a moment the dark room felt like the inside of a quiver—close, smelling of cedar and hide—and his own pulse filled it.

Then the lamp.

A single clay dish of oil burned on her low table, flame no larger than a thumbprint. Subhadra sat cross-legged against the opposite pillar, knees exposed where her night-robe had ridden up. The light laid a thin gold sheet across her collarbones, the curve of one breast, the inside of her forearm where it braced her weight. She was not pretending to read or spin; she was simply looking at him. The concern on her face was so undisguised it looked almost painful, as if she had taken his nightmare into her own body and was still feeling it.

He dragged air through his teeth, forced his shoulders down. The sheet had pooled at his waist; sweat cooled there, turning chill. Without thinking he shifted, turning his back to her the way he had every night since the wedding, presenting the ridge of his spine like a closed door. The movement was automatic, but tonight it felt theatrical, a gesture performed for an audience that had already seen the flinch.

He expected her to blow the lamp out. She didn’t. The small flame kept breathing, throwing her shadow high on the plaster behind him, a shape that rose and fell with her breathing. He could feel the weight of her gaze between his shoulder blades, steady, patient, the same way she had waited with the water cup. Only now there was no courtyard, no guards, no daylight in which to bury himself. Just the two of them and the sound of his heart refusing to slow.

Minutes passed, or hours—time inside palace walls had a way of thickening. He listened for the slide of her legs unfolding, for the whisper of her feet across the stone, for any sign that she would cross the space and try to speak. She gave none. The quiet was different from the silence he had enforced; it was offered, not demanded, and it pressed against his ribs more heavily than any accusation.

He stared at the edge of the mattress, the carved lion’s paw gripping a ball. In the weak light the wood looked wet, almost alive. Somewhere in the city a night conch sounded, long and mournful, the note vibrating inside his sternum. He counted his breaths again—one, two, three—until the numbers blurred. Still the image of her face hung behind his eyelids: the soft parting of her lips, the way her brows had drawn together as if his pain were a knot she wanted to work loose with her fingers.

Sleep stayed away. The lamp never moved.