The first whisper of dawn was a pale, milky light seeping through the cracks in the shutters. It fell in soft stripes across the worn rug on the floor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still air. The house, in these earliest moments, held its breath. The familiar, faint scent of yesterday’s incense mingled with the damp, earthy promise of the morning from beyond the walls.

She was already awake. Lying on her side, she watched the light slowly define the contours of her small room. Her eyes, dark and deep, traced the familiar pattern of the ceiling, the stack of design books on her desk. There was a quietude to her presence, a stillness that seemed to absorb the calm of the pre-dawn. She moved then, not with a start, but with a soft, fluid grace, pushing back the thin cotton sheet. Her feet, bare and silent, found the cool floor.

She moved through the sleeping house like a gentle ghost. Her first ritual was at the small altar in the corner of the hall. She lit a single diya, the flame catching and holding, a tiny, brave sun in the dimness. The light played on her face—the high cheekbones, the serious set of her mouth. Her prayers were silent, internal whispers for strength.

In the kitchen, she filled the kettle. The sound of water was loud in the silence. She moved with an economy of motion—measuring tea leaves, setting out cups. The clink of ceramic was soft.

By the time the kettle whistled, the rhythm of the house began to change. A door creaked open. The sound of her brother’s sleepy mumbling drifted from down the hall.

Her mother, Shivani, entered the kitchen, tying her hair back. “Thank you, beta,” (Thank you, daughter) she said, her voice husky with sleep, already taking over at the stove.

The girl—Rooh—just offered a small, soft smile and stepped aside, becoming her mother’s second pair of hands. She packed the tiffin for her brother, Aarav, layering warm parathas with careful precision, adding a container of creamy dahi, a piece of fruit. Each action was performed with a tender focus.

The morning chaos swelled and then ebbed. Her father emerged, accepting a cup of chai with a grunt of thanks. Aarav chattered about a school project. Rooh listened, her smile a little warmer when directed at him.

“Beta, utne bartan dho dena. Main tumhare bhai ko school chhod ke aati hoon.” (Daughter, wash those dishes for me. I’ll just go drop your brother at school.)

Rooh nodded, her soft “Haanji, Mummy” (Yes, Mommy) barely audible. She walked with them to the gate, the morning sun now warm on her skin. She watched as her mother smothered Aarav with kisses, his small frame squirming in mock protest. Her mother’s laughter was light, her affection a visible, tangible force.

Something delicate inside Rooh’s chest tightened. It was a familiar ache, a hollow yearning. She swallowed, the practiced smile returning to her lips. She raised her hand in a slow, gentle wave. “Bye,” she murmured.

She stood for a moment longer at the gate, watching the auto-rickshaw disappear. The silence it left behind was heavy. Turning, she moved back inside, her movements slower now, weighted by a quiet melancholy.

The next hour was a meditation in motion. She cleaned the utensils, her hands moving rhythmically in the soapy water. She swept the floor, the soft swish-swish of the broom a companion to her thoughts. She put everything in its place.

By nine, her grandmother was enthroned in her usual chair in the living hall. Her father was nearby, scrolling through his phone.

“Maa, aapko kuch chahiye?” (Mother, do you want something?) he asked, his voice gentle.

Rooh was padding softly towards her room, her books calling to her.

Her grandmother’s voice, thin yet imperious, cut through her thoughts. “Ek cup chai chahiye thi.” (I wanted a cup of tea.)

There was a beat of silence. Rooh paused, her hand on her doorframe.

“Rooh, dadi ko chai bana do.” (Rooh, make tea for your grandmother.)

She didn’t sigh aloud. Instead, she let out a soft, silent breath. She turned and retraced her steps to the kitchen. The process was automatic. Within minutes, she was back, extending the steaming cup. Her grandmother took it without a word of thanks. Rooh slipped away, a phantom fulfilling a need.

Behind her closed door, the world was hers. She opened her sketchbook, and her whole demeanor changed. The quiet sadness in her eyes was replaced by a spark of fierce creativity. Her fingers flew across the page with a graceful certainty. This was her voice.

Time flew on the wings of her pencil. Before she knew it, it was time to leave for college. Her movements became a soft, hurried ballet. She chose her clothes with care: a short, floral white-and-red kurti paired with wide-legged black jeans. At her ears, small silver jhumkas caught the light. Finally, she carefully pressed a small, black bindi between her brows. A reminder to herself that she was here.

She checked the kitchen before leaving. Nothing.

Her mother looked up. “Sorry, beta. Do minute ruk jaa, abhi bana deti hoon.” (Sorry, dear. Just wait two minutes, I’ll make something right now.)

The words that rose in Rooh’s throat were bitter, but when she spoke, her voice was soft. “Agar meri jagah aapka beta hota toh ab tak pura lunch ban gaya hota.” (If it had been your son instead of me, the entire lunch would have been ready by now.)

She didn’t wait for a reply. She walked out, the emptiness in her stomach a dull echo of the emptiness in her heart.

At the bus stop, she sat on the bench, her eyes watching the world go by. She was a spectator on the sidelines of her own life.

When she reached college and spotted Ridhi, the first genuine, unforced smile of the day transformed her face. Ridhi turned and pulled Rooh into a tight, breath-stealing hug.

“Pata hai, Rooh? Ek toh meri mummy ne meri behen ko itna bigaad ke rakha hai, haad se zyada. Khud ka kuch karti hi nahi.” (You know, Rooh? My mother has spoiled my sister so much, it’s too much. She doesn’t do anything on her own.)

Rooh let out a sigh that was both sympathetic and knowing. “Mera bhi toh wahi haal hai. Pata hai na tumhe.” (Same with me. You already know.)

Ridhi rolled her eyes dramatically. “Ek toh inke itne kaam hote hain, mujhe toh kaamwali hi bana diya hai.” (There’s so much work in the house, I’ve basically been turned into a maid.)

Rooh gave a small, soft laugh. “Main bhi ek kaamwali hi ban gayi hoon ghar ki.” (I’ve also become the maid of my own house.)

Their conversation paused as the famous college couple walked in, hand in hand, completely absorbed in each other. Ridhi noticed and scoffed.

“Inka alag hi hai. Sharam aani chahiye inko.” (These two are on another level. They should be ashamed of themselves.)

Rooh’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile, waiting for the rant she knew was coming.

“I’m serious, Rooh!” Ridhi continued, leaning in. “Shaadi ke pehle ye sab karna hi mat. Jab tak ladka tumhare liye serious na ho, bharosa karna hi nahi chahiye.” (Never do this before marriage. Unless a guy is serious about you, don’t trust him.)

“Hmm,” Rooh murmured, her eyes briefly following the couple.

“Aaj kal ke ladko par bharosa karne layak hote hi nahi,” Ridhi went on, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Phir bhi ladkiyan khud girti hain. Dekhna, ye wale bhi break ho jaayenge. Finals tak bhi nahi tikenge.” (These days, guys aren’t worth trusting. But still, girls fall for it on their own. Just see, these two will break up too. They won’t even last until finals.)

“Wahi na,” Rooh agreed quietly, her tone soft but laced with a hint of shared cynicism. (Exactly.)

Their conversation soon shifted when Ridhi’s eyes lit up with excitement. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to an eager whisper. “Okay, enough about them. Have you thought about the party? It’s all anyone can talk about!”

Rooh’s gentle smile became a little strained. “Haan, suna toh hai.” (Yes, I’ve heard.)

“Heard? Rooh, it’s going to be huge! They’ve booked the entire ground behind the canteen. There’s going to be a DJ, proper lights, everything! Not like that sad little gathering last year. You’re coming, right? You have to!”

Rooh hesitated, picking at a loose thread on her kurti. “I don’t know, Ridhi. Pichhle saal bhi toh nahi gaye the.” (Last year we didn’t go either.)

“That’s exactly why you have to come this year! Last year was a bore, I didn’t even go. But this is different. Everyone is going! Anjali, Priyanka, that whole group… even Simran is coming, and she never goes to parties. You can’t be the only one missing out.”

“I’ll have to ask at home first,” Rooh admitted softly, already feeling the weight of the impending ‘no’.

Ridhi’s face fell slightly, understanding dawning. “You haven’t asked yet? Rooh, you have to! Just tell them it’s a college function. A cultural event! That sounds more serious, right? Not just a ‘party’.”

Rooh gave a small, helpless shrug. “Unhe pata chal jaayega. Pappa ke office ke dost ka beta bhi humare college mein hai.” (They’ll find out. Papa’s friend’s son is also in our college.)

“Ugh, that’s the worst,” Ridhi groaned. “Okay, but you have to try. Promise me you’ll ask properly? Please? I don’t want to go alone. We’ll get ready together at my place! We can do our makeup, try out different outfits… it’ll be so much fun! Please, Rooh?”

The spark of hope that Ridhi’s excitement ignited was a fragile, fluttering thing in Rooh’s chest. The image of getting ready with her friend, of laughing and being carefree for one night, was so tempting.

“Theek hai,” Rooh said, her voice a little stronger, a real smile touching her eyes. “I’ll ask.” (Okay.)

“Yes!” Ridhi squeezed her arm. “That’s my girl! Okay, so here’s what we’ll do…”

From there, their talks stretched endlessly—planning outfits they would probably never wear, guessing who would ask whom to dance, laughing over gossip—until the professor walked in and the classroom settled. The hours passed quickly, swallowed by lectures and notes, until the sky outside dimmed into shades of evening.

By the time they left, it was already six. At the bus stop, they stood side by side, still chatting excitedly about the party. Ridhi’s phone buzzed, her mother’s name flashing on the screen.

“Heelloo… arey haan, aa rahi hoon. Bus hi nahi aayi abhi tak. Arey ek extra class le li sir ne, isliye late hua. Aur kuch nahi.” (Hello… yes, I’m coming. The bus hasn’t come yet. The teacher kept an extra class, that’s why I’m late. Nothing else.)

Ridhi ended the call with a dramatic sigh. “Ugh, third degree every single day. As if I’m out committing crimes.”

Rooh smiled faintly but said nothing. Her own phone remained dark and silent. No one wondered where she was.

Her bus finally arrived. She got down at her stop and walked home through the narrow, glowing lanes. She pushed the door open to the smell of masalas and the sound of the television. She slipped inside, dropped her bag onto the sofa, and sank into the cushion, her body heavy.

Her father arrived soon after. He sat with a tired sigh.

“Rooh, paani lao. Thoda thanda laana.” (Rooh, bring me some water. Get it chilled.)

Rooh raised her head slowly. “Pappa, main bhi abhi aayi hoon… Aarav ko bol do.” (Papa, I just came home too… ask Aarav.)

His gaze snapped to her. “Tum bas yahi karte raho. Kaam batao toh ek doosre pe daal do.” (That’s all you do—throw responsibilities on each other.)

The familiar weight settled in her chest. She rose and went to the kitchen. She carried the glass to him, placed it before him. He drank without acknowledgement.

In the kitchen, the aroma of urad dal and tinde sabji told her everything. Her secret hope for pulao dissipated. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Rooh, thodi roti bana do. Aur dadi ko khana paros dena.” (Rooh, make some rotis. And serve food to your grandmother.)

She nodded. She washed her hands and began to roll the dough. The rhythmic motion was soothing. Gathering her courage, she let her voice out, soft and tentative. “Mumma…”

A hum was the only reply.

“Vo… college mein party hai.” (There’s a party at college…)

She flipped a roti, focusing on the task. “Aur hum pichhle saal bhi nahi gaye the. Sab jaane wale hain, toh…” (…last year we didn’t go either. Everyone’s going, so…)

“Apne pappa se pucho.” (Ask your father.)

The flame of hope guttered. She tried again, her voice even softer. “Mummy, aap baat karo na… shayad aapki baat maan le.” (Mummy, you ask him… maybe he’ll listen to you.)

The pause from her mother was a lifetime. Then, a softening. “Theek hai.” (Okay.)

The effect was instantaneous. Rooh’s face lit up from within. Her eyes sparkled. She leaned into her mother’s side, wrapping her in a quick, gentle hug.

“Jaao, roti jal jaayegi,” (Go, or the roti will burn.) her mother chided, but there was no heat in it. Rooh giggled, a soft, breathy sound, and returned to her task, her movements now lighter. The hope was a living thing inside her.

She served her grandmother, endured the demands, her spirit light. Maybe. Just maybe.

By eleven, the house was quiet. Her limbs were leaden with fatigue. She washed her face, changed into her night clothes, and approached her parents’ door. It was slightly ajar. She pushed it open gently.

Her father was on his phone. Her mother was lying down, cradling a half-asleep Aarav, stroking his hair with a tenderness that made Rooh’s heart contract.

She cleared her throat, a soft, fragile sound. “Pappa…”

Both looked toward her. She took a shallow breath. “Woh… kal college mein party hai. Sab jaa rahe hain. Main bhi jaana chahti hoon.” (Tomorrow there’s a party at college. Everyone’s going. I want to go too.)

Her mother sat up a little. “Aapko bura toh nahi lagega na? Party hi hai, college ke saath… sab bachche jaa rahe hain.” (You won’t mind, right? It’s just a party with her classmates. All the kids are going.)

Rooh’s heart soared. Her mother was speaking for her.

Her father didn’t even look up from his phone. “Nahi. Tumhe zaroorat nahi hai. College padhne ke liye hai, aise bekaar parties ke liye nahi.” (No. You don’t need to go. College is for studying, not for useless parties.)

The words were absolute, final. She stood frozen. She looked at her mother, but Shivani’s eyes had already dropped back to Aarav. The conversation was over.

Rooh nodded, a slow, mechanical dip of her chin. She turned before the tears could well up and retreated to her room.

Alone, she sat on her bed, drawing her knees up to her chest. She made herself small, a compact knot of quiet sorrow. She picked up her phone, Ridhi’s excited messages glowing on the screen. Her fingers hovered, then typed, “Mujhe permission nahi mili.” (I didn’t get permission.) She deleted it. She couldn’t bear to give the disappointment words. Instead, she placed the phone aside and lay down, letting the silence swallow her whole. Tomorrow would be just another day.

The morning arrived not as a fresh beginning, but as a slow, heavy continuation of the night before. The silence of her room seemed to have bled into the very air, muting the usual sounds of the waking city. Rooh moved through her routine with a subdued, mechanical grace. The soft, fluid motions of the previous morning were gone, replaced by a quiet, weary efficiency.

The bath was not a refreshment but a ritual of cleansing away the residual sadness. The water was warm, but it did little to thaw the cold knot of disappointment lodged in her chest. She dressed with little thought, choosing a simple, loose cotton kurta and matching pyjama in a muted shade of blue. The fabric was soft and forgiving, a comfort against her skin.

At her small mirror, she carefully applied kohl to her eyes, the dark liner making her already large eyes appear even more profound, shadowed with a sorrow she couldn’t voice. With a final, deliberate press, she placed the small black bindi between her brows—her silent anchor, her tiny declaration of self in a world that constantly asked her to be less.

By eleven, the household had shifted into a different gear. The usual rhythm was interrupted by the arrival of guests. The familiar creak of the gate was followed by the sound of unfamiliar voices—a man and a woman, relatives from her mother’s side whom she saw perhaps once a year. The air grew thick with a new formality.

Her grandmother, sensing an audience, sat even straighter in her commanding chair, her presence filling the small hall. Her mother, Shivani, had a slightly flustered but welcoming air, arranging cushions and asking about their journey.

“Rooh, paani lao,” her mother said, her tone brisk, ushering the guests to sit. (Rooh, bring water.)

Rooh nodded silently, her movements a soft whisper as she padded into the kitchen. She took four glasses from the shelf, the cool glass familiar in her hands. She arranged them on a tray, her actions precise, her mind curiously blank, numbed by the previous night’s rejection.

She entered the living hall, her head slightly bowed, the very picture of a dutiful daughter. She served the water first to the elderly male relative, then to his wife, then to her grandmother, and finally to her mother. The man, a portly figure with a thick mustache, accepted the glass with a perfunctory nod, his attention already returning to the conversation.

There was no eye contact, no word of thanks. She was merely a function, a pair of hands fulfilling a need, and she performed her role with a quiet, invisible competence before retreating to the periphery of the room, finding a small stool near the doorway to sit on.

The conversation, which had been about the weather and family health, soon took a turn she knew all too well. The woman, her maasi, leaned forward, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone.

“Maasi, humari beti ke liye rista dekhiye,” the woman said, addressing Rooh’s grandmother. (Aunt, please look for a match for our daughter.)

Rooh’s eyes, which had been fixed on a pattern in the rug, flickered upwards. Inki beti toh bas 22 ki hai, she thought, a faint line forming between her brows. Itni jaldi? (Their daughter is only 22. So soon?)

Her grandmother nodded sagely, as if she’d been waiting for this very request. “Abhi toh ladko ki kami hai aur ladkiyo ki bhi itni demand badh gayi hai,” she declared, her voice echoing the wisdom of countless afternoon soap operas. (These days there’s a shortage of boys, and the demands from the girls' sides have also increased so much.)

The man, the girl’s father, puffed out his chest slightly. “Humari beti ko sirf accha kamaane wala ladka chahiye. Degree wala. US mein set hona chahiye.” (Our daughter only wants a well-earning boy. One with a degree. He should be settled in the US.)

A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaped Shivani. “Lekin apki beti abhi 22 ki hi hai, na? Itni jaldi?” she asked, her voice gentle, echoing Rooh’s own silent question. (But your daughter is only 22, right? So soon?)

The woman waved a dismissive hand, but it was Rooh’s grandmother who answered, turning to Shivani as if explaining a simple fact to a child. “Arrey, jitna jaldi ladki apne ghar ki ho jaaye utna accha hai. Paraya dhan hoti hain betiyan, inhe apne ghar ka hisaab sambhalna hota hai.” (Oh, the sooner a girl becomes part of her own home, the better. Daughters are someone else's wealth; they have to manage the affairs of their own household.)

The words, so casually uttered, landed on Rooh like stones. Paraya dhan. Someone else’s wealth. A liability to be transferred. Is that all she was?

Then her grandmother’s gaze swept briefly towards where Rooh sat, and she added, “Bus kuch dinon baad Rooh ke liye bhi dekhna shuru karna padega. Dekhte dekhte saal nikal jaate hain.” (We’ll have to start looking for Rooh in a few days too. Before you know it, the years will have passed.)

Rooh’s breath hitched in her throat. Itni jaldi shaadi? (So soon, marriage?) The thought was a cold wave of panic. Her secret dreams of design school, of her sketchbooks filled with creations, of a life that was hers—they seemed to shrivel and fade under the weight of that simple, terrifying statement. Her world, already feeling so small, threatened to shrink into the four walls of a stranger’s kitchen.

The man, perhaps sensing a need to boast, continued, praising his daughter. “Haan, lekin humari beti sab kaan karti hai ghar ke. Bahut sanskari hai meri beti.” (Yes, but our daughter does all the housework. She is very cultured, my daughter.) He said ‘sanskari’ with a proud finality, as if it were the highest achievement a woman could aspire to. “Abhi office se aati hai, phir ghar ke kaam karti hai. Thak jaati hai, isliye phir uski Mummy raat ko usko kuch kaam nahi batati.” (She comes from the office, then does the housework. She gets tired, so then her mother doesn’t give her any work at night.)

Something in Rooh’s chest clenched so tightly it was a physical pain. Her heart felt like a fist, hard and aching. She stared at the man’s face, alight with paternal pride. He was bragging about his daughter’s exhaustion. He was celebrating the fact that his wife showed their daughter a small mercy by not burdening her further after she had given her all.

A torrent of emotion threatened to break through her carefully composed exterior. How effortlessly he praised her. How he noticed her efforts, her fatigue. He spoke of her with a ownership that was, paradoxically, filled with a form of love—a love that saw her, even if it was to list her virtues like assets on a ledger.

The contrast to her own father was a blade twisting in the wound of her heart. Her father, who barely spoke to her unless it was to issue a command. Her father, whose eyes slid over her as if she were a piece of furniture. Her father, who had never, not once, expressed pride in her quiet diligence, her good grades, her hidden talents. His love, what little of it was visibly distributed, was reserved for Aarav, for his son, the true heir, the one who carried the family name forward.

And then, unbidden, a memory surfaced. It did not crash over her with dramatic force, but seeped into her mind like a slow, cold stain. How hard her father beat her just for getting low grades in her school.

Now, sitting on her small stool, listening to another father sing his daughter’s praises, the ghost of that sting returned to her cheek. The memory was a sharp, crystalline shard buried deep in her soul, a permanent record of her worth in her father’s eyes. It was a worth measured in the perfect sweetness of tea and the silence of obedience.

She looked at her mother, who was nodding politely at the relatives, her face a mask of social courtesy. Did she remember? Did that moment live in her mother’s memory too, or had it been as inconsequential to her as a dropped spoon?

The conversation droned on, shifting to discussions of horoscopes and dowries, of software engineers in Bangalore and grooms in Canada. The words swirled around Rooh, meaningless and oppressive. She felt like she was watching a play about her own impending sentence.

She sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes once again lowered to the pattern on the rug. Inside, the quiet, resilient girl was screaming. She was drowning in a sea of expectations and comparisons, her own dreams feeling like childish fantasies in the face of this stark, practical planning for her future.

The relatives stayed for another hour, but Rooh didn’t hear another word. She was lost in the echo of a slap and the sound of a father’s proud voice, two sounds that defined the painful paradox of her existence. She remained on her stool, a silent, graceful statue in a loose blue kurta, her kohl-rimmed eyes seeing nothing but the vast, empty landscape of a future she had never chosen.

The dinner table was a landscape of quiet sounds. The soft clink of stainless steel against ceramic, the gentle slurp of dal, the low hum of the television news from the other room. Rooh moved her food around her plate, her appetite stolen by the afternoon’s conversation. The words paraya dhan and sanskari still echoed in her mind, a dull, throbbing ache behind her temples. She felt the weight of her grandmother’s gaze, her father’s indifference, and the future they were so casually mapping out for her without her consent.

Her phone, lying face-up on the table beside her plate, shattered the silence. It vibrated with a loud, cheerful ringtone, the screen blazing with Ridhi’s name and a silly, smiling photo of them both.

The reaction was instantaneous and brutal.

Her father’s head snapped up from his food, his brows furrowed into a deep scowl. “Kon hai iss waqt call kar raha hai?” he demanded, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. (Who is calling at this time?)

He had seen the name. He had seen the picture. Yet, the question was a formality before the reprimand.

Before Rooh could even form a reply, he continued, his tone dripping with disapproval. “Kisika bhi phone raat ko aath baje ke baad nahi aana chahiye. Koi tameez nahi hai kya?” (No one’s phone should ring after 8 PM. Don’t they have any manners?)

Rooh’s heart began to pound. She felt like a child caught in a misdeed. “Pappa…” she started, her voice soft, pleading for understanding. “Kuch kaam hoga usse, isliye call kiya hoga.” (Papa, she must have some work, that’s why she must have called.)

Her father’s eyes, cold and dismissive, locked onto hers. The words he spoke next were not shouted, but they landed with the force of a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs.

“Tum bharose ke layak nahi ho.”

(You are not worthy of trust.)

The world narrowed to that single, devastating sentence. The clinking of utensils faded. The news anchor’s voice became a distant murmur. The food on her plate blurred. Bharose ke layak nahi. Wasn't she even worth of trust now? She knew she had made mistakes in the past—a missed chore, a less-than-perfect exam score, the remembered sting of the slapped cheek—but did that mean she would be forever branded? That her every action would be viewed through the lens of those past failures? That she would be perpetually taunted, her character permanently suspect?

The pain was so acute, so humiliating, it was a hot, sharp sting behind her eyes. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t sit there for another second under his judgmental gaze, under the silent, complicit silence of her mother and grandmother.

Without a word, she pushed her chair back. The legs scraped against the floor with a harsh sound. She stood up, her movements stiff, and walked quickly to the kitchen sink. She washed her hands, the cold water doing nothing to cool the hot shame and hurt coursing through her. She didn’t look back. She just kept walking, down the short hall, and into the sanctuary of her room, closing the door with a soft, final click.

The moment she was alone, the dam broke. She collapsed onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow to muffle the sound of her sobs. Why was everything so cruel? Why was her existence a constant audition for a love and trust that were given so freely to others? Why did every interaction with her father leave her feeling smaller, more worthless? She cried for the party she couldn’t attend, for the father who didn’t trust her, for the future that felt like a prison sentence. She cried until her head ached and her throat was raw.

Her phone, still on the dining table, began to ring again. The sound was muffled through the door, a persistent, cheerful intrusion into her misery. Part of her wanted to ignore it, to let the world outside forget her. But it was Ridhi. Her one tether.

Taking a few shuddering breaths, she wiped her face with the back of her hand, steeling herself. She walked back out, her eyes downcast, avoiding the stares from the table. She picked up the still-ringing phone and retreated back to her room.

“Hello?” she said, her voice carefully steadied, though a slight huskiness remained.

“Rooh! Tumne pucha? Party ka?” Ridhi’s voice was a burst of eager energy, a stark contrast to the heaviness in Rooh’s room. (Rooh! Did you ask? About the party?)

Rooh closed her eyes, leaning against the door. “Meine pucha…,” she whispered. “Permission nahi milli.” (I asked… I didn’t get permission.)

“Arrey, kyun? Kya bola?” (Why? What did they say?)

“Raat bohot ho jayegi, isliye.” (It will get very late, that’s why.) Rooh’s explanation was feeble, even to her own ears.

“Arey, cab kar lenge na! Hum log milke book karenge. I’ll come pick you up myself!” Ridhi protested, her tone full of practical solutions that existed in her world, but not in Rooh’s.

A fresh wave of pain washed over Rooh. “Tumhe pata hai na, Ridhi…” she said, her voice dropping even lower. “Mein zyada zid karungi toh mujhe hi daat denge. Pappa ne abhi hi…” She trailed off, unable to repeat her father’s crushing words. (You know, Ridhi… if I insist too much, they’ll just scold me. Papa just now…)

The line was quiet for a moment. Ridhi’s sigh was heavy with understanding and shared frustration. “Haan. Yeh bhi hai. Chhoddo, phir. Nahi jaana.” (Yeah. That’s also true. Forget it, then. We won’t go.)

There was a waver in Ridhi’s voice. It wasn’t just disappointment for Rooh; it was her own disappointment too.

Rooh felt a pang of guilt. “Ridhi, tum jao. Simran hogi na waha pe?” (Ridhi, you go. Simran will be there, right?)

“Nahi…” Ridhi admitted. “Waise, meri mummy ne bhi naa hi bola tha. I was only going to go if you were coming. Aur waise bhi,” she added, her tone shifting to a defensive scoff, “waha pe sab show-off ke liye hi aate hain. Same boring people, same boring music. It’s not a big deal.”

Rooh knew she was lying to make her feel better. It was a big deal. It was a chance to feel normal, to be young and careless, if only for one night.

“Hmmm,” Rooh murmured, the sound thick with unshed tears. “Koi nah.” (It's okay.)

“Koi nah,” Ridhi echoed, her voice softening. “Waise bhi, yeh last year hai. Internship ke liye portfolio ready ho gaya hai tumhara?” (It's okay. Anyway, this is our last year. Is your portfolio ready for internships?)

The change of subject was a lifeline. It was a shift from the world that confined her to the world where she had agency. Rooh took a deep, shaky breath, grounding herself in the familiar territory of her passion.

“Almost,” Rooh said, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. She looked over at her desk, at the neat piles of sketches and fabric swatches. “I’ve finished the mood boards for the sustainable collection. And I’ve digitized the six best patterns. I just need to compile the lookbook now.”

For design students like them, the portfolio was everything. It was more important than final exam scores. It was their passport to a future. They would spend the coming months desperately applying for internships at design houses, export companies, and with established designers. A good internship could lead to a job, a way out, a chance to build a life on their own terms.

They would carefully select their best work—technical flats of their garments, detailed illustrations, photographs of any physical garments they’d managed to create, concept stories—and bind it all into a beautiful, professional portfolio. Every stitch, every sketch, every chosen fabric told a story of their talent and vision. It was a painstaking, stressful process, but for Rooh, it was also a sanctuary.

“Wow, you’re already so ahead!” Ridhi said, genuine admiration in her voice. “I’m still struggling with my tech packs. The one for the asymmetric lehenga is giving me nightmares. The pattern grading is all wrong.”

For the next twenty minutes, they talked. They talked about darts and pleats, about French seams and bias cuts, about the merits of organic cotton versus bamboo silk. They dissected the latest collection of a famous Indian designer, their critique sharp and knowledgeable. They dreamed aloud about the kind of studios they wanted to work in, the mentors they hoped to find.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, the hurt from the dinner table began to recede, soothed by the balm of shared dreams and creative language. In this world, with Ridhi, she wasn’t bharose ke layak nahi. She was Rooh, the talented designer. She was seen. She was understood.

When they finally hung up, the room was quieter, but the silence was no longer oppressive. It was just silence. The tears had dried on her cheeks. She looked at her closed door, beyond which her family continued their life, largely unconcerned with the storm that had just passed inside her.

She picked up her sketchbook, running her fingers over its cover. Her father’s words still stung, a deep bruise on her soul. But alongside that pain now lay a resolve, hard and clear. Her worth would not be defined by his trust or lack thereof.

It would be defined by the patterns she created, the fabrics she chose, the silent, powerful language of her art. She opened the book to a blank page, her fingers reaching for a pencil. The point touched the paper, and she began to draw, her movements slow and sure, creating a world where she was finally, undeniably, in control.