~03

By the time I reached home my head was heavy from the noise of the day. My first day of college isn't terrible, no disaster, no cruel comments, just whispers I pretend not to hear.

But even silence exhausts me when I spend the whole time holding myself together so that I don't fall apart in front of strangers.

I slipped off my shoes at the door, when the smell of turmeric and fried cumin greeted me.

Hearing the sound of the door opening, my Mumma, Mrs.Nandini Sharma came out of the kitchen and softly asked me,"Vanya,you're back. How was your first day at college beta?"

Before I can answer, another voice cut through sharp, cold and too familiar, " Huhh, what will be good about it? Everyone must have stared at her like always and no matter how much she studies, no one will ever marry her. People only want beauty now."

Dadi, Mrs. Komal Sharma.

My stomach sinks at her words.

She sits in the living room, wrapped in her shawl even though the evening air is still warm. Her eyes, sharp as knife scan me the way they always do, as if I'm the flaw in the family she can never forgive.

I forced a smile toward mumma, ignoring the sting of dadi's words. "It was fine, mumma. Classes started late, so I mostly sat in the library."

"Library", Dadi scoffs, banging her walking stick against the floor. "Hiding, you mean. Always hiding. What will hiding do? The world will still see what you are."

I want to disappear. My throat tightens at her words, but I say nothing.

Papa, Mr. Rohit Sharma. Looks up from the newspaper he is reading, his gentle eyes narrowing. "Maa, enough. She just came home. Don't start."

"Don't start?", Dadi snaps, glaring at him. " Tumhe lagta hai ye duniya chup rhegi? Kon isse shadi krega? Kon bachaega isse jab log hasenge? Kya future hoga iska?

[You think the world will stay quiet? Who will marry her? Who will save her when people will laugh? What future will she have?]

Her words hit me harder than I want to admit. I know these words by heart. I've heard them a hundred of times. But they still leave cracks.

But before I can crumble, my grandfather, Mr. Jitender Sharma. Speak up, his voice steady. "Vanya will make her own future, Komal. She doesn't need saving. She is brighter than anyone you give her credit for."

His words wrap around me like a shield.

Dadi shakes her head muttering,"You all are blind."

Something burn in my chest. Anger, hurt, shame. I want to shout that I'm more than my skin. But the words stuck like always.

I turned to mumma. "I'll go to my room," I whisper. She nods softly, her eyes apologetic.

I carry my bag upstairs and close the door behind me with more force than I intend.

My room is my safe place. The walls are decorated with the paintings I've made, and on the table lie my pencils and a half-finished sketch.

I sink onto the bed, letting the tears prick my eyes but refusing to let them fall.

Why do Dadi's word always cut so deep? I know I shouldn't care. I know Dadaji and papa believe in me, mumma loves me, but still the poison of her words seeps in.

I was lost in these thoughts when a soft knock sounds on my door. "Vanya", Mumma calls gently, " dinner is ready."

I wipe my eyes quickly even though no tears have fallen. "Coming, mumma."

Downstairs, the dinning table is already set, steel plates, warm chappatis wrapped in a cloth, mix vegetable curry, and a bowl of dal still steaming.

The familiar hum of the ceiling fan fills the room as everyone takes their usual seats.

Dadi sits with her chin lifted, as if the food itself is beneath her. Papa sits quietly, and Dadaji adjusts his glasses, smiling at me as I sit beside him.

Mumma serves everyone, moving with a tired grace. When she place my plate in front of me, she gives my hand a small squeeze, which steadies me.

I tear a piece of chappati and dip it into the curry. The warmth helps.

But peace never lasts long here.

Dadi glance at me with that same disapproval she carries like a second skin. "So, tell us," she says suddenly, her voice dripping with sarcasm,"did your college have any student foolish enough to talk to you?"

Mumma's spoon stops mid air. Papa sighs loudly. Dadaji frowns.

I stare at my plate. "I didn't talk to anyone, Dadi. I just attended classes."

"You see?" She snorts, "She can't even make friends." Her gaze shifts to mumma. "It's all beacause of you. You let stay indoors all day with her drawing nonsense. If she learned some household skills instead-"

"Maa", Papa interrupts sharply. "Enough. Please eat." She ignores him. "A girl should know her place. Books, sketches won't help her run a home. And look at her skin.." Her voice lowers but not enough. "These patches. No boy will ever look at her."

Something inside me twists painfully.

Dadaji set his spoon down with a soft clink. "Enough, Komal," he says firmly, " beauty is not measured by skin. And even if the world fails to see her worth, we won't."

His words settle over the table like a protective blanket.

Dadi mutters something under her breath, but she falls silent.

The rest of the dinner passes quietly, the kind of quiet that feels like walking on cracked glass. But ever so often, Dadaji nudges another piece of chappati onto my plate. Papa asks if my classes were interesting. Mumma keeps checking if I want more.

Their small act of love stich together the parts of me that Dadi's words tear open.

After dinner, I help mumma in the kitchen. She washes the plates while I dry them.

"Don't listen to her, beta," she whispers. "You're enough. Always." I noded, unable to speak.

When I finally return to my room, the house is quiter. The night air slips through my half open window, carrying with it the distant sound of crickets.

I open my sketchbook again. This time, my hand is steadier. Because for all the voices that choose to love me. For the people who believe in the future I'm scared to imagine.

And maybe, believing them is the first step toward making it real.

── .✦