It was raining that night. The sky rumbled with thunder, and heavy droplets danced on the tin roof of a small home tucked inside a sleepy village. But inside the modest house, there was warmth, laughter, and light. A single lantern flickered beside the bed, casting soft shadows on the walls.
And then, a newborn's cry broke through the stillness.
Jitendra stood outside in the rain, his shirt soaked, yet his face glowing with joy. He cradled a tiny bundle wrapped in old cotton cloth. His mother, Sharmila, ran out with trembling hands and took the baby in her arms. Despite the cold rain, tears of happiness ran down her cheeks.
"It's a girl," the doctor had said softly, placing the child in Jitendra's hands.
That night, the family rejoiced. They had seen too much sorrow.
Before Sarita was born, Jitendra and his wife Shashi had lost two babies — both passed away too soon due to illness and poverty. The grief had left scars. But tonight, as the rain washed the earth clean, it felt like life had given them a second chance.
Jitendra looked at the newborn's tiny face and whispered,
"We'll name her Sarita."
As Sarita grew up, her presence brought life to the home. Her laughter echoed in the walls, her small footsteps followed her father around, and her questions never ended.
Jitendra and Shashi eventually had four children — two boys and two girls — but Sarita held a special place in Jitendra's heart. Maybe it was because she came after a storm of grief. Maybe it was the way she reminded him of hope. But to him, she was his queen.
By the age of seven, Sarita had already shown signs of being different. She was quiet but observant, gentle yet strong. She helped her mother wash utensils, cleaned the floor, and still managed to top her class in the local school.
Then came the year 1985, and with it, a turning point.
Sarita got selected for admission into a well-known government school in the city — something almost unheard of for village girls back then. But there was one condition: skirts were mandatory as part of the uniform.
Sarita hesitated. She had always worn long frocks or salwars. The thought of wearing a skirt outside made her nervous. People in the village judged quickly, especially when it came to girls.
One evening, sitting beside her father, she softly said,
"Papa… I want to go to that school. But… I'll have to wear a skirt."
Jitendra paused. Then he smiled.
Without saying a word, he got up, changed his clothes, and headed straight to the market. He returned two hours later with a neatly folded skirt in a paper bag.
"Try it," he said.
"You look like a queen, Sarita. Let the world see that."
Some relatives were furious. "Girls in skirts? What will people say?"
But Jitendra stood firm. "My daughter will study, wear what she needs to, and live with pride."
Once, during a family gathering, Sarita's younger brother Deepak made fun of her for acting like she was better than the others. In front of everyone, Jitendra looked at him sternly and said,
"One day, Sarita will do something so great that even you'll look up to her."
That day, Sarita felt something inside her — a weight of love, a responsibility, a belief.
Life wasn't perfect. They were poor. Some nights they had only one meal. But when her father was around, Sarita never felt afraid.
Until the day came that shattered that peace.
It was a normal morning. Jitendra was getting ready to leave for some urgent work. His wife packed his food. His mother stood near the door.
"Don't go today," Sharmila said, frowning. "Something doesn't feel right."
"Wait till tomorrow," Shashi pleaded.
Even the neighbor, who had seen him heading out, said, "Today's not a good day to travel. There are some fights going on nearby."
But Jitendra smiled.
"I'll be back by evening. Don't worry."
And he walked away.
Evening came. The sun went down. But he didn't return.
At first, everyone assumed he had stayed with a friend or relative.
But then one day passed.
Then two.
Then three.
Still, no message. No call. No sign of him.
Sarita kept asking, "Why isn't Papa back yet?"
No one had the answer. Even the elders looked helpless.
On the third night, Sarita sat silently at the doorstep. Her books lay open beside her, but she wasn't reading. Her bag hung from the hook, untouched. She watched the street — as if waiting for someone to appear from the fog.
She turned slowly to her mother and whispered,
"Maa... what happened to Dad?"
There was no reply. Only silence.
The kind of silence that stays in the heart and doesn't leave.
The clock ticked.
The door remained closed.
And Sarita kept waiting.
What direction will Sarita's story take now?