The scent of ink-stained pages. The gentle scratch of her pen. The rustle of leaves outside her window.
These were the sounds that made Anika feel alive.
She sat on the veranda of her family's small, clay-walled home, knees tucked beneath her as she poured over a thick, worn-out biology textbook, its corners frayed from too much love. The air was still and heavy with the musk of evening earth, but her eyes danced with purpose. Lines of Latin names and anatomical diagrams weren't just ink to her—they were promises. Keys to a future far beyond her dusty village.
"I'll wear a white coat one day," she whispered into the air, as if trying to convince the stars above. "And I'll build a hospital where no girl is turned away for being poor."
For Anika, medicine wasn't just ambition—it was rebellion.
Born in the backward village of Pannavur, where girls were expected to marry early, obey quietly, and dream never, Anika had always been different. From a young age, she memorized schoolbooks with terrifying speed, stunned teachers with her logic, and earned the reputation of a local genius. But it was a title that came with invisible chains.
"Book knowledge won't cook rice," her father would grunt.
"What use is all that studying if you end up in someone else's kitchen anyway?" her mother would sigh.
But Anika didn't want a kitchen. She wanted a laboratory. A stethoscope. A life where her mind meant something.
She still remembered the day the Rajaveeran Medical University results came out. She had walked all the way to the taluk office, her heart pounding like thunder, fingers trembling as the officer scrolled the results on a dusty computer screen.
She had made it.
Ranked 15th statewide. Full scholarship. Capital city.
The sky had never looked so blue. The world had never felt so wide.
She ran home, barefoot through fields and narrow paths, clutching the printout against her chest like a sacred scroll. Her twin brother, Aadhi, spun her around in joy when he saw her tear-streaked face.
"I told you!" he shouted, "I told you you'd make it! You're going to be Dr. Anika!"
The two of them had made secret plans since they were children. He would support her, work jobs if needed. She would become a doctor, then build a clinic for their village. They had made a pact under the old banyan tree years ago: "We'll change the story they wrote for us."
But dreams—especially a girl's dreams—don't last long in places where traditions are sharper than knives.
When Anika placed the university letter on her father's dinner plate that night, the room went silent.
Her father didn't even read it.
He stared at her for a long moment, then crumpled the paper slowly, deliberately, and dropped it into the cooking fire.
The edges caught flame.
The future caught fire.
"No daughter of mine is going to that sinful city," he said.
Anika stared in disbelief. "But Appa… I got in. On merit! Full scholarship! I can become—"
"You'll become a shame to us," her mother interrupted, barely looking up from the rice pot. "No good comes from city girls. They wear jeans and lose all morals. You think we don't know what happens in hostels?"
"But Amma, it's not like that—"
"It is!" her uncle boomed from the next room. "Enough nonsense. You're already seventeen. A good proposal came from the next district. A government job boy. You'll marry in two months."
The room spun.
"No," she said softly.
"What did you say?" her father barked.
"I said no." Her voice was louder this time, stronger. "I don't want to marry now. I want to study."
"You don't get to choose, Anika!" he roared. "We fed you. Raised you. Gave you school. And now you'll give us respect."
"You raised me to be sold off?!"
The slap came before she finished the sentence.
It stung her skin—but what burned worse was the realization that her dreams meant nothing here. Nothing to the people who had rocked her to sleep. Nothing to the walls that heard her whisper those dreams every night.
Aadhi tried to speak up, but was silenced.
That night, she watched the ashes of her admission letter float from the stove. Each piece like a piece of her soul, disintegrating.
Days passed in silence. She refused to eat. Refused to speak. But no one cared. They only talked of wedding saris, auspicious dates, and dowry.
She wanted to run.
But there was nowhere to run to.
The proposal was fixed within a week. Her fiancé was a thin, quiet man in his late twenties. He didn't smile when he met her. He didn't ask her anything. He just nodded once and said, "She's fine."
Like inspecting livestock.
Anika sat still in the corner, watching her dreams die quietly without a fight.
And so, under the scorching sun, with garlands around her neck and tears in her heart, she was married. The temple bell rang, people clapped, and she smiled in photos she'd never look at again.
The dream was over.
Not in a blaze of defiance. But in the quiet, suffocating obedience of a girl who had been told this is what you're meant for.
In a village that feared women who think, the girl who dared to dream had been shackled in silk.
But somewhere, deep in her heart, a flicker remained.