Arohi's POV
The morning light crept in through the half-drawn curtain, soft and hesitant, like it wasn't sure it belonged here yet. I lay still for a moment, listening to the hum of the ceiling fan and the distant clang of buckets in the corridor. The hostel was waking up—slowly, noisily, imperfectly.
I sat up and reached for my notebook, the one with the frayed spine and my father's handwriting on the first page:
"Study not to escape, but to build."
He'd written it the night before I left home. His fingers were stained with ink from the press, and he'd looked at me like I was already halfway to becoming someone else. Not better. Just braver.
My mother had packed my bag with quiet precision—extra safety pins, a small pouch of haldi, a stitched handkerchief with my initials. She didn't say much, but her eyes lingered on me like she was memorizing my face for the days she'd miss me most.
And my younger brother—he'd slipped a crumpled note into my wallet.
"Don't let anyone make you feel small. You're the smartest person I know."
I hadn't read it until last night. I cried quietly, facing the wall.
I got out of bed and padded to the sink with my towel, brushing my teeth while watching my reflection settle into itself.
No kajal today. Just moisturizer and a touch of lip balm. I didn't want to look polished. I wanted to look awake.
I studied my face for a moment—not out of vanity, but curiosity.
My skin was a warm brown, uneven in places where stress had left its mark. My cheekbones were sharp, inherited from my mother, and my jawline had a quiet defiance to it. My nose was slightly crooked from a childhood fall, and my lips were full but rarely smiled without reason.
My eyes—dark, almond-shaped, and often mistaken for cold—were the part I trusted most. They didn't flatter. They didn't lie. They held things in silence: ambition, ache, memory.
I chose a pale blue kurta with white threadwork—simple, breathable, and clean. I ironed it last night, smoothing every crease like it was a promise. Paired it with white jeans and my mother's jhumkas. Not flashy, but familiar. My braid was looser today. I let a few strands fall. Let myself soften.
Meher was still asleep, curled up like a question mark. I didn't wake her. I liked the quiet. It gave me space to think.
I packed my bag carefully—two pens, one notebook, a water bottle, and the glucose biscuits Meher had given me. I didn't know if I'd need them, but they felt like a small kindness I wanted to carry.
Outside, the corridor buzzed with girls in various states of readiness—some in jeans and hoodies, some in salwar suits, some already laughing like they'd known each other for years. I walked past them with measured steps, my eyes forward, my heart steady.
I wasn't here to impress. I was here to learn.
To honor the ink on my father's hands.
The silence in my mother's eyes.
The crumpled note in my wallet.
And the face in the mirror that had learned to carry all of it.