Yet, even as she dreamed, she knew not all that glittered was gold. Many villagers had whispered about the life that lay beyond the hills—the markets of distant towns, the grandeur of cities where people dressed in fine clothes and lived without worry. Some spoke of roads lined with merchants and craftsmen, of taverns filled with laughter and music, of rivers so wide they seemed to swallow the horizon. Young men and women alike shared these tales, often in hushed tones, their eyes sparkling with longing or envy.
Asoka had believed some of these rumors herself, allowing her imagination to stretch beyond the boundaries of her life. She pictured herself walking past stone houses with painted shutters, hearing languages she did not know, tasting food she had never imagined, and moving freely in ways that were impossible within the confines of her village.
These daydreams kept her hands moving when her muscles ached, and they sustained her through the long evenings when loneliness pressed upon her chest.
But the stories carried shadows as well as light. There were whispers of villagers who had ventured beyond the countryside, never to return, disappearing without a trace at certain times of the year. Travelers spoke of bandits along the roads, of sudden illnesses in towns far from home, and of strict authorities who would arrest strangers without question. Some said that the forested paths were treacherous, that bridges sometimes gave way under heavy loads, and that harsh winters could trap even the strongest travelers in the snow for days.
The most unsettling rumors involved people who left during a particular season—the harvest's end, when supplies were carried to distant markets. Those who departed during that time were rarely seen again. A few families mourned children or relatives who vanished, their fates never fully explained. Villagers spoke of these losses quietly, as though the mere mention of them could draw misfortune, and mothers warned daughters not to wander beyond the hills, nor to chase dreams that seemed too bright.
Even knowing all this, Asoka felt the pull of the unknown. The thought of leaving, of stepping into a wider world, filled her with equal parts fear and determination. If she worked harder, if she saved every coin and learned every skill her father had taught her while he was alive, perhaps she could be ready for the day when she might travel safely, avoiding the mistakes of those who had vanished before her. The rumors, rather than deterring her, became part of the tapestry of her ambition—dark threads that reminded her that freedom required caution, resilience, and patience.
She had spent years learning to balance ambition with prudence. Every day in the shop and fields, she reminded herself that labor was her shield, and knowledge her safeguard. She could not rely on luck or naïve optimism; the world beyond the hills was neither gentle nor forgiving. Still, in the quiet moments, she allowed herself to imagine the wide roads and distant villages, the scent of faraway markets, and the feeling of movement unbound by hearth or family expectations. These thoughts were her sustenance, fueling her long hours of toil and giving her a quiet, burning hope that someday, she might step beyond the edges of the countryside and claim a life that belonged entirely to her. Working day and night was what life had offered her.
Even as an orphan, survival did not come easily. In a place like hers, the loss of family diminished a person's worth almost instantly, and hardship followed without mercy. For women, the consequences were far worse. An orphaned woman of marriageable age was considered unprotected, and therefore available. Some were handed off to elderly men under the guise of guardianship; others were sold to distant towns and foreign lands for labor, or for purposes spoken of only in whispers.
That was why Asoka kept herself within the walls of her home and had learnt to mind her business, careful and unseen. Whatever hardships she endured now, they were preferable to those horrors. Safety, she believed, lay in silence and obedience.
She had once witnessed such a fate firsthand. A girl had been taken from her own home because her father could not repay his debts. The gossip that followed claimed he had gambled away their livelihood, and so the creditors seized his daughter instead. The girl's elder brother, once her father's apprentice, had been working diligently in the shop at the time. Not long after, he left alone for the country to further his education.
She only saw, and that was enough to add uneasiness to any woman's heart. The girl had been taken against her father's will, dragged from her home while neighbors looked on quietly, saying nothing. After that day, no one knew where she had gone, and only rumors passed from mouth to mouth. The father had cried and pleased with one of the elders to Mercy him and help him bring back his daughter, but all that fell on deaf ears.
Some said she had been sent to a distant town, others that she had been sold to a man in the city, but no one could say for certain. The uncertainty itself was enough to settle over the village like a shadow.
Life continued as it always had because after all, there was nothing they could do, the thought of the country was one thing, the journey through the forest was another, that was why some people had assumed that whatever had happened, was by the will of the higher being.
The settlement went about its work, the church bells rang at regular hours, and people tended their fields as if nothing had happened. Yet underneath the ordinary rhythms, Asoka noticed how easily a woman could vanish, and how little anyone questioned it. Force was accepted as a part of life, and authority—whether from men, creditors, or elders—was rarely questioned.
From an early age, she had learned that protection was measured by male relatives or wealth, and that women without it were left to the world's whims.
In her own life, she had taken care to remain unseen, to keep her routines simple and her speech measured, knowing that obedience was safer than defiance, and silence often worth more than words. Even then, the memory of what she had seen lingered, quietly shaping the careful life she had built for herself.