The sun hadn't fully risen yet, but I was already awake. I could hear my mother moving softly in the kitchen, the faint clatter of steel tumblers and the smell of tea drifting under my door. Outside, the fields glistened with dew, the wind carrying the earthy scent of wet soil. I slipped out barefoot, feeling the cool grass under my feet, and took a deep breath, letting the morning wrap around me like a secret.
I was running late, as usual. My notebook bag swung against my hip as I tried to balance three books in one hand and my lunch tiffin in the other. The school gate seemed farther than usual. I tripped once, caught myself on the fence, and muttered an apology to the air. A laugh rang out behind me—my friend had seen it all. I shot her a quick grin and dashed ahead. I could feel my heart thudding in my chest, but I didn't mind. This was normal for me.
Classes were long, but I didn't just sit and scribble. My mind raced as fast as my legs. During history, I tapped my pen along my notebook, thinking about the speech I had to prepare for the cultural day. During breaks, I ran to the volleyball court and practiced a serve, even if my palms were sweaty and dusty. I felt alive when I did everything at once—the laughter, the movement, the focus—it all made my chest tighten with energy.
Sometimes I stumbled. Sometimes people laughed at me. Like last week, I had tripped on the stage during a small debate competition. My heart had jumped into my throat, and for a moment, I wanted to disappear. But then someone grabbed my elbow, steadying me, and I laughed awkwardly. I got up, straightened my notes, and delivered my speech. When my name was called as the winner, I felt more than pride—I felt relief, a sense of being seen, of surviving the moment.
Evenings were different. I would sit on the steps outside my home, notebook open, writing my thoughts in scribbled lines, listening to the village hum. The smell of my mother's cooking floated from the kitchen. My father would return from the fields, his shirt damp with sweat, and pat my head softly. That quiet approval meant more than any words. It said, you're trying, keep going.
College was a storm at first. Streets crowded, buildings tall, voices loud. I got lost in the chaos for a few days, until I realized I could ride it, like balancing on a bicycle through crowded lanes. I joined clubs, rehearsed for stage performances, played volleyball, competed in debates, and somehow, between all of that, I studied. At night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, exhausted, wondering if I was doing enough. Sometimes, I cried quietly. I missed home, missed the simplicity, the smells, the small moments. But I never stayed down long. I reminded myself of my goals, my parents' sacrifices, the fire inside me that refused to dim.
And then came my first job. The email arrived one morning. My hands trembled as I read it aloud to myself. I called home immediately. My mother's voice trembled as she congratulated me, my father's laughter soft and proud. For a few hours, the world seemed to shine a little brighter. I felt invincible, ready for anything.
But life had its own plans. A few months later, I received another email. One line: "We regret to inform you…" I stared at the screen, heart sinking, my room suddenly too quiet, the walls too close. I didn't call my parents that day. How could I? I smiled when I spoke to them later, hiding the storm inside.
Even in that emptiness, I promised myself: I would not give up. I am Sri. I fall, I struggle, I rise. I run, I sing, I compete, I dream. And no matter what happens, I will not stop. This is only the beginning.