The Brightest Girl

There was a girl in our class when I was at MLN College in Yamunanagar. Bright—that’s the word that fits her best. She had short, curly hair, slender arms, and a face that radiated confidence. Her English was flawless, polished—spoken with the kind of ease that made it clear she came from a different world.

She stood out in our modest, B-grade college like a vivid splash of color in a grey room. It felt like she was meant for bigger places—Delhi, Mumbai, maybe even somewhere abroad.

She talked about books. About her cousins who lived overseas. About her father, a scientist at Indri, who once brought her chocolates from a conference in Holland. She spoke of travel, and books like Conversations with God. There was something rare about her—an awareness, a grace, an intellectual lightness. It wasn’t just confidence; it was character.

She had a younger sister, and a terrible handwriting—so bad that in our first year, she had to get her exam papers re-evaluated. Despite being among the brightest, her marks were dismal simply because her answers were illegible to the university examiners.

I remember her anchoring the seniors’ farewell party—elegant, poised, in complete control of the stage. And in our third year, I finally gathered the courage to befriend her.

One day, she shared something that stayed with me. A cousin of hers had died in Egypt—of Kala Azar, a parasitic disease caused by Leishmania donovani, passed through a mosquito bite. The only son of the family, gone in days. At that time, she was staying with that grieving household. The atmosphere, once warm and lively, had turned cold and suffocating. PMT preparations became impossible. That’s how she, too, landed in Biotechnology.

Like many of us, she once dreamt of becoming a doctor. But it wasn’t her dream alone—it had been planted, repeated, reinforced into her being until she couldn’t imagine wanting anything else. And when that dream shattered, she didn’t feel liberated.

Because borrowed dreams don’t break cleanly. They leave behind sharp fragments—of guilt, of self-doubt, of feeling like a failure. The kind of ache that lingers for years.

Back then, I had two close friends—one from Saharanpur, the other from Modinagar, my roommate. They were warm, generous girls, but very different. Our conversations ranged from gossip to scandal, hostel rumors to future honeymoons. It was in that hostel I first heard the word “lesbian”—something I hadn’t even known existed before.

But that girl—the girl—was a different story altogether.

I still remember the last conversation we had. We were talking about a tall boy in our class—our topper. She admired his curiosity and his childlike enthusiasm, even teasing him gently about the squeaky way he sometimes spoke. She was eating bhujia from a packet that day. I’ve never seen anyone savour bhujia with such relish.

Eventually, as the semester ended, we filled out each other's slam books, said polite goodbyes at the farewell party, and parted ways.

My life took a chaotic turn. I moved away from Biotechnology, fell for someone I shouldn’t have, and found myself trapped in a marriage filled with alcohol, narcissism, and emotional abuse. I was shattered. A shell of who I once was. And I often wondered—what became of everyone else?

Facebook told me some had gone abroad—US, Europe—building shining careers. I searched for her too. But she was nowhere. No one had her number either. She had simply vanished.

Years passed.

One evening, while walking through Galleria Market in Gurgaon with my three-year-old—she had music lessons nearby—I spotted her. A baby in a stroller, a five-year-old daughter skipping beside her, and a kind-looking man—her husband—by her side. A picture of domestic bliss.

We exchanged pleasantries. She told me she was running a business providing saplings to big corporates, along with her mother-in-law. Her parents had also moved to Gurgaon. She was a homemaker now—and said she loved it.

I was stunned. Such a waste, I thought. This brilliant girl—reduced to a homemaker. But as I looked closer, I saw something else: joy. Peace. Contentment. Maybe this was success too. Maybe love and family were the highest forms of it.

Eight years later, I ran into her again—at Cyber Hub. She was with the same man, wearing a coordinated pantsuit, her daughter grown, and that baby in the stroller now a child—clearly special, requiring extra care.

My heart sank a little. This bright, radiant girl—who could’ve been a scientist in the US, who could’ve won awards, led breakthroughs—had walked a very different path.

But then I looked again.

They were walking hand in hand. Together. Not broken, not bitter—but deeply connected. In love. Cherishing what they had. In that moment, I realized: they were successful in a way not many ever are.

As for me—my life had changed too. I had mustered the courage to leave that soul-crushing marriage. There were stumbles and heartbreaks along the way. But eventually, I found someone beautiful—inside and out. And with him, life became simple, warm, and full of light. Because when love is real, every burden feels lighter. Every day, a little more beautiful.

As her family disappeared into the crowd that day, I looked at them one last time.

They weren’t what I had once imagined success to be. But now, I knew better.

They were the most successful people I knew. Because they had built something rare, something divine.

They had built a life full of love.

The Year That Wasn’t

 

 

It was the beginning of 1999. I was brimming with confidence, despite knowing that the previous academic year hadn’t gone well. A lack of proper teachers had left me floundering in Physics and Chemistry. But Biology had always been my strength. I had already given up on Maths—my entire focus was now on cracking the PMT exam with PCB. All hopes were pinned on me.

My father had long dreamt of seeing me become a doctor. My mother shared that dream. They wanted their firstborn to enter a prestigious profession. My mother often said, “If the eldest carves the path, the younger ones are sure to follow.”

I had made up my mind—come what may, I would burn the midnight oil and fulfill their dream.

That day, our textbooks were to be distributed. I remember wearing the blue tracksuit my father had bought for us—there were two, one blue and one purple. Chinu, my younger sister, chose the purple one. We were made to sit cross-legged on the floor as books were handed out—books that were supposed to shape our futures. Books that were supposed to make me a doctor.

Sometimes I wonder how different my life could’ve been if I had done well that year. I could have added so many feathers to my father’s cap. He has always been a good father—not perfect, perhaps—but undeniably a good man. My mother didn’t travel anywhere that year; it was my board year, and she stayed back for me. My father went to the village to visit our grandparents, but she remained by my side.

In an effort to stay fit—my tummy had started bulging a little—I began jogging in the mornings. I’d run four rounds of the large track near our school. After returning, the smell of breakfast would welcome us home. That summer, mango shake was a constant.

But then came the World Cup cricket tournament—a massive distraction. The jingle, “Come on India, jita do, duniya ko dikha do”, was too catchy to ignore. India didn’t even make it to the semifinals, and the disappointment in the air was thick. I was allowed to watch only the India matches.

That was also the year inverters had just started becoming popular. During power cuts, Kelapati Ma’am—the PET teacher—would show up with her husband or her students to watch matches at our house. We didn’t like the intrusion. So we’d lower the TV volume and, whenever they knocked, pretend the inverter battery had died.

Until the end of summer vacation, I still held on to hope. But I didn’t take any private tuitions—and in hindsight, that was a huge mistake. They say wisdom and age don’t always arrive together. If I had taken coaching, maybe I could’ve covered the Class 11 syllabus properly. Maybe I would have built up the confidence I so badly needed. Still, part of me believed that if I failed this year, I’d take a drop year and prepare again.

But that extra year never came.

By July, things started slipping out of my hands. My preparation was falling apart. To cope with the mounting tension, I’d sometimes go to the girls’ hostel just to chat and breathe a little easier.

At home, when I was trying to study, my father would often bring a colleague over to chat. Their loud conversations made it nearly impossible for me to focus. It frustrated me deeply. But Papa was alone too—my mother had taken up a job in another city.

He had bought me stacks of reference books, hoping they would help. But instead of guiding me, the sheer number overwhelmed me. I didn’t know where to begin. I often wonder—if destiny doesn’t back your dreams, can you ever really become the person you want to be, no matter how much you want it?

That famous line from The Secret—about the universe conspiring to fulfill your deepest desires—felt completely false that year. It was a season of broken dreams, crushed hopes, and growing fear.

Thankfully, my maternal grandmother—my Nani—came to stay with us. She sensed the pressure I was under. Every time Papa confidently announced, “She will get through PMT this year,” I felt a little more suffocated. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Nani often scolded Papa, asking him not to create so much pressure on me.

Eventually, one day, I gathered the courage to tell him—I didn’t want to pursue science anymore. It must’ve shattered him. He had nurtured that dream for years. I still remember him trying to teach me Class 12 Biology when I was just in Class 8. He would try to explain Physics too. But he wasn’t a great teacher. And when I zoned out or struggled to follow, he’d lose his temper and slap me. It made learning from him frightening.

As the exam approached, my courage began to fade. When the datesheet was announced, I was sure I would flunk a subject or two. I, who used to stand first in class, now expected failure.

I remember praying to Lord Shiva, begging Him to just let me pass in Physics and Chemistry. I was confident about Hindi, English, and Biology—but the rest felt like cliffs I couldn’t scale.

When the results came, I was at my maternal uncle’s place in Haldwani. I got the news over the phone: I had scored 73%. I hadn’t failed in any subject. I had come third in class.

And yet, it felt like I was swallowed by darkness.

I didn’t even ask who came first. I felt no joy, no pride. Just an emptiness. A quiet, bitter relief that I hadn’t failed. But I knew—I had failed something bigger.

It was a terrible year. A year we had all pinned our hopes on. A year we believed would change everything. A year that could have rewritten the destiny of my entire family. A year that could have made me an achiever, a doctor, someone respected, maybe even wealthy.

But that year didn’t deliver.

It failed.

And with it, something inside me quietly gave way.

The course of my life changed forever.

THE QUIET GOODBYE

The first time Jiya saw Tripti, she was arguing fiercely with a cab driver, demanding he drop her at the doorstep because she was a woman. The driver refused, insisting this was the stop she’d mentioned, and pointed out that other passengers were already running late. Even Jiya was in a hurry.

For a moment, Jiya thought of stepping in—but she let it pass. After a long, exhausting day at work, she had no energy left for another fight. She needed to save whatever strength she had to cook dinner for herself and her husband.

Muttering under her breath about Tripti’s insensitivity, Jiya went home.

A few days later, their paths crossed again. Tripti had shifted closer to Jiya’s neighborhood, and soon they began sharing the same cab route. It didn’t take long for them to strike up a friendship. They would go for evening walks, with Tripti filling Jiya in on all the office politics.

Jiya, by nature, was a patient listener, but gossip was never really her thing. Still, she found herself enjoying the warmth of this new friendship—something she hadn’t felt in years. Being an empath, Jiya quickly grew protective of Tripti.

Tripti confided in her: about her brother’s struggle with a false dowry case, her mother moving in with them while leaving her father behind in Lucknow, and a past, painful relationship with a model whose father was a police officer—a man who ghosted her and left her battling months of near-depression. Now, her family was hunting for a suitable groom. But Tripti didn’t want to marry one of those “boring MBA types” with fat salaries, bulging paunches, and receding hairlines. She longed for love. Her mother, meanwhile, was growing anxious seeing both her children unsettled.

Jiya tried to cheer her up—she bought her a cake and gift on her birthday, introduced her to her husband, and even took her out to the mall for lunch. Her husband arranged for a nice studio photo of Tripti to help with matrimonial matches. Tripti later admitted she was grateful but felt awkward going out with a couple while she was single. Jiya understood and never insisted again.

Jiya, too, opened up about her life—the struggle to conceive, the endless tests and monitoring, and the frustration when her husband wasn’t fully on board. She shared how draining it was when her in-laws visited, their lack of cleanliness turning the house into a mess she couldn’t keep up with.

For a while, everything felt easy between them. They went out for pizzas, poked fun at the so-called “cool” office crowd, and even dreamed of working on a project together.

But then Tripti’s attention shifted. She began making frequent calls during their cab rides—time that had once been filled with their chatter. Jiya learned about the new man in Tripti’s life—the books exchanged, the secret meetings outside the city, the small gifts. Tripti confided only in Jiya about these escapes.

And slowly, Jiya felt a growing emptiness. She was used to being alone—but not to feeling excluded like this. And when Tripti announced she was moving to Mumbai, Jiya sensed it was for this man.

When the day of departure came, they said their goodbyes. But to Jiya’s surprise, she felt no sadness. No ache. Only relief.

At last, the air was quiet—no more tales of struggles or endless gossip about the lover. She treated herself to a solo coffee outing, watching people come and go through the windowpane.

This is life, she thought. People come and go. They lean on you to pour out their pain, seek comfort, and when they find someone else, they move on. So, why get attached?

From then on, Jiya befriended herself again. She dove into great books, rediscovered peace, and felt content in her own company.

Tripti did try to reconnect—sending her wedding card, inviting her, checking in once or twice. But by then, Jiya’s heart had grown stronger. The bond had long been broken. She congratulated Tripti, wished her well, but never reopened the door.

A DAY OUTSIDE THE CAGE

 

Title: A Day Outside the Cage

He met her after many years. His appearance hadn’t changed — small, stout, with a slightly dull complexion. She, on the other hand, had never been considered a great beauty. But before her marriage, she had worked hard on herself, exercised with dedication, and transformed her figure. In that phase of her life, she looked truly stunning.

After marriage, though, she saw most of her dreams wither away, one by one. The only consolation was that she had married the first man she ever loved. Staying strong, fighting for that love, and finally being able to marry him had felt like a victory — and for that, she was happy. But deep down, she knew she had made a mistake. He slept till late, never lifted a finger around the house, left his things scattered everywhere — and she was always the one cleaning up after him. He showed no interest in visiting the places she longed to see.

After much reflection, she realised how caged she felt. Despite working, she couldn’t enjoy life the way she had dreamed of. Weekends that should have been filled with shared adventures were wasted on a man whose only idea of enjoyment was booze, chicken, and endless sleep.

One day, Riya decided enough was enough. She had to take charge of her happiness. All she needed was a friend to explore the world with. She reached out to a few old acquaintances and eventually reconnected with an old admirer — a man who had once wanted her as his girlfriend. Back then, she’d been too blinded by love for the man who now treated her like furniture. So she thought — why not explore new places with this old admirer? She knew her limits and wasn’t about to let anything cross the line.

She could have gone with a woman friend, but making friends had never been her strength. She had hardly any — except one, who wasn’t allowed out on weekends because of a messy relationship with an ex.

That day, Riya and her old admirer decided to visit the Red Fort. She wore black capri pants, a red canvas bag, and her watch. Her hair was styled in a chic bob cut, and she looked charming. When they met, they revived old memories, talked about Nirwan — a common friend — and then headed inside. They wandered through museum after museum, browsed the shops, strolled through the parks, and clicked a few pictures. Later, they went to Dilli Haat, where they savoured fruit beer and chicken momos.

He, a lazy but chivalrous Bengali art director, kept praising her looks throughout the day. He congratulated her on her marriage, asked about her husband, and even joked that if he had the money, he would have married her. In her heart, Riya smiled — as if she would have given him that chance. She didn’t like him — not his lazy ways, his loser attitude, or his laid-back approach to life. But she appreciated the attention.

At Dilli Haat, he bought her a couple of trinkets as souvenirs. When the day wound down, she suggested they call it a day. He offered to drop her off, and she didn’t mind the company. At the metro station, he mentioned he needed to buy soap and shampoo for his mother. She pointed out a nearby mall, and they shopped together briefly before parting ways. He complimented the area she lived in before saying goodbye.

That brief outing made her feel like a rockstar. She felt wonderful — about herself, about life. Where she had once felt trapped in a cage — with a marriage, a job, a house, but no fun — today’s small adventure reminded her that maybe life wasn’t so bad after all.

She returned home to find her husband — freshly awake from his drunken slumber — in the mood to cook chicken. She thought, Why not? And she didn’t tell a soul how lovely that day had felt.