The garden behind the university campus was quiet that afternoon, shaded by old trees and patches of golden sunlight. Ishika sat cross-legged on the grass with her lunchbox open, half-listening to the chatter of her classmates. Laughter came in waves. Jokes passed around like candy. But as always, Ishika remained an island within a sea of voices.
It wasn't loneliness. It was simply… her way.
She picked at her lunch slowly — home-packed, simple — and her gaze drifted toward the school building behind the college walls. Children, just released from classes, ran out in loose lines — backpacks bouncing, shoes kicking up dust. Some clung to parents' hands. Others dashed ahead to waiting rickshaws. Their freedom was loud. Unfiltered. Alive.
And just like that, her mind slipped through time.
Back to Jejuri.Back to where it all began.
She had grown up in that small temple town — known not just for its narrow lanes and warm skies, but for the sacred Khandoba Temple, where Lord Shiva was worshipped in His fierce, warrior form. The chants, the bells, the scent of turmeric in the wind — it was all part of her childhood. Sacred and ordinary, all at once.
Her family was middle class, the kind where nothing was wasted and everything was earned. Her mother and father were quiet fighters. Her younger brother, curious and bright-eyed, had always been by her side.
At first, she and her brother hadn't gone to the same school.
Money was tight.
So she studied in a Marathi-medium government school — a place with kind teachers but limited resources. Her brother, however, was admitted to Vishwa Nirmala Vidya Mandir, an English-medium school in town that promised something different. It was the first school in Jejuri built on international standards, founded by a kind, soft-spoken Canadian principal who had left his homeland to teach children here — blending Indian roots with global vision.
Ishika had never complained about being in a different school. She learned fast, even without English. She read. She topped her class. She made friends. But quietly… she wanted more.
Her mother noticed.
And so began the silent war.
Her parents wanted both their children to study together in the English school — to give them equal opportunity, despite their modest income. But they stood alone in that dream.
Her grandparents refused support.And worst of all, her father's eldest sister — the loudest voice in the family — was against it.
"Why should a girl need English education?" she had scoffed."She'll just pick up bad habits. We've seen it before. Girls get spoiled. Stay in Marathi school. It's enough."
But her mother didn't back down.Her father didn't fold.
They worked harder.
Her father took extra work repairing machines, sometimes traveling far for day-wage jobs. Her mother took up tailoring, sewing until her fingers hurt, often late into the night.
And after a year of sacrifice — they made it happen.
Ishika and her brother were both enrolled in Vishwa Nirmala Vidya Mandir.
The school was unlike anything she had known. English-speaking students. Teachers with global teaching methods. A principal who spoke softly but taught with vision. Seniors and juniors learned together, helped one another. It wasn't just education — it was a community.
And there, in third standard, she met someone who would leave a quiet mark on her memory.
Suryakant.
Her first male friend outside of her brother. A senior student, several years older, who volunteered to teach computers to the juniors. He was the principal's youngest son — disciplined, humble, always respectful. He never laughed when she struggled with English. He simply showed her again. Slowly. Patiently.
He taught her how to type her name. How to paint using the computer mouse. How to save her file — like saving a part of herself on screen.
To a quiet girl from a struggling home, that meant the world.
She never said much. He never asked for more.It was not friendship in the usual sense — but it was enough.Safe. Steady. Kind.
But good things don't last forever.
Even then, Ishika had a strange instinct — that happiness often came with an expiration date. That life would eventually ask for a price.
And sure enough, the winds began to shift.
Back in the present, the children had vanished. The school gate was closed again. Ishika blinked, her fingers still resting on her lunchbox, half-empty.
A classmate nudged her, asking if she was finished. She nodded, quietly.
But inside, she was somewhere else. Back in her old classroom. Back in the prayer assemblies. Back in a time when all she wanted was a chance.
And now, she was here — older, tougher, quieter — carrying not just her dreams, but the weight of all those who believed in her.
Maybe that's why she still whispered her thoughts to Shiva.Because He had seen it all. Even when no one else had.