Bani's family was having dinner at a hotel after a long time.
Her father used to take them regularly to watch a film and then to a hotel—it was a weekly routine during her childhood.
Back then, their go-to menu was always masala dosa and ice cream. But as they all grew up, their tastes changed. Fried rice, noodles, gobi manchurian, naan, and palak paneer slowly became the new favourites on the table.
Today, when her father suddenly told everyone to get ready, Bani got dressed in her usual quiet style—simple jeans and a short kurta, her hair neatly tied back.
They went to a restaurant near Basavanagudi, a place where weekends and holidays meant crowded streets, honking autos, families shopping, and the scent of roasted peanuts and jasmine flowers in the air. The restaurant was no exception—brightly lit, buzzing with conversations, and the soft clatter of steel plates filling every corner.
It had been years since all of them had come out together like this. For a moment, time rewound itself.
Once seated, the family quickly slipped into their old rhythm—light teasing, arguing over dishes, and reliving favorite memories. They ordered their usual spread: naan, palak paneer, fried rice, noodles, gobi manchurian. But this time, Bani added two extra items with a calm smile.
"I'll also have mushroom curry," she said, and then looked toward the dessert section. "And fruit salad with ice cream—for old time's sake."
Her sister looked up with a playful smirk. "Who are you and what have you done with Bani?"
Bani laughed. "People evolve, you know."
---
The food came in waves—rich aromas, steam rising, spoons clinking. The mushroom curry was vibrant and earthy, the paneer silky in its spinach gravy, the naan soft with just the right chew. And when the fruit salad arrived—sweet, chilled, glowing under the restaurant's golden lights—it drew a collective "oooh" from the table.
And quietly, Bani reached out, letting her fingers brush the edge of the naan, then the bowl of palak paneer. No one noticed, not even her father sitting beside her. Just a second's touch was all it took.
In that brief moment, a faint shimmer flickered across her wrist—barely visible to the naked eye—as the items were copied into her internal system bar, her mysterious gift silently at work.
When the mushroom curry came next, Bani served herself a small portion. The taste was warm, spiced just right, unfamiliar but exciting. She touched the side of the copper-bottomed bowl casually. Another flicker. Another copy made.
Finally, the fruit salad with melting vanilla ice cream. As her spoon dipped into it, she brushed the silver rim of the dessert cup. A light hum passed through her fingertips. It was now hers, forever.
It had already been a month since Bani started college. Days had fallen into a quiet rhythm—morning classes, long lectures, quick bites in the canteen, and evenings at home flipping through notes or zoning out on her bed. She hadn't made many friends yet, mostly because she wasn't sure how to fit in.
But something was shifting.
The seniors had started preparing for Fresher's Day—the one event that promised laughter, music, and a break from monotony. What made it even more interesting? This year, seniors and juniors were teaming up for performances. For the first time, Bani wasn't just another new face in the crowd—she was part of the show.
At first, she hesitated. Dance? No. Skit? Maybe. Fashion walk? A definite maybe. A few seniors, already noticing her quiet charm and striking presence, encouraged her. "You've got the look, Bani. Come on, join us!"
The next few evenings were unlike anything Bani had experienced. She was teamed up with Ananya, who had done a few freelance modeling gigs herself. Their walk had a theme: "Desi Fusion"—mixing traditional with modern.
Ananya wore a lehenga with sneakers.
Bani wore a Mysore silk dupatta draped over a tailored white shirt and black palazzos.
Her walk was shy at first, but with guidance, she grew more confident. She started observing posture, lighting, angles—instinctively adjusting, learning.
> "You've got natural presence," Ananya told her one night. "Ever considered doing this seriously?"
Bani smiled but didn't answer. Her dream had always been too big to say out loud.
was warm by noon. Sunlight slid between the window grills and spilled onto the floor that had now become a mock runway.
It was Fusion Theme Week, but the rehearsal vibe was anything but glamorous. Students showed up in jeans, kurtis, oversized T-shirts, and comfy salwars. No one was expected to wear their real costumes — yet.
Bani had been assigned a unique concept:
Mysore silk saree worn over a tailored white shirt and black palazzo pants.
But for now, she practiced in a basic black kurti and leggings, hair tied up, no accessories — just like the rest of the team.
On Day One, she was barefoot at first. Then someone called out:
> "You'll need to start walking in heels to get your posture right."
She blinked. She hadn't brought any.
Ananya handed her a spare pair.
> "Here, try these for now. But tomorrow — bring your own. It'll change how you walk."
The borrowed heels were worn and slightly loose. Bani walked stiffly, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, her balance wobbly. The rhythm of her steps was uneven. Her hands didn't know where to go.
But she didn't complain.
On her way back from practice, Bani took the longer route through the lively chaos of Gandhi Bazaar. The streets bustled with the usual rhythm — honking autos, temple bells, the scent of jasmine, and shopkeepers calling out offers. But she walked through it all with quiet focus.
She was searching for one thing: the right pair of heels.
She stepped in and out of several shops, pausing at the glass displays, her gaze sharp and precise. Whenever a salesperson approached, she gently shook her head.
> "Just here to take a look," she'd say with a polite smile.
She didn't want attention. She wasn't planning to buy anything.
She was here to choose — and to copy.
At last, in a narrow boutique tucked between a saree showroom and a snacks counter, she saw them:
> A pair of elegant black open-toe sandals — thin strap across the toes, another around the ankle, and a tall stiletto heel that curved just right. Minimal. Sophisticated. Confident.
She asked for her size. No questions. No fuss.
Sitting on a low stool, she tried them on. The fit was perfect — snug yet easy, as if they had been made for her. She stood, took a few steps, and looked at herself in the mirror.
> Yes.
At that very moment, a faint shimmer pulsed in her vision — invisible to anyone else. In the top corner of her mind's eye, within the space only she could access, a small shoe icon lit up.
It was done.
She returned the heels carefully, nodded to the shopkeeper, and stepped outside.