That night, after dinner and a quick glance at her notes, Bani closed her room door and turned off the overhead light. Only the soft glow of her bedside lamp remained, casting golden warmth across the floor.
She reached down slowly and picked up the black open-toe sandals waiting beside her bed.
No packaging. No brand tag.
Just hers — summoned silently from a world that didn't know what she could do.
She slipped them on, one foot at a time, the cool leather hugging her ankles like a quiet promise.
Then, barefoot no more, she stepped toward the full-length mirror.
Her reflection blinked back at her — black leggings, oversized kurti, hair tied up carelessly. Nothing remarkable.
But the heels changed something.
They lifted her posture, straightened her back. Her neck lengthened. Her chin tilted upward almost instinctively. Even in the simplest of clothes, the energy around her shifted — subtle, but real.
She stood there for a long moment.
Eyes on her reflection.
Feet firmly grounded.
Mind wrapped in a silk that hadn't touched her skin yet — but would soon.
In her vision, the black kurti faded into a crisp white shirt. The leggings softened into flowing blackpants. Across her shoulder: the glowing sheen of silk, deep maroon with golden zari, catching light that wasn't even in the room.
The Kundan choker sparkled faintly at her neck. The kada hugged her wrist. She could almost hear the music from the rehearsal room. Could almost see the applause that hadn't happened yet.
Bani arrived early that day.
She walked in wearing her usual flat sandals, soft-soled and silent, her black heels tucked carefully inside her tote bag. The rehearsal classroom was already buzzing — chairs pushed back, a Bluetooth speaker humming with lo-fi beats, and juniors stretching or chatting in corners.
Fusion Theme Week was on full swing, but no one was in costume yet. Today was all about walking.
After the warm-up, Bani quietly slipped off her flats and reached into her bag. The black open-toe stilettos emerged — elegant, striking, and slightly intimidating under the classroom lights.
She fastened the ankle straps and took her place in line.
Her first few steps were stiff. Unsteady.
The heel wobbled. Her body tensed. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead — determined, but clearly struggling.
> "Relax your knees!" a voice called gently from the corner.
It was Isha, a third-year with a graceful walk and sharp eyes. She walked over, holding Bani's elbow to steady her.
> "Don't walk on the heels. Walk with them. Use your hips. Like this—"
She guided Bani's shoulders, showed her how to shift her weight naturally. Another senior stood a few steps ahead, clapping rhythmically to set the beat.
All around the room, similar scenes played out — seniors helping juniors. Some held hands to balance, others used the wall as support. A few giggled nervously when they stumbled, but the atmosphere was warm. Encouraging.
Bani kept going.
Walk.
Pause.
Turn.
Walk back.
Her pace was slow, her ankles aching by the hour's end. She didn't say much. But by the time the practice wrapped, she was barely able to walk back to her seat. Her legs trembled as she unbuckled the heels.
She sat on a bench, massaging her calves in silence.
That's when Ananya walked over and handed her a bottle of water.
> "You did better than yesterday," she smiled.
"Just needs muscle memory. Everyone starts shaky."
Another senior added,
> "Practice at home. Even ten minutes a day helps. Walk from your kitchen to your room. Mirror helps too."
Bani nodded — tired, sore, but quietly grateful.
She tucked the heels back into her bag as if they were something sacred — not just shoes, but part of the version of her she was becoming.
And that night, she stood in her room again, placing the heels on the floor.
Ready to walk.
Again.
It had started as a quiet, focused practice session in Bani's shared room. She had slipped into her copied black stilettos and stood in front of the mirror, determined to perfect her walk for the upcoming fusion-themed event.
But soon, it turned into a full-family affair.
Her younger brother wandered in first, curious about the clicking sounds of her heels on the floor. He watched for a few minutes, then ran out and returned with her elder cousin brother Harsha, who came in holding a paperback book.
> "Come on," Harsha said with a teasing grin, "time for real training. Let's balance this on your head."
Before she could argue, he gently placed the book on her head.
> "Now walk. Straight spine. No dropping!"
At the same time, her elder cousin Vani joined in — graceful and full of tips.
> "You're walking fine," Vani said, adjusting Bani's shoulder slightly. "But your expression? Too blank. Let's work on that. Look proud. Confident. Like you belong on that stage."
Vani guided her through basic poses — one hand on the waist, a soft smile, head turned slightly — helping her feel both elegant and natural.
Soon, their quiet practice had turned into a lively home runway.
In the hall outside, the elders had gathered, watching the scene with full fun. Her mother, aunt, and uncle peeked in now and then, amused and entertained.
> "These kids," her uncle chuckled. "Even rehearsal has become a performance!"
Laughter echoed down the hallway as Harsha tried to model with a book on his own head — and failed dramatically. The younger brother clapped like an audience. Vani pretended to judge poses like a fashion show panelist.
Bani, amidst all the teasing and guidance, was improving without even realizing it.
She felt supported, encouraged, and even a little proud.
That night, she didn't just rehearse — she created a warm memory, one filled with giggles, love, and a little sparkle of confidence.
By the time Bani walked into the rehearsal classroom on Day Three, something had shifted.
Her posture was a little straighter. Her walk, though still a bit cautious, had rhythm. The black stilettos clicked with purpose as she crossed the makeshift runway — not flawless, but far better than before.
The seniors noticed.
> "Looking more confident today," Ananya smiled, clapping softly.
"See? A little home practice works wonders."
Bani nodded shyly. The advice from her cousin Vani — to own the walk and let her face speak — echoed in her mind. She tried to channel it as she moved, imagining her shared room turning into a spotlighted ramp.
The classroom still buzzed with casual chaos: juniors chattering, seniors fixing speaker wires, someone practicing a solo dance in a corner. But inside all that, each group was slowly becoming a team.
Her fusion outfit — the Mysore silk saree, white shirt, and black pant — was still tucked safely in her wardrobe at home. But now, when she practiced, she could visualize it on herself. She had begun to embody it.
Toward the end of the day, a senior called out:
> "We'll do a full costume run by Friday. Be ready."
Bani felt a flutter in her stomach. She wasn't fully ready yet, but she was getting there.
And for the first time, she believed she could actually pull it off.