Later that night, after dinner had settled and the dishes had been dried and stacked, the house took on its usual rhythm—TV murmuring in the background, Vani upstairs with her books, Bani quietly folding clothes, and the two brothers seated again in the living room.
This time, it wasn't tea in their hands, but Bani's father's phone.
Her uncle leaned in. "Try typing his full name. Rajiv Suresh. Talent scout. Prasad Bidapa Associates."
The phone screen lit up the dim room. The typing was slow—like the mood.
A moment passed. Then, articles began to load.
'Prasad Bidapa's core team continues to shape India's next faces.'
'Talent scout Rajiv Suresh talks about spotting poise in public places.'
'Grooming isn't glamour, it's growth—Rajiv Suresh interview.'
Her uncle clicked one article. A simple interview, from two years ago. Rajiv looked the same. White shirt, no accessories, sitting on a plain bench in Cubbon Park.
> "I don't approach everyone," the article quoted him saying.
"But when I see someone who carries themselves with dignity—whether they're in a mall, a college, or waiting for a bus—I pause. Sometimes, you just know."
Her father didn't react at first. He just scrolled. More articles. A short video. No hype. No viral clips. But he appeared consistently in stories connected to grooming workshops and etiquette sessions. Always as the quiet one behind the scenes.
Then, they came across a short YouTube clip titled:
"How we select: Behind the scenes with Bidapa Associates."
They played it softly. A 3-minute reel showing Rajiv walking alongside young girls and boys in a training studio. Instructors spoke gently. A voiceover explained:
> "Not everyone becomes a model. Not everyone wants to. But every young person deserves the confidence to walk into a room and feel like they belong."
The brothers looked at each other.
> "This isn't a scammer," the uncle said quietly. "If it is… it's a very long, quiet one."
Her father didn't smile, but the doubt in his eyes eased slightly.
He put the phone down, thinking.
The next evening, around 4:15, Bani stepped out of her room wearing a soft, pale blue kurta and neatly ironed jeans. Her braid was tight, her sandals clean. No makeup, just a dab of moisturizer and the faint smell of coconut oil in her hair. Her father stood by the main door, already ready, phone in pocket, expression unreadable. Her uncle joined them from upstairs, adjusting his wristwatch.
No one said much on the way.
Bangalore traffic clattered around them, but inside the car it was quiet. Bani sat in the back, eyes scanning the route. She didn't know what to expect. She didn't even know how to sit—back straight, like in a class? Or relaxed, like this wasn't a big deal?
By 4:35, they pulled into a calm, tree-lined lane near Indiranagar. The building didn't have a huge board or neon signs. Just a modest black plate near the gate that read:
PRASAD BIDAPA ASSOCIATES
Grooming | Image | Identity
Inside, the receptionist stood as they entered—a soft-spoken woman in her 30s with glasses and a welcoming smile. She didn't ask for a form or an ID.
> "Rajiv sir is expecting you," she said.
She led them through a glass corridor that overlooked a courtyard. Inside, a few young people were walking with books on their heads. Others sat in front of mirrors, learning to speak clearly from flashcards.
Bani's father watched everything silently.
Then Rajiv appeared—exactly as he had in the mall. Clean shirt, simple trousers, a calm energy that filled the space without noise.
> "Namaskara," he said, folding his hands briefly. "Thank you for coming."
He didn't offer them bottled water or try to charm them with over-politeness. Instead, he simply invited them to sit on a wooden bench that looked out onto the training hall.
> "You don't need to decide today," he told them. "Just watch. Listen. Ask questions."
The uncle asked about schedules.
The father asked about safety.
Rajiv answered both directly—no defensiveness, no hard sell.
> "This isn't modeling school," he said. "This is personality shaping. We teach how to walk, talk, sit, present oneself. Confidence, posture, clarity. Nothing more."
Then he turned to Bani.
> "You don't have to say yes. You just have to try. The rest will come, or it won't. No pressure."
Bani nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat.
---
The visit lasted an hour. They sat through one session. A girl was asked to introduce herself in Kannada, then again in English. Another was taught how to walk into a room and greet someone with eye contact and a gentle handshake.
It wasn't glamorous.
It was quiet. Deliberate. Serious.
On the way home, her father finally said, "It felt like a classroom. Not a fashion ramp."
Her uncle replied, "She'd be lucky to have this along the college."
No one asked Bani what she thought.
They didn't have to.
Her silence was steady, but her eyes sparkled.
The house was unusually quiet that evening.
Dinner had been simple—akki rotti, chutney, and leftover vegetable saagu. Vani had gone upstairs with her books, and Bani was helping her mother in the kitchen, drying plates without saying much. Her father had washed his hands, wiped his glasses, and sat cross-legged on the living room floor with a cup of hot water in his hand. The TV was off.
His elder brother—Bani's uncle—walked in a few minutes later, in his white cotton lungi and half-sleeved shirt, a manila envelope tucked under his arm. It had printouts from the website they had seen earlier—Prasad Bidapa's grooming studio, articles, news clippings, and a photo of past students.
They sat together in silence for a while.
Then the uncle spoke, "She's quiet. But she watches everything. That age is like that—everything goes inside. We don't see it immediately."
The father nodded, still looking ahead.
> "When Rajiv spoke to her that day in the mall," he said slowly, "she didn't smile. She didn't get excited like some filmi girl. She just stood still. Like she was…listening."
There was a pause.
Then the father added, "This isn't some fashion offer. This is training. How to walk, talk, hold your head up. We don't lose anything by letting her try."
His brother looked at him carefully.
> "If it works, good. If it doesn't, she walks away with her spine a little straighter."
> "Exactly," the father said. "Not everyone needs a career in glamour. But every girl needs the courage to face a room full of strangers."
They sat in silence again. Two men from modest lives, trying to decide something slightly out of their world—but not out of their values.
> "Let her try," the uncle said finally. "What knocks once doesn't knock again."
The father nodded. "And she'll know we believed in her."
---
Later that night, Bani sat cross-legged on her bed, pretending to read a textbook. But her eyes kept drifting toward her bedroom door.
When her father knocked gently and stepped in, she stood up instinctively.
He didn't speak much.
He simply handed her the printed brochure her uncle had brought.
> "If you want to go," he said, "we won't stop you. But don't run behind anything. Walk slowly. Think clearly."
> "Yes, Appa," she whispered.
> "This isn't for becoming famous," he said firmly. "This is for becoming steady. That's what we care about."
> "I know," she said, eyes wet but smiling.
He nodded once, then left the room.