The next morning was like any other.
Bus horns, idli steam, the sound of slippers dragging along corridors. Bani got dressed for college in her usual way—this time a pastel peach kurta with a charcoal grey dupatta. Neat, modest, comfortable.
She left the house without ceremony. Vani had already gone ahead for her B.Com class, and her father simply nodded as he adjusted his sandal straps near the gate.
No drama. No big send-off.
But inside Bani's bag, next to her college notebooks, was the cream envelope with the studio's details and a small bottle of face mist her mother had silently placed next to her breakfast plate.
---
College passed in a blur. English literature, then environmental science, then a surprise quiz in sociology. She participated less than usual, her mind drifting between timelines and thoughts.
After college, she ate a quick aloo bun from the bakery near the bus stand and headed toward the studio.
---
This time, someone greeted her by name.
> "Bani, welcome back."
It was the receptionist, smiling, clipboard in hand. "You'll be in Orientation Hall today. No exercises. Just briefing."
She was led into a sunlit room with frosted glass walls and soft grey carpeting. There were about twelve other students there, all seated in a loose circle. Most of them looked nervous, unsure. A couple wore kajal and bold lipstick. One boy had dyed silver hair.
Nobody said much.
Then Rhea walked in—calm, confident, clipboard under her arm.
> "Good afternoon," she began. "You've all been selected not because you look a certain way, but because someone noticed something real in you—posture, presence, quiet strength. Our job is not to make you into something else. It's to help you discover how to carry who you already are."
She went on to explain the training structure:
Week 1–2: Posture, body language, and walking basics
Week 3–4: Voice control, articulation, presence in conversation
Week 5–6: Dressing with intention, understanding light, fabric, and camera
Week 7–8: Facing the lens – confidence for interviews, photoshoots, and stage
Final week: A practical showcase, not for fame—but for self-assurance.
> "This isn't a modelling ramp," Rhea said plainly. "This is a mirror. A place to see what you're made of. If you're here to impress the world, you're in the wrong room. If you're here to learn how not to shrink in a room—you'll do fine."
Bani felt a strange stillness settle inside her. Not excitement. Not fear. Just a quiet readiness.
When they broke for tea, a girl sitting next to her leaned over and asked, "First time?"
> "Yes," Bani said softly. "You?"
> "Me too," the girl smiled. "Let's survive this together?"
Bani smiled back. "Deal."
The morning came with drizzle.
That soft, clingy kind—the kind that doesn't soak your clothes but settles into them. Bani wrapped her charcoal grey dupatta tighter and ducked under her umbrella as she walked to the bus stop. No Vani today—her cousin had a half-day seminar and was already gone.
She reached college just as the bell rang. English literature class was about The Guide by R.K. Narayan, and Bani usually had a lot to say about Rosie. But today, she barely spoke. Her professor glanced at her twice, but didn't ask.
By lunch, her mind was already elsewhere.
---
At the studio, the atmosphere had shifted.
No more soft welcome or orientation circle.
They were now trainees.
The same group filed into a larger, dimly lit room with smooth wooden floors and a wall of mirrors. A different woman stood waiting—tall, with silver jhumkas and cotton trousers, her salt-and-pepper hair tied in a bun.
> "I'm Tara," she said. "We'll begin with how you stand."
Not how you walk. Not how you pose. Just stand.
It sounded simple until they tried it.
> "Don't try to look confident," Tara said. "Confidence isn't a look. It's a spine that doesn't fold."
She asked them to take off their shoes. One by one, she made them stand in front of the mirror. No adjusting clothes. No sucking in stomachs. Just… stand.
The silence in the room felt thick.
When Bani's turn came, she stepped forward slowly.
Feet slightly apart. Arms at her sides.
The mirror showed her everything she didn't want to see—shoulders too rounded, neck slightly forward, eyes that dropped every few seconds.
Tara walked around her once. Then again.
Finally, she touched Bani's back—firm, right between the shoulder blades.
> "Lift here. Now roll your shoulders back. Gently. Don't force it. Feel the space your body wants to take."
Bani obeyed. Something shifted. It wasn't dramatic, but she suddenly felt taller—not just in height. In presence.
The correction stayed in her muscles even after she stepped away.
---
They spent the next hour learning how to walk across the room—not like models, but like people who belong in a room.
Tara made them walk forward, then backward. Slowly. With awareness. "Feel the floor. Don't float. Don't stomp. Don't apologise."
It was harder than any exam Bani had taken.
---
During break, Bani sat with Meghna again on the edge of a windowsill. They shared a packet of orange cream biscuits Meghna had in her bag, one biscuit each.
> "My back hurts," Meghna whispered.
> "Same," Bani replied.
Then they grinned.
There was something quietly bonding about being uncomfortable in the same way.
---
Back home, her father was on the phone with someone from the electricity board. Her mother was wiping down the kitchen counter. The TV in the background was playing a rerun of Sa Re Ga Ma Pa.
Nothing had changed.
And yet Bani felt different.
When she passed the mirror in the hallway, she stopped and looked. Not to fix her dupatta. Not to check her face.
Just to see.
She adjusted her shoulders, remembered Tara's words.
She didn't look bold.
But she looked there.
---
That night, she wrote in her notebook before bed. A page she didn't intend to show anyone.
> Day 1: I don't know if I belong yet. But I didn't disappear today. That's something.
She closed the book. Turned off the light.
And lay very still, breathing softly, her spine straight against the mattress.