So here I am, in a completely different state, in a city that's entirely new to me. The streets buzz with life, strangers rush past, and everything feels unfamiliar. Every corner seems alive with its own stories, every honk of a car or shout of a street vendor adds to a rhythm I haven't learned yet. I still remember the long, tiring journey that brought me here—the overcrowded buses where people's shoulders brushed mine, the endless roads stretching like ribbons under the blazing sun, and the small moments of doubt that crept into my mind, whispering, "Are you doing the right thing? Will you even survive here?"
But somehow, I kept moving, one step at a time, reminding myself that I had survived small towns, strict teachers, and countless silent rejections. And now, standing in the middle of this unknown city, I can't help but wonder: is this just another ordinary day in my already average life, or is this the beginning of something that will finally break the monotony? The air smells different here, carries a mix of unfamiliar spices, diesel fumes, and the faint hint of rain that makes everything glisten. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to steady my racing heart, feeling the strange thrill that perhaps, just perhaps, life is about to change.
Looking back, my story began in a small, dusty village near Nagpur, Maharashtra. Life there was simple, predictable, and yet somehow confining. I was just a little girl, studying in 6th standard, chubby and energetic, curious about everything around me. I could dance, sing, run, jump, play sports, and even manage schoolwork quite well. Back then, I believed I was perfect. I thought I was unstoppable, untouchable, the heroine of my own little life.
Even my birth had its own funny story. My father had secretly hoped for a boy, as many parents did in our village. When he came to see me at the hospital, he jokingly asked in Marathi, "Ali ka ma bai?" ("Has a girl arrived?"). And as if to answer him, I let out a loud, determined, tiny scream of "Hooo!"—my very first reply to the world, as if saying, I'm here, and I'm not backing down.
Those early years felt almost magical. Every little achievement, every small applause, made me feel like I could conquer the world. I danced for neighbors, sang at school events, ran faster than most boys in the village, and aced my exams. But slowly, the reality of life crept in. No matter how much I tried, there was always someone faster, smarter, or more talented. And that's when I first felt it—the heavy, invisible weight of being "average in everything," a subtle curse that would follow me for years, quietly shadowing every step I took.