I come from a village where dreams don't die-they just wait quietly.
Not because people lack hope, but because most people are too busy surviving to name it hope.
In my village, very few people studied beyond the basics. Books were respected, but distance was feared. Education felt like something meant for other people— people who didn't need their children's hands in the fields, people who could afford to let their kids grow slowly.
I was five years old when my life stopped being slow.
At that age, my world was small but complete. Morning meant sunlight slipping through the cracks of our house. Evenings meant dust on my feet and my mother's voice calling me home. I didn't know what fear really was. I didn't know what separation meant.
Then one day, my clothes were folded carefully and put into a small bag. Everyone spoke softly, like they were afraid their words might break something. Someone said, "Hostel bhej rahe hain, padhai ke liye."
I nodded because everyone else nodded. I smiled because everyone else smiled.
I didn't know that learning sometimes costs more than it gives.
I was five. Five is too young to understand distance. Too young to understand why your mother hugs you longer than usual. Too young to know that some doors, once closed, echo forever.
When the hostel gate shut behind me, it didn't just close on a place. It closed on a childhood.
The first night was the longest night of my life.
The room was full of older boys— their voices louder than my thoughts, their confidence heavier than my body. They laughed freely, like the world belonged to them.
I sat on my bed with my legs hanging in the air, holding my bag close to my chest. It was the only familiar thing I had.
Someone asked my name. Before I could say it properly, they repeated it wrong. They laughed. That laughter stayed with me longer than my name did.
I missed my mother—not her advice, not her scolding. Just the sound of her presence. The comfort of being known without having to explain myself.
In the hostel, nobody knew me. And nobody cared to.
That night, I cried without making a sound. I learned very quickly that crying loudly was dangerous.
Ragging doesn't always arrive with violence. Sometimes it comes disguised as rules.
They made me stand in corners for no reason. They took my food and told me I'd eat later— later that never really came. They laughed when I asked questions, and punished me when I didn't understand their jokes.
Once, after lights were turned off, they locked me in the bathroom. I remember counting the tiles on the wall just to keep my mind from breaking.
I pressed my hands against my ears, trying not to hear my own breathing. I was afraid that even my breath might annoy someone.
I didn't scream. I didn't cry.
I learned something important that night: silence keeps you alive.
My heart beat so fast it scared me. Then, suddenly, it slowed— like it had decided to disappear for a moment.
That silence between heartbeats… that's where I learned how to exist.
School didn't save me.
Teachers saw registers, not fear. They saw marks, not shaking hands. When I spoke slowly, they called me weak. When I stayed quiet, they called me dull.
No one asked why I avoided eye contact. No one noticed how my hands trembled when someone raised their voice.
How do you explain fear to people who go home every evening? How do you explain loneliness to people who have never been alone?
So I stopped trying.
I started talking to myself instead. Inside my head. That place felt safer than anywhere else.
Years passed, but the weight stayed.
The village turned into a memory I visited only in dreams. The hostel became routine. Pain became normal.
People say childhood shapes you. Mine didn't shape me— it carved me.
I grew up early, but not strong. Just careful.
Always watching. Always listening. Always prepared for something to go wrong.
I learned how to disappear in crowds. How to smile without meaning it. How to say "I'm fine" convincingly.
Even now, loud laughter makes me uncomfortable. Sudden touches freeze my body. Closed doors tighten my chest.
And silence— silence feels familiar. Like an old room I never really left.
Tonight, I'm alone again.
Different city. Different room. Same ceiling.
Outside, traffic moves like life has somewhere important to be. Inside, I sit on the edge of my bed, holding my phone without unlocking it.
A message appears from my mother: "Theek ho na?"
I type "Haan." Then erase it. Then type it again.
Some habits never leave you. Like lying softly so no one worries.
I put the phone down and stare at the wall. My heartbeat slows. For a moment, everything becomes quiet.
That silence again. The one I learned to live with.
But tonight, it feels different.
It doesn't feel empty. It feels heavy— like it's holding something back.
Maybe it's holding memories. Maybe it's holding words I never said. Maybe it's waiting for me to finally speak.
For the first time in a long while, I don't want to disappear into silence.
I don't know what tomorrow brings. I don't know who I'll become.
But tonight, as I sit with the space between my heartbeats, I feel something unfamiliar.
Not hope. Not courage.
Just the quiet decision to not stay silent forever.
End of Chapter 1