The air in the narrow lanes of the old city didn't just carry oxygen; it carried the heavy, intoxicating scent of crushed herbs, dried vetiver, and burning camphor. This was the scent of the House of pansari's, a family whose name was etched into the very stones of the marketplace. For generations, they were the masters of Ayurveda and the gatekeepers of Pooja Samagri—the sacred materials required to bridge the gap between the mortal and the divine.
In the heart of this sprawling, ancestral haveli, Lakshu was born.
Her arrival was heralded by the blowing of conch shells and the distribution of sweets. In a joint family where the walls had ears and the corridors stretched like labyrinths, a new child was a new hope.
The family hierarchy was clear and rigid. At the top was her eldest uncle, Surinder, the first-born brother who commanded the household with an iron gaze. Then there was Lakshu's own father, Parshotam, a man of gentle wisdom and deep kindness. Finally, there was the youngest of the three, the "Third Number" brother, Sameer Chacha. He was the energetic heartbeat of the house, always ready with a joke or a sweetmeat hidden in his pocket.
On the surface, the celebration of Lakshu's birth was seamless. The family was a fortress—solid, traditional, and prosperous.
But every fortress has its cracks.
The Gilded Cage
As Lakshu grew, the vastness of the joint family home became her entire world. It was a place of high ceilings and cool marble floors, where the rhythmic sound of a mortar and pestle grinding herbs acted as a constant lullaby.
She wasn't alone, yet she was solitary. Her eldest sister was a staggering 17 years her senior—more of a second mother figure than a playmate. While her sister navigated the world of adulthood and responsibilities, Lakshu was left to find her own fun in the shadows of the courtyard.
She was a "bright" child, the kind who could memorize a Sanskrit shloka after hearing it once, but she possessed a silence that worried her mother. While other children in the neighborhood screamed and wrestled in the dust, Lakshu watched from the balcony, her small fingers gripping the iron railings.
> "She is like the Brahma Kamal," her father, Parshotam, would often say, lifting her onto the wooden counter of his shop. "She blooms in the quiet, away from the sun."
>
The shop, a famous Pansari (herbalist) establishment, was Lakshu's sanctuary. Here, surrounded by drawers filled with dried rose petals, sticks of cinnamon, and jars of gold-flecked ash, she felt safe. Her bond with her father was the anchor of her soul. Parshotam taught her the difference between genuine saffron and the dyed imitations, and in return, she gave him the only smiles she truly felt.
The Crocodiles in Silk
To the outside world, the pansari family was the epitome of grace. But within the walls of the haveli, Lakshu began to notice things. The way an aunt's smile never reached her eyes. The way certain cousins would "accidentally" break her toys when the elders weren't looking.
They were crocodiles in swan's clothing.
They spoke in honeyed tones about "family honor" and "tradition," but beneath the silk sarees and the gold chains lay a cold, calculating envy. They saw Lakshu's intelligence and Parshotam's doting affection as a threat to the internal power dynamics. They didn't use fists; they used whispers.
"Such a quiet girl," they would titter during afternoon tea, glancing toward Surinder to see his reaction. "Is she slow? Or just arrogant?"
These whispers acted like a slow-acting poison on Lakshu's confidence. By the time she was enrolled in the National High School—a local institution just a stone's throw from their house—the walls around her heart had turned into a fortress.
The Girl Who Lost Her Voice
School was supposed to be a beginning, but for Lakshu, it felt like an interrogation.
She was a brilliant student. Her notebooks were works of art, her handwriting precise and elegant. But the moment a teacher called her name, the world would tilt. Her throat would constrict as if she had swallowed a handful of dry sand.
"L... L... Lakshu," she would stammer, her face turning a deep crimson.
The "National High School" was not the prestigious academy its name suggested. It was a chaotic melting pot where the children were rough and the teachers were overworked. The boys were loud, the girls were cliquey, and Lakshu was the "Pansari's Daughter"—the girl who lived in the big house but couldn't speak a single sentence without trembling.
She became a ghost in the hallway. She never talked to the girls who gossiped about films, nor the boys who played cricket with bundled-up rags. She was an island of silence in a sea of noise.
Then came Naman.
The Wine Merchant's Son
Naman was everything Lakshu was not. He was the son of a wealthy wine shop owner—a business that was the polar opposite of the "pure" Ayurvedic trade of Lakshu's family. While Lakshu's world smelled of incense, Naman's world was one of sharp glass, cold currency, and the gritty reality of the commerce.
His family was rich, and Naman carried himself with a bold confidence that was entirely unimpressed by the social hierarchies of the school.
While other boys tried to tease Lakshu to see her cry, or get close to her out of a twisted sense of curiosity, Naman simply sat next to her. He didn't demand she speak. He didn't laugh when she stuttered.
For four years, from the first grade to the fourth, they were an odd pair. The silent daughter of the herbalist and the boisterous son of the merchant. Naman was the only one who saw through her "flexing"—a defense mechanism Lakshu had developed. To hide her nervousness, she would occasionally boast about her family's riches or the rare items in their shop. It was a child's way of saying, "I am important, even if I am scared."
Naman would just grin, kick a stone, and say, "Sure, Lakshu. But can your herbs make you run faster than me?"
The Exodus to Convent School
By the time they reached the 5th grade, the environment at National High School had soured. The bullying was becoming blatant, and the academic standards were slipping. Parshotam, sensing his daughter's increasing withdrawal and the "bad element" of the local kids, made a decision.
Naman's father had already decided to move him to the Convent School—the elite institution on the other side of town where the "big people" sent their children.
Seeing their only remaining link to a social life leaving, and wanting a better future for their bright but fragile daughter, Lakshu's parents followed suit.
As the gates of the National High School closed behind her for the last time, Lakshu felt a flicker of hope. She was leaving the crocodiles behind—or so she thought. She was moving to a place of uniforms, discipline, and English-speaking elites.
She was 10 years old, moving into a bigger world with a heavier heart. She had Parshotam's love, Naman's friendship, and a backpack full of notebooks. But as she stepped into the halls of the Convent School, she realized that a change of address doesn't change the soul.
She was still the girl who couldn't say her own name. And in the shadows of the prestigious Convent School, new crocodiles were waiting—crocodiles with better manners and much sharper teeth.