1. Sun Rising
The morning sun had barely risen over the fields of Baani’s village, but the air was already buzzing with excitement. She could hear the voices outside before she even opened her eyes—laughter, chatter, the unmistakable energy of celebration.
As she stepped out of her small house, she was met with smiling faces—friends, neighbors, even the elderly who rarely left their courtyards, gathered to congratulate her.
She hadn’t even reached school yet, hadn’t seen the results herself—but the news had already spread.
Baani, the daughter of a simple farmer, had topped the 10th grade class.
Not just her class, but the entire village—because in this rural corner of Gujarat, there was only one school offering 10th grade.
Though she hadn’t secured an A+, it hardly mattered.
For the people around her, her achievement was a victory for all of them—proof that dreams, ambitions, and the hunger for knowledge weren’t bound by city limits.
Baani’s life unfolded like a quiet yet resolute force within her family—a girl shaped by circumstances that could have weighed her down but instead forged her into something rare and powerful.
She was the youngest of three sisters, born into a family where loss arrived too soon.
Her father’s passing when she was just five months old left an imprint on her life before she even understood its weight.
Raised by her uncle’s family, she became their child as much as she was her mother’s.
But instead of being a delicate daughter sheltered in grief, she grew into a fiercely independent presence—not the gentle farm princess that tradition might have expected, but a sharp-witted, emotionally grounded, and practical soul.
Her uncle relied on her—not just for support, but for decisions that shaped their farm, their family, their survival.
She walked the fields alongside him, understanding the soil, the crops, the patterns of nature better than she did the household chores typically handed to girls.
She never saw herself in the world of kitchen conversations or embroidery gatherings—her world was filled with strategy, resilience, and action.
She was deeply attached to her home, her uncle, her grandparents—so much so that when her older sisters and mother left for vacations to their maternal home, Baani stayed behind.
She couldn’t imagine leaving, couldn’t see herself away from the farm, the land, and the family she had built her identity around.
Her life wasn’t just about belonging—it was about being essential.
Despite her sharp mind and resilient spirit, Baani’s world was small, defined by the people who had protected, nurtured, and guided her since childhood.
She had lived wrapped in warmth, surrounded by family members who saw her as both their strength and their cherished child.
Every decision she made was met with encouragement, every mistake gently corrected with kindness.
So, she assumed the world outside her village would be the same—gentle, forgiving, filled with people who cared just as deeply as her own family did.
But reality was harsher, less predictable.
Beyond the boundaries of her home, not everyone wished her well, not everyone spoke with honesty, and not everyone protected the vulnerable.
The naivety in her heart had kept her safe from bitterness but blind to cruelty.
2. Fear of Unknown
Baani clutched her report card, the weight of her success settling alongside a new, unfamiliar feeling—the fear of leaving home.
She had never stepped beyond the safe embrace of her village, her family, her uncle’s farm. But now, the time had come—to chase knowledge, to carve her future, to step into a world that did not know her yet.
The thought of leaving was shaking her from within, a battle between excitement for advanced studies and nervousness over leaving everything behind.
Yet, she did something bold, something her younger self would have never imagined.
She gathered her courage, turned to her grandfather, and asked him to take her to the county’s school—the same one where her older sisters had studied, the place that held the key to the next chapter of her life.
When she arrived, the sight of the dorm rooms by the gate unsettled her.
So many girls, parents, conversations filled with hope and uncertainty—it was overwhelming, yet thrilling.
She kept repeating it to herself:
“I will like it here. I will study here. I will make my career here.”
She wanted to believe it.
Her grandparents and uncle believed in her, and that was enough to take the step forward.
With shaky hands, she filled out the admission application, sealing her decision, committing herself to a path that would test her resilience in ways she had never faced before.
As she returned to her village, her emotions tangled together—excitement, fear, nervous anticipation.
Everything was about to change.
Baani sat on the edge of her bed that night, staring at the admission papers she had signed just hours ago. The ink was dry, the decision made—but her heart was still racing.
She had always dreamed of studying further, of breaking beyond the limits of her small village, yet the reality of it felt far heavier than she expected.
Excitement fluttered in her chest, fueled by the thought of new opportunities, knowledge, and growth.
But lurking beneath that excitement was a fear she could not ignore—she had never left home before, never been away from the familiar faces who had shaped her world.
Would she find the same warmth elsewhere? Would the dorm feel like home? Would she adjust, succeed, belong?
She wanted to believe she would.
Yet, as she lay back, staring at the wooden ceiling of her childhood home, a lump formed in her throat.
Change was coming. It was bold, unstoppable, and for the first time, she had no one to guide her through it.
3. Departure
Baani’s final morning at home felt different—quieter, heavier, filled with unspoken emotions.
She woke before the sun fully stretched across the sky, her eyes lingering on the familiar walls, tracing every crack and mark that had been part of her life.
The wooden ceiling, the earthy scent of her home, the faint voices of her family stirring—it was all hers. For the last time, before everything changed.
She moved slowly, as if absorbing every detail, committing each moment to memory.
Then, breakfast—the simplest ritual, yet suddenly the most profound.
Her mother had prepared her favorite meal, the flavors warm and familiar, but Baani couldn’t shake the thought—how long would it be before she tasted this again, before she sat at this table surrounded by the comfort of home?
The time had come.
She placed her bags by the door, feeling the weight of more than just belongings.
With her grandfather by her side, she stepped onto the bus bound for the county school—her first step into the unknown, her first goodbye to the only world she had ever known.
Baani’s steps were slow, hesitant, as she carried her bags toward the dormitory. Each step felt heavier than the last, the reality of leaving home settling deep inside her.
Behind her, her grandfather stood frozen, watching her disappear into this new world—his eyes filled with quiet grief.
He had lived this moment once before, years ago, when fate had stolen his son, Baani’s father, from him.
Now, he was losing again, though in a different way.
But this time, he forced himself to accept it.
This wasn’t tragedy—this was life.
Baani had to leave. For her education, for her future, and one day, for her marriage, as custom dictated.
She was destined to depart, just as her father had.
Yet, as he wiped the tears collecting at the corner of his eyes, he silently wished—that this departure would be different, that Baani would return to him, not as loss, but as a success, as fulfillment, as proof that everything they had built for her was worth it.
And Baani, though her heart ached at the sight of her grandfather standing behind, knew that this was a chapter she had to write.
4. Lonely in the Crowd
The moment Baani set down her bags, barely starting to absorb the reality of her new life, a sharp bell rang through the dormitory.
Before she could even react, one of the girls in the room turned to her.
“That’s for lunch. You have five minutes to get to the dining hall—otherwise, no food.”
Baani stared at her, taken aback by the strictness of the system.
Everything was governed by time.
She had lived her entire life in the rhythm of nature, of seasons, of sunrise and sunset. But here, the world moved by the dictates of a clock—a bell that ruled over every moment.
- 5:30 AM wake-up bell
- 6 AM prayers
- 6:30 AM breakfast
- 7 AM school begins
- Hour after hour, scheduled, precise, relentless—until 8:30 PM
The freedom she once had, the ability to live by her own choices, felt distant now.
Would she adjust? Would she thrive under this structure, or would it stifle the spirit that had always driven her?
As she hurried toward the dining hall, her heart raced—not from hunger, but from the realization that this was a world unlike anything she had known.
As Baani stepped out of the dining hall, still adjusting to the rhythm of a world ruled by bells, she spotted a familiar face just outside the campus entrance.
Her distant cousin sister, someone she hadn’t expected to see, had managed to sneak in—a quiet act of support, knowing exactly how lost and overwhelmed Baani would feel on her first day.
Technically, no one was allowed inside except staff and students, but her cousin sister had found a way, bringing lunch for Baani’s uncle, who worked in the administration office. It was a small loophole, but one that allowed her a moment of comfort.
They talked—not about home, not about emotions, but about the things Baani needed to know.
- Where to go during free time
- Which corners of campus felt safest
- How to navigate the routine without feeling trapped
Piece by piece, her cousin sister mapped out the new world for her, and with every word, Baani felt a little lighter.
For the first time that day, she didn’t feel entirely alone.
As the evening settled over the dormitory, Baani had thought she had prepared herself for everything—her bag packed neatly, her nerves steadying for the first day of school. But there was one challenge she hadn’t anticipated in the midst of this new life—her menstruation.
She had only started having her periods last year, and her flow had always been heavy and unpredictable, making it difficult to manage. Back in her rural village, the solution had been simple—washable cloth pads, something she had grown accustomed to. But here, in a structured school setting where everything was dictated by bells and strict routines, managing it was going to be different.
She approached one of the girls, hesitant yet determined, asking about the bathroom rules for sanitary purposes.
The response was blunt, practical, and completely different from what she was used to—“Only one bucket of water is allotted per person. You’ll have to manage within that.”
Baani felt a wave of uncertainty. How could she handle something so personal with such limited resources?
Without hesitating, she hurried to the bathroom, filled her bucket to the brim, and carried it back to her room, placing it carefully under her bed, believing it would serve its purpose in the morning.
She had never had to think so strategically about something as natural as her own body—but this was her new reality, another adjustment in a world that felt both thrilling and overwhelming.
At home, Baani never had to worry about the details—her aunt had always been there, guiding her through every step, from managing her heavy flow to knowing what foods eased the pain.
A warm meal, herbal remedies, and a heating pad pressed gently against her stomach had always been available.
She had never planned for it; never had to strategize the way she was now.
Here, in the dormitory, everything was different.
The care she once took for granted was now her responsibility, and the realization weighed on her.
There was no one to remind her to rest, no comforting presence to bring her extra water or a soft pillow when the cramps became unbearable.
For the first time, she felt the weight of independence, the subtle ache of growing up.
Baani’s first night away from home was restless, filled with quiet uncertainty and the ache of missing everything familiar.
She turned in her bed, trying to find comfort in a space that felt too empty, too foreign. Every sound—the rustling of sheets, the faint whispers from the nearby bed—felt heightened.
At fifteen, she was too naïve to recognize the undercurrents of dorm life, too trusting to assume anything beyond the simple truth she knew—surely, her roommates were just missing their families too, struggling to sleep, just like her.
Story continues in Part-2
