By Divya Dhoundiyal
He was big, tall, and strong—
Oh, so STRONG!
No one could defeat him.
All I wished was to be wrong.
I was 8, and the world already felt grim—
Was that too early to lose the light within?
“No, not this one, I want green.”
My mother’s favorite dupatta.
I was 10, turning them into sarees,
Just to be her—so still, like a dream.
Then he would enter, and the walls turned cold,
A darkness on bright summer days would unfold.
I dared to speak, with my fear at its peak,
But nothing changed—only tears on my cheek.
Her scream, and her cry.
I was 12, just wanting to stop her pain,
Trying hard to hold back the flood again.
But watery eyes, so weak,
Betrayed the strength I tried to keep.
How to stop the tears?
I googled again and again.
Was there really no escape?
Why no answer ever came?
Oh, those brown eyes
That barely held a dream—
Only a longing to feel safe,
In a home far from serene.
At 15, I realized:
A little girl might never win.
So, I folded the dupattas,
Shifted to loose shirts with broad hems.
Well—a child in adults’ shoes
Makes the feet shrink.
But I fought.
I fought the fear and the silence,
Fought the hopelessness—
And made things change.
She told me once, she liked to travel.
I held my mother’s hand, and we traveled the distance.
She told me once, she wanted to write.
I held her hand, and she wrote her first lines.
She never told me,
But I know what she was denied.
So now I am 25,
With some keys in my hand.
“No, not this one—wear the green instead.”
My mother draped me in her favorite saree,
And we entered
The house of our dream.