I was lost in a moment of silence, sketching the tangled emotions in my heart onto paper. It was something I did often — not to escape, but to understand what I couldn't put into words. Each line, each shade, reflected a thought I couldn't speak aloud.
Just then — the doorbell rang.
"Rohan, go check! That must be Simmi," my mom called out from the kitchen. "Your dad went to pick her up from college."
"Okay, Mom," I replied, setting down my pencil and walking toward the door.
When I opened it, Simmi stood there — but… alone.
No Dad.
Before I could even process that, Simmi suddenly burst into tears and threw her arms around me, clutching my shirt like she was holding onto the last piece of hope she had left.
Her sobs were shaky, broken, and desperate.
"Simmi? What happened? Where's Dad?" I asked, alarmed, gently pulling her back so I could look at her face. "Don't scare me like this. Tell me… where is he?"
Her voice trembled as she spoke — barely a whisper.
"My dad… he called him," she cried. "My dad called your dad over. He's taking me away, Rohan. He's taking me back to the village. He's going to get me married."
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut.
"What? What are you talking about? Simmi… he's your father. Why would he—?"
"You don't understand, Rohan," she interrupted, stepping back, her hands shaking. "In our village, girls… they don't get to study. They're not allowed to dream. They're married off early. I don't want that. I want to become a singer, Rohan! I want a life… my own life!"
Her voice cracked under the weight of her pain, and my heart shattered.
Without thinking, I shouted, "Mom! Mom, come quickly! Simmi's crying! Uncle called Dad — something's wrong!"
My mom came rushing out, drying her hands with the corner of her dupatta, concern already written across her face. The moment she saw Simmi sobbing, she dropped everything and embraced her, holding her like a frightened child.
"Simmi, what happened, baby? Don't cry," she whispered softly, brushing Simmi's hair back, kissing her forehead. "We'll talk to your mom, okay? I know she'll understand. Please don't cry like this…"
Simmi clung to her, shaking, her cries echoing through the room like the cries of a child in the middle of a storm. It wasn't just sadness. It was fear — a deep, suffocating fear of losing everything she had dared to hope for.
And I stood there, frozen, watching the girl who'd grown up in front of my eyes crumble in pain. My sister, my best friend. The girl who used to sing to me at night when I had nightmares. The one who always believed in me.
Now it was my turn to believe in her.
I didn't know how I was going to fix it.
But I knew one thing for certain.
I would do anything — anything — but I would not let Simmi go back to that village.
I would not let her dreams die before they ever had a chance to live.
Not while I was still breathing.
My mom gently rocked Simmi in her arms, whispering soft reassurances as if trying to quiet not just her sobs, but the storm that had taken over her heart. Simmi's cries slowly softened into shaky breaths, and finally, she clung to Mom like a child clinging to the only sense of safety left.
Once Simmi had calmed down enough, Mom led her to the couch and tucked a shawl around her shoulders. Then, without wasting a second, she reached for her phone and called Dad.
I stood there silently, every muscle in my body tense.
"Hello?" she said, her tone unusually composed — but her face said otherwise.
I couldn't hear what Dad was saying on the other end, but I watched as Mom's expression slowly shifted — from concern to something deeper. Her head nodded slowly, her voice murmured softly, "Haan... haan theek hai." The way she said it — it wasn't casual. It was the kind of "haan" that said something serious was being discussed.
Something big.
Then she said,
"If he wants to come home… then bring him."
My heart skipped a beat.
She ended the call.
"Mom?" I asked immediately, stepping closer. "What did Dad say? Why did Uncle call him? And… who's coming home?"
But instead of answering, she simply looked at me, placing a hand on my shoulder.
"Rohan," she said, her voice calm but firm, "Please, have a little patience. You'll understand everything soon."
I frowned, but I nodded. I knew my mother — and I could see it in her eyes. Something wasn't right.
And so we waited.
Minutes passed.
Then half an hour.
Then an hour.
And then another.
Each ticking second felt like a drop of boiling water on my skin. I kept glancing at the clock, pacing back and forth in the hallway like a lion trapped in a cage. The silence in the house was suffocating — not a word from Simmi, not a sound from Mom.
Finally, unable to take it anymore, I turned to her.
"Mom," I said, frustration slipping into my voice, "how much longer are we going to wait? Please… just tell me what's going on. What did Dad say?"
Mom looked up from her seat, her expression weary and strained. She was holding her hands tightly together, her fingers restless.
"This is a matter between elders, Rohan," she said, her voice suddenly sharp. "Don't interfere in things that are beyond your understanding."
Her words struck me, but I didn't back down.
"No, Mom," I said firmly, my voice louder now. "I don't care whose matter it is. All I know is — whatever decision is made today will decide my sister's future."
I looked her directly in the eye.
"If the decision is what Simmi wants — then it's fine. But if it's something she doesn't want… then I swear to you, I will take my sister far away from here. Somewhere no one can find us."
Mom froze. Her eyes welled up — not with anger, but with something else.
Fear.
Worry.
Love.
I could see it in her face — she cared for Simmi deeply. As much as I did. But she was also caught in the web of family, traditions, and unspoken rules. And now, the pressure of it all was resting heavily on her shoulders.
I stepped back, swallowing the lump in my throat. The air around us was so thick with tension that even breathing felt difficult.
I didn't know who was coming.
I didn't know what conversation had already taken place.
But I knew one thing clearly.
This night… was not just a quiet evening anymore.
It was the turning point.
And the storm?
It was still waiting… just beyond the door.
The sound of the doorbell echoed through the house.
My mother rushed to open the door, wiping her hands anxiously on the edge of her saree. When the door opened, I saw my father standing there… and beside him was Simmi's father—my uncle.
The moment I saw him, my heart tensed up. And without a second thought, I instinctively moved closer to Simmi, placing myself in front of her as if trying to protect her from whatever storm was about to come.
Just then, Simmi's mother—our aunt—entered too.
But instead of the anger or coldness we were expecting, she walked directly to Simmi, pulled her into a tight embrace, and kissed her forehead gently. Her eyes were teary, but her voice was soft, motherly, full of love.
"Simmi," she said, cupping her daughter's face, "listen to your father, baby. Whatever he says… know that he's saying it for your good. Trust him. Please… trust your dad."
Simmi, still unsure, looked at her mother for a long moment. But something in her mother's voice—maybe the tremble, maybe the warmth—melted her resistance. Slowly, she nodded and turned to face her father, ready to hear him out.
Her father stepped forward, his expression no longer stern or angry, but full of quiet pain and deep love.
"Simmi…" he began, his voice calm, almost breaking, "you left us. You came to live with my younger brother… because you wanted to study. Because you had dreams."
He paused.
"You should've come to me, beta. You should've told me. I'm your father. Your Papa. How could you think that I wouldn't want what's best for you? That I wouldn't support you?"
Simmi's eyes welled up, but she didn't speak yet.
Her father continued, "I don't care what the villagers say. I don't care what society thinks. All I care about… is what my daughter wants. If my doll wants to study, if she wants to become a singer, then she will. And she'll do it with her father's support. With my money. With my love. You will not need to hide or run anymore."
Simmi's lips trembled now. Her father took a deep breath and then said something that shocked all of us—in the best way possible.
"That's why," he said, "your mother and I have decided to move. We've bought a house… near your uncle's place. So we can live nearby. So we can support you, be close to you, and make sure you never feel alone again. We want to be part of your dreams."
Hearing those words—spoken with so much humility and unconditional love—I felt something shift inside me.
I turned and looked at Simmi.
Tears ran down her cheeks, but there was a radiant smile beneath them. With trembling hands, she stepped forward and threw her arms around her father.
"Papa…" she whispered, choking back a sob. "I'm sorry. I just didn't know how to say it. I thought… I thought you'd stop me. I thought you'd never understand."
Her father held her tight, gently stroking her hair. "How could I not understand, Simmi? You're my child. And your dreams… they're mine too now."
That moment—standing in our little living room, surrounded by tears and love—something powerful happened.
A broken relationship had been mended.
A wall of silence had been replaced with trust.
And right then, my heart whispered something I would never forget:
Sometimes… we judge our elders too harshly. We think they're trying to control us or take away our freedom. But the truth is… they're just scared for us. They want to protect us. They want our happiness, even if they don't always show it in the way we want. What we need… is to talk to them. To trust them. To give them the chance to stand beside us.
Because most of the time… they already want to.
To be continue....