The soothing sound of the tabli and the rhythmic jingle of ghungroos filled the school as a group of girls danced gracefully in their practice room.
Dressed in a traditional costume, Shivangi tucked her white dupatta around her waist, moving in perfect harmony with the beats of the tabli and the soft hum of the tanpura. Every step she took was filled with devotion and elegance. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead, and a few stray strands of hair framed her face, enhancing her beauty rather than diminishing it.
Just then, the school bell rang, abruptly breaking the enchanting melody of the ghungroos. Finishing her final move, she lowered herself into a namaskar, expressing gratitude to the earth. As she rose, her gaze drifted toward her friends, Shreya and Medhavi, who stood in one corner, chatting while untying their ghungroos.
She was about to join them when a familiar voice called out.
"Shivangi, I want you to stay after class. The rest of you can leave—it's home time!"
With a quick goodbye to her friends, she waited for the dance room to clear before walking toward her teacher.
"Yes, Miss?" she asked, wiping the sweat from her brow.
"The Intercultural Folk Dance Event is coming up soon," Priya Ma’am said, her tone firm. "Other dance teachers have recommended several students, but I believe you can outperform them all."
Shivangi simply nodded. She already knew where this conversation was going.
"You must understand, this event is important, Shivangi. Schools from all over will be participating. Politicians, ministers, and high-profile businessmen will be in the audience. We need to give our best performance. This isn't just about our school—it’s about your future. Winning could open many doors for you after the 12th. Don’t you dream of becoming a professional dancer?"
Shivangi nodded again. Not that it would have made a difference if she refused—Priya Ma’am had a way of persuading her students into competitions, one way or another.
"Good! I’ll take that as a yes. You’ll be performing a solo Bharatnatyam piece, while the others will do Kathak. Understood?"
"When is the event?" Shivangi asked calmly. If she was being chosen, she might as well give it her best. After all, dance was her passion.
"A week from now," Priya Ma’am replied, scribbling something in her school diary before waving her off. "You can leave now."
Shivangi rolled her eyes—but only once she had stepped out of the room. She wasn’t about to let Priya Ma’am see and risk losing her ‘obedient, good girl’ reputation. As annoying as it could be, that tag had its own perks.
Retrieving her bag from her classroom, she stopped by the washroom to change before heading outside. As she neared the exit, she spotted her friends waiting with their bicycles
"What took you so long?" Medhavi asked as Shivangi settled onto her bicycle. Pushing a few loose strands behind her ear, she quickly tied her hair into a messy bun.
"Nothing much, just about the competition. Priya Ma’am wants me to do a solo performance… in front of thousands of people," she sighed, pedaling forward as the three of them started making their way home.
"Man! The intercultural folk dance event is just a week away. I’m already nervous!" Shreya groaned.
"Right? And if we’re this anxious, imagine the pressure on Shivangi! Priya Ma’am is a perfectionist, and this event—ugh, it just sounds so thrilling! I heard state ministers and CEOs of big companies will be there. Like, woah!" Medhavi exclaimed dramatically, making Shreya laugh.
Shivangi simply shook her head at their theatrics. As they approached the crossroads, she slowed her cycle to a stop and glanced back at them.
"It's fine. I can do this. WE can do this! And trust me, we’re going to kill it, girls!"
They exchanged a high-five, grinning. After a bit more chatter, Shivangi waved them goodbye and pedaled off. She was already running late, and if she stayed out any longer, her father would definitely question her.
Her home wasn’t far, and within minutes, she arrived. As she parked her bicycle, the golden hues of the setting sun bathed her house in a warm glow. The moment she stepped inside, the mouthwatering aroma of spices hit her senses.
"Papa!" she called out, her voice filled with excitement.
A man in his early fifties turned around, his face breaking into a warm smile.
"Aagayi meri beti?" he asked.
Before she could respond, she rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug.
"Haan, Papa!" she mumbled against his chest.
"How was your day, my dear?"
"It was nice, Papa," she replied, looking up at him. No matter how much time passed, to her, he would always be the tallest, handsomest man in the world—not to mention, the best chef.
"Come for dinner soon. I made your favorite meal."
Shivangi was halfway up the stairs when she paused. "What did you make, Papa?" she asked curiously.
"Chole Puri!" he announced with a grin.
Her eyes widened in excitement. "What?! No wonder the house smelled so amazing!" she squealed, immediately rushing back down to plant a kiss on his cheek.
"Thank you so much, Papa! I love you! Just give me a few minutes, I’ll be down soon!" she promised before dashing upstairs.
The moment she entered her room, first thing she did was attack her teddy bear as she hugged it tightly.
The rules were simple: Food was love, and no food meant no love.
Well, almost. Because if she had to rank her greatest loves, food would always come second.
Her first love would always be her parents.
Looking towards the nightstand she found the photo frame of her mother
Shivangi did not have many memories of her mother neither her remains except for this single photo of hers
Her beautiful grey eyes that smiled back at her and a smile crept on her face too
Though not a happy one unlike her mother's in the picture
Chandni was her name.....a beautiful name for a beautiful woman
Sadness lingered in her heart and she suppressed it with a sigh as she whispered softly
" Hope you are doing fine, Ma wherever you are...."
with that, she left for the washroom to take a shower
it had become a daily routine to come meet her mother the first thing after coming from school
Turning on the shower, rain-like droplets of water showered over her as she stood there underneath naked. The lukewarm water calmed her muscles as she bathed in the water
A sigh of relief after a tiring day erupted out of her mouth and somehow she lost herself thinking about her past while leathering herself with soap
She had been only five when her mother was snatched away from her.
That night was etched in her memory—her father returning to her Bua's house, his face stricken with horror. His clothes were drenched in blood, his hands shaking as he recounted how they had been attacked by goons late at night.
He fought, but they had overpowered him.
She remembered hearing words like 'guns' and 'knives' amidst the hushed conversation. A deep wound on his stomach stood as a reminder of that fateful night.
that was also the first time she saw her father cry—uncontrollably, heartbreakingly—for the woman he couldn't save.
She had never seen him so broken in her whole life. That left a deep impacting trauma to himÂ
Amit never reported it to the police in fear of those goons getting back to him and take away the last most precious thing to himÂ
His Daughter, Shivangi
Turning off the shower, she tied a robe around herself, and with a towel, she dried her long lustrous dusky brown hair.
Shivangi was a replica of her mother
Chandni was a divine beauty of her time and so was her daughter
it would be a lie if Shivangi said she didn't get proposals from guys and praises for her beauty regularly
Over the years, plenty of boys from her own class had developed crushes on her. Some were bold enough to confess, some just admired her from afar, and others even tried their luck, hoping for a chance.
But Shivangi had never been interested in dating.
Her focus was elsewhere—on her dreams, her ambitions, and, most importantly, making her father proud.
She longed to see a genuine smile on his face. Because deep down, she knew the truth—every smile of his carried an unseen weight, a sadness he never voiced.
He missed her mother. He still loved her. And he always would.
Shivangi knew this, and while she admired his unwavering love, it pained her to see him trapped in his grief, with no one to share it with.
Sitting by the mirror, she scooped a bit of cold cream onto her fingers, gently massaging it into her skin before applying a layer of watermelon-flavored lip balm. The sweet scent lingered as she reached for her favorite purple hoodie and pajama set.
Hoodies were love. Baggy clothes? Even better.
Not that she disliked dresses that accentuated her feminine side—she had her moments. But there was just something comforting about oversized clothes, something that made them irreplaceable.
With that, she hurried downstairs, eager to enjoy dinner and spend time with her Papa dearest.
**************************************
Shivangi's POV
The night was peaceful, the moon glowing in its full glory as I gazed out the window. A soft breeze rustled the curtains, and I sighed, closing the romance novel I had been reading.
Needing a break, I decided to go downstairs to fetch some water.
As I descended the staircase, a faint glow caught my attention—Papa’s room light was still on.
Curiosity nudged at me. He usually slept early. Was something wrong?
I walked toward his room and gently pushed the door open.
"Papa?" I called softly, seeing him sitting at the edge of the bed, his gaze lost in the darkness outside.
He didn’t react immediately. His expression was distant, deep in thought. For a moment, I hesitated, then climbed onto the bed beside him.
"Kya hua, Papa?" I asked, resting my head on his lap.
He let out a quiet sigh before gently running his fingers through my hair—a familiar, comforting gesture that instantly brought a smile to my face.
"Nothing, dear…" he murmured.
"Papa, you looked deep in thought…"
"It’s nothing. Just office work," he said dismissively, then quickly changed the topic. "How was your day at school? Did anything happen?"
That was one of the things I loved most about my father—he always asked about my day, just like a mother would.
Smiling, I replied, "Not much, Papa. My dance teacher told me about an upcoming intercultural folk dance event. She’s selected me as a candidate."
His face brightened slightly. "That’s wonderful, beta. I’m sure you’ll do well."
I suddenly sat up, looking at him eagerly.
"Papa, you’ll come to watch me, right? Just to see me dance? Pretty please!" I pleaded, making my best puppy-eyed expression.
A smile tugged at his lips as he shook his head at my childish antics.
"Of course, I will, dear."
Satisfied with his answer, I lay back down, resting my head on his lap again. We sat in comfortable silence, letting the quiet of the night surround us.
But curiosity gnawed at me again.
"Papa, Massi once told me that Ma was very passionate about dancing… Is that true?"
I hesitated as I asked, afraid of how he might react. Mentioning Ma always brought a storm of emotions—sadness, guilt, longing.
I glanced up at his face.
This time, though, there was no sadness. No guilt. Just an unreadable coldness.
"Yes, it’s true," he finally said, his voice steady.
I carefully studied his face, searching for emotions, but he remained blank—detached.
"So Papa… how was Ma when she danced?" I asked hesitantly.
Something shifted in his expression. His eyes softened.
And then, for the first time in a long while, he spoke of her—not with pain, but with admiration.
"When she danced, she looked like an angel gracing the earth. An apsara… Every movement of hers was pure magic, every step a blessing upon the ground she walked on. She was… perfection."
His voice carried a wistfulness I had never heard before, and my heart swelled with awe.
"Wow," I breathed, eyes wide. "She must have had so many admirers."
"She did… but not for her dance," Papa murmured, his voice barely audible.
I caught only the first few words before his voice trailed off into an unintelligible mumble.
Frowning slightly, I decided to brush it off and smiled at him instead. "I wish I could become as graceful a dancer as Ma was! Wouldn’t that be amazing, Papa? Don’t you thin—"
"Enough, Shivangi!"
His sudden outburst made me flinch.
I instinctively sat up, my heart pounding. His voice had never sounded so sharp, so commanding.
I looked into his eyes—bloodshot, filled with something I couldn’t decipher. Rage? Fear? Pain?
"W-What? B-But, Papa—" I stammered, confused, trying to understand what had triggered him.
"Enough!" He cut me off again, his tone final, unyielding. "You will never become as perfect a dancer as she was! I won’t let that happen! Not as long as I’m alive!"
His words hit me like a slap.
I stood frozen for a second, staring at him in disbelief.
And then, without another word, I turned and hurried out of his room. My breath was uneven as I rushed down the stairs, my hands trembling slightly as I made my way to my own room in the darkness.
Shutting the door behind me, I leaned against it, my chest rising and falling rapidly.
What just happened?
Papa had never spoken to me like that before.
Why did he react so violently? Why did the mere thought of me becoming like Ma trigger such an extreme response?
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