A girl is painting with spray colors on a long building wall. Her drawing is mesmerizing, her hands covered in colors like a rainbow. Unlike her hands, her face is emotionless, fully focused on her art. She doesn’t even blink until she finishes the entire wall.

  An old man approaches, looking at the wall and then at her painting.

  Old Man: Thanks, dear, for painting my wall so beautifully. Your work is really great, and yet you don’t even ask for much.

  Girl: (She nods, then pauses) My pleasure. My work is done.

  Old Man: Yeah, please wash up. I’ll get your payment.

  She goes inside the building. An old woman sitting in a chair in the hall smiles at her.

  Old Woman: Did you finish your work?

  Girl: Yes. (She heads to the washroom to clean up. The old man comes back.)

  Old Man: Where is she? Did she leave already?

  Old Woman: She’s in the washroom.

  Old Man: Ah, I just forgot.

  Old Woman: You always forget everything. Did you bring her payment or not?

  Old Man: Of course, I brought it. How could I forget? She did such a beautiful painting for our statue shop. You should see it.

  Old Woman: Really? She’s such a sweet, quiet girl. I should take a look. Let’s go.

  The girl comes out of the washroom, takes her bag, and checks her phone.

  Old Woman: Oh, I forgot to tell you, your phone was ringing. You should check it.

  Girl: Thank you for letting me know.

  She checks her phone and sees four missed calls from her mother and two from her father.

  Why did they call so aggressively? Did they find out? Of course, they did.

  She exhales and relaxes her shoulders, just as the old man calls her.

  Old Man: Here is your payment, and thank you again.

  Girl: (Taking the money) I think you gave me too much by mistake.

  Old Man: I gave it on purpose. It’s a gift for your beautiful painting. Take it, you deserve it.

  Girl: Thank you.

  (Inside, she thinks: Although my face doesn’t show it, I’m really happy. At least this old couple sees the worth of my art. My parents never did. Most parents don’t.)

  She gets lost in her thoughts but is suddenly interrupted by a loud crash. The old man is pushing the old woman in a wheelchair down the ramp, but they nearly fall. The girl quickly runs over to help.

  Girl: Let me take her, don’t worry.

  Old Woman: (Angrily) You always drop me! She’s done with her work and will leave soon. What will you do when she’s not here to help you?

  Old Man: (Laughs awkwardly) Sorry, I’ll take care of it from now on. Thanks again, dear. You’re a sweet girl. I wish you all the best for your future.

  The girl takes the old woman outside in her wheelchair, and the old man follows them with slow steps. As they are going, the old woman asks the girl to come closer and then tells her in a teasing manner:

  Old Woman: “You always stay in your own world. I never see you smile. Maybe there’s someone in your world who makes you smile in your thoughts, and that’s why the pleasures of the outside world can’t make you smile.”

  She doesn’t understand it immediately, but later, as she stands up, the words echo in her mind. Her heart begins to beat a little faster, and her breathing quickens. She grips her bag a little tighter before forcing herself to relax, pushing away the thought.

  “There are other problems to deal with.”

  Just then, the old man arrives, and she steps aside to leave. The old woman smiles at her again after looking at her painting.

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  Girl: (Bows her head) Goodbye. Take care of yourselves.

  She walks out to the street, puts in her earphones, and starts her music playlist.

  Each song makes her heart beat faster, so she changes her playlist to bolder music.

  Inside (thoughts):

  Let’s take a look at my situation. I rejected the university admission letter my parents got for me and applied as an intern at an art institute in London. I know they’ll kill me when I go home. What’s the worst that can happen? Maybe they’ll try to arrange my marriage like they always do, and I’ll reject it with an intense argument, as always. Maybe they’ll torture me emotionally. But I can handle that too. It’s not even the worst thing I can’t manage.

  She goes home. As she steps inside, she sees her angry parents. Her father is sitting on the sofa, and her mother, who was watching TV at the dining table, turns her face sharply toward her.

  Inside: Let the battle begin.

  Her mother mutes the TV. Her father, who was relaxing, stretches, crosses his arms, and stares at her. She places her bag on the table and quietly sits on the sofa.

  Her mother comes near the sofa beside her father, and the scolding begins about rejecting the application—unaware of the London institute.

  But today, she is no longer the quiet girl they’re used to seeing. She defends herself.

  Mother: “What else do you want to do? You want to get married? Fine, we’ll arrange it.”

  Girl: (exhales in annoyance) “It will cost more than a million. You could buy a new house with that, and it would at least be worth something.”

  Father: “So what do you want to do? Where do you want us to waste our money and time now?”

  Girl: “I’m not asking for your money. I just need some time.”

  Mother: “What are you trying to say?”

  Girl: “I need time to figure out what I want to do next.”

  She gets up and leaves, but her parents keep scolding her.

  Mother: “Everyone is talking bad about us—neighbors, relatives. They all say we spoiled you by bringing you to the city.”

  Girl: (shouting from the hallway) “They also said Dad would become rich if he invested in their business. Did that work?”

  Father: “We should have left you in the village.”

  She sighs.

  Inside: They should have. At least I’d stay away from the hope that I could be an artist.

  Her hope is slipping. She’s been waiting for a week for a response from the London institute, but nothing. It’s not the first time either; she’s applied many times before. She feels her hope draining but shakes her head, pushing away the negative thoughts.

  It’s okay. What’s the worst that can happen if they reject me? Maybe I’ll be sent back to the village, or I’ll refuse and find a job. Or I’ll save money painting walls and start my own studio.

  She exhales and lies on her bed.

  Inside: I shouldn’t forget how I got here, and why no one else is in my place. I’ve won every drawing competition I entered. This is just happening because I’m in a bad environment—and my parents too. We’ve been in the city for two years since Dad’s transfer, but people’s mindset doesn’t change with the place. They just let themselves get influenced by others, and nothing changes. My whole life has been a disaster, always forced to follow others’ rules, never able to follow my own.

  My mother, who taught me how to draw, now discourages me. She raised me to be an emotionless robot who obeys others, but I couldn’t do that. There’s something inside me—anger I got from Dad—that won’t let me follow someone else’s path. They don’t accept me, even though I carry their qualities. I’ve spent so long switching myself off in front of others that I nearly lost who I am, and that’s why my art feels dull, sometimes even depressed. Until I felt that—

  She’s lost in thought when there’s a knock on the door.

  Mother: “Open the door.”

  Girl: Still not over? Don’t they get tired?

  She opens the door and sees her mother standing there, phone in hand, staring at her with even more anger.

  Girl (inside): What’s with that look? Who’s on the phone?

  Mother: “An unknown number asking about you. Who is it? I didn’t expect this from you. I always thought you were a little rebel, but who is this? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Girl (thinking, shocked): What? Really? I don’t even have a single friend. Every friend I made lasted only until the final exam. The only friend I have is a childhood friend—a girl—now we’re just online friends, she’s in the village, and I’m stuck in this city. Why am I even overthinking? I have no secrets. Wait—oh no, could it be him? But how? We don’t even know each other that well. How would he get my number? We only met a few times…

  Mother: “What happened to your sharp mouth now, huh? Who is this boy? Is he the reason you rejected the application? Fine, tell us about him, so we can finally get rid of you.”

  Mahi (taking the phone with shaking hands, voice cracking): “H-hello? Who is this?”

  Her thoughts shattered, her face shifting from fear to flat shock.

  The call was from the London art institution where she had applied.

  Mahi: “Yes, I’m Mahi.”

  (She answers, her mother staring at her, confused.)

  Mahi (inside): I always panic, thinking unknown calls are him. Thank God, it’s not. (She sighs softly.)

  She talks on the phone for a few minutes, turning away from her mother’s constant questions.

  Mother (annoyed, turning to Father): “Who’s that on the phone? Some boy she’s hiding from us?”

  Father: “She never tells me anything. She’s your daughter.”

  After the call, Mahi comes back, a slight glow of hope on her face. Her parents give her a questioning look.

  Father: “Did they actually select you?”

  Mahi nods.

  Mother: “And how much will they pay you?”

  Mahi: “One lakh per month.”

  They exchange shocked looks, pride flickering in their eyes before doubt returns.

  Mother: “What if it’s a scam? Or human trafficking?”

  Mahi: “Lots of students from our college and others apply there, and I got selected from ours. It’s not a fraud.”

  Inside: Or maybe it is. I don’t trust others easily, but… (she says aloud) “I can’t measure the water without stepping into the pool.”

  Father: “No need to measure anything. We don’t have that kind of money to send you, and how will you live there?”

  Mahi: “I’ve saved enough from my part-time jobs for the ticket and initial stay.”

  Father: “So you’ve really made up your mind to go?”

  (She nods.)

  “If you’ve already decided, then what was all the fake discussion for? Just go.”

  Her phone rings—her college drawing teacher calling to congratulate her.

  Mahi: “Can you talk to Dad?”

  She hands the phone to her father. After a few moments of serious talk, his face softens from anger to reluctant happiness, and he nods in agreement.

  Mahi (inside): Of course, parents trust strangers more than their own children.

  They allow her to go to London. Earning this acceptance feels harder than getting into the institute.

  A few days later, the day arrives. Her parents and teacher see her off at the airport. As the flight takes off, her parents are tense but hold a hidden pride, already planning how they will tell relatives about Mahi’s “international achievement.”

  Calls start coming from relatives, each with different questions.

  Father (on call): “Arrey, don’t worry. She’s a smart girl. She’ll take care of herself.”

  Mother: “No, no, you don’t know her. She’s never even looked at boys, not in the village, not in the city. She doesn’t get involved in these things.”

  Relative: “But you said there will be boys in that house too, and big city boys are very flirty.”

  Mother: “Don’t you worry about her.”

  (What the relatives never really do anyway. They’re just provoking her, like relatives always do, throwing jealousy-wrapped questions while pretending to care. Her mother keeps talking, answering each of their petty questions, trying to sound confident while hiding her worry.)

  On the other side, Mahi thinks about what her mother told her:

  “You’re the honor of our house. Don’t lose it. Be careful. Anything could happen in big cities.”

  The words echo in Mahi’s mind, tightening something inside her chest.

  Mahi (thinking on the plane):

  Let’s predict the worst. Maybe the plane crashes, and I don’t even reach there. I don’t care; it would be better than this half-alive life. If it’s a scam, they’ll take my money—but I won’t let that happen. If they’re traffickers, they’ll sell me or kill me. Fine. Whatever happens, I’ll handle it.

  After the plane lands, she calls her parents to inform them she has arrived safely. Suddenly, her phone buzzes with dozens of notifications.

  A new WhatsApp group: “London Art Interns.” Message after message floods in:

  “Congrats!”

  “Welcome, everyone!”

  “See you soon!”

  As she scrolls, her fingers freeze when she sees a name pop up:

  Ian: “Welcome! Congrats, you finally made it. I’m coming to get you.”

  It’s as

  if the words were written just for her.

  Her heart pounds like a drum, faster than she has ever felt, as she turns around—and hears the voice she never expected to hear, yet always secretly wished to.

  Ian (smiling): “Found you.”