Chapter 1

SUMMARY

Maitri was once a shy village girl who could barely speak to strangers without trembling, yet dreamed of a life bigger than her small world. As she grows up, she moves from Bori to Bharuch, discovers friendship and confidence, builds her career, and eventually falls in love with someone her family cannot accept.

Caught between family, society, dreams, and love, Maitri must make the hardest choice of her life: follow the life chosen for her—or finally choose her own.

“Home is not just the place where we are born; it is the place that quietly shapes who we become.”

Some places never leave us, no matter how far life takes us.

My story began in Bori, a small village in Gujarat. It may have been one of the smallest villages in the area, but to me, it was the biggest and most beautiful place in the world because it was home.

Every morning, the village woke gently. Birds filled the air with their songs, the first rays of sunlight touched the green fields, and a cool breeze carried the fresh scent of soil. The narrow lanes were simple but full of life. People greeted one another by name, children played freely until sunset, and evenings ended with families sitting outside their homes, sharing stories while the sky slowly turned shades of orange and pink.

Life was never rushed.

It moved with the rhythm of nature.

Our home was a simple raw village house, built in a straight traditional style. It wasn’t luxurious, but it never needed to be. Every wall held memories, every corner echoed with laughter, and every season brought a different kind of happiness. Looking back today, I don’t remember the size of the house. I remember the love that lived inside it.

That little village became the first chapter of my life.

Before I was born, another beautiful story had already begun.

On 18 February 1999, my parents got married. Growing up, I always saw them as a loving couple. They respected each other, stood beside one another through every challenge, and built a home filled with warmth and kindness. Looking back now, I realize how fortunate I was to begin my life in a family where love was often expressed through everyday actions rather than words.

In 2001, I came into this world.

Three years later, in 2004, my younger brother was born. Together, we grew up in a joint family filled with love, guidance, laughter, and togetherness.

Our home was shared by my parents, my grandparents, and my grandfather’s brother, whom we lovingly called Shiva Dada.

Although Shiva Dada chose to remain unmarried throughout his life, he never lived alone. Our family became his family, and he loved us as though we were his own grandchildren. To me, he was never just my grandfather’s brother—he was simply my grandfather. His quiet nature, gentle smile, and unconditional affection became some of the most precious parts of my childhood.

Whenever Shiva Dada went somewhere, I wanted to go with him.

“Shiva Dada... wait for me!” I would call out as I hurried after him with my tiny steps.

He would stop, smile, and stretch out his hand.

“Come on,” he would say. “Let’s go together.”

Holding his hand made me feel safe.

Sometimes he took me to the village’s Shiv Temple. I didn’t understand every prayer, but I loved standing beside him, watching him fold his hands with complete devotion.

On other days, he took me to our family farm. The fields seemed endless to my little eyes. I watched him walk through the crops while I followed behind, pretending I was helping with important work.

If he visited relatives, I proudly accompanied him there too.

At that age, I thought we were simply going on little adventures together.

Today, I understand that what he was really giving me was something much more valuable—his time.

And that is one of the greatest forms of love.

My grandparents were hardworking farmers. Every day, they went to the farm before the sun climbed too high in the sky. Sometimes my brother and I went with them. I loved walking through the fields, breathing the fresh air, and watching them work with patience and dedication.

Without realizing it, those quiet moments taught me that good things grow with care, time, and hard work.

My grandfather had his own quiet way of taking care of me.

Whenever I felt weak or unwell, he would gently lift me onto his old bicycle and take me to the small hospital in the neighbouring village.

To anyone else, it was simply a visit to the doctor.

To me, it was a bicycle ride with my grandfather.

As he pedalled along the village roads, I sat quietly, feeling the cool breeze against my face and watching the fields pass by. Somehow, I forgot that I wasn’t feeling well. I only remember feeling safe because he was with me.

Years have passed since those rides, but that same bicycle is still with our family.

Its paint has faded, and time has left its marks on it.

Whenever I see it today, I don’t just see an old bicycle.

I see my grandfather.

I see his love.

I see a little girl who never had to ask to be cared for.

Sometimes, the greatest expressions of love are the simplest ones.

My father had four sisters, making five siblings altogether.

In our community, married daughters traditionally returned to their parents’ home during the summer holidays. Those vacations transformed our peaceful home into the happiest place in the village.

“They’re here! They’re here!” someone would shout as soon as the vehicles stopped outside.

My brother and I ran toward the entrance as fast as our little legs could carry us.

One by one, my aunts stepped inside carrying bags, while my cousins followed close behind.

“My goodness,” one of my aunts would laugh as she hugged me, “look how much you’ve grown!”

Within minutes, the entire house came alive.

Laughter echoed through every room.

Children ran from one corner of the house to another.

Someone was always laughing.

Someone was always calling someone else’s name.

Those summer vacations felt magical.

The adults enjoyed spending time together after months apart, while we children created our own little world filled with games, stories, and endless imagination.

Every vacation ended too soon, but the memories stayed forever.

I loved every game my friends invented.

It didn’t matter if the game had proper rules or even made sense. As long as everyone was laughing and running around together, I wanted to play. We made up our own rules, argued over them, forgot the arguments within minutes, and started another game before the sun went down.

Looking back, I realize it was never about winning.

It was about being together.

School holidays also meant another adventure.

I often visited my mother’s parents with my brother, where another group of cousins waited for us. Those days were just as special. We played together from morning until evening, forgetting about homework, school, and everything else.

Looking back now, I realize how fortunate I was to grow up surrounded by so many people who loved me.

Among all the festivals we celebrated, Diwali was my favourite.

Days before the festival, every home in the village became busy with cleaning, decorating, and preparing sweets. The excitement grew with each passing day.

When evening finally arrived, tiny oil lamps lit up the courtyards, making the whole village glow with warmth. We wore new clothes, visited relatives, shared sweets, burst crackers, and admired the colourful fireworks lighting up the night sky.

To me, Diwali wasn’t only a festival.

It was happiness.

It was family.

It was home.

One of my favorite gifts from childhood didn’t come from a toy shop.

It came from my grandparents’ hands.

Knowing how much I loved pretending to cook, they made me a tiny clay kitchen set themselves.

It wasn’t expensive.

It wasn’t colorful.

But to me, it was more precious than any toy in the world.

“Now our little chef can cook for everyone,” my grandmother said with a smile as she handed it to me.

I carefully arranged every tiny clay pot, plate, and utensil as though I were setting up a real kitchen.

Using old bedsheets and colorful pieces of cloth, I built little tents in the courtyard. Inside that tiny world, I became the owner of my own little home.

I cooked imaginary meals.

Served invisible guests.

Fed my dolls.

Sometimes I even invited my brother to eat the delicious food that existed only in my imagination.

Hours passed without me noticing.

Those little games taught me something beautiful—that happiness doesn’t always come from expensive things. Sometimes it is created with a little imagination, loving hands, and a heart full of joy.

Not every childhood memory was graceful.

One of the funniest memories still makes me laugh today.

When I was very little, a few baby hairs kept falling into my mouth and irritating me.

Instead of asking an adult for help, I quietly picked up a pair of scissors.

In my little mind, I had discovered the perfect solution.

“If these hairs are bothering me,” I thought, “I’ll simply cut them.”

So I did.

Not just one or two.

I cut off all the little hairs at the front.

When I finished, I felt incredibly proud of myself. I was convinced I had just given myself the best haircut ever.

Then I looked in the mirror.

The proud smile disappeared instantly.

I looked less like a little girl with a stylish haircut and more like someone who had challenged the scissors to a fight—and lost.

My family couldn’t stop laughing.

Honestly, I don’t blame them.

The funniest part is that there is still a photograph of my unforgettable masterpiece. Every time I see it, I laugh so hard because that little girl truly believed she had invented the perfect hairstyle.

Like every place, my village had two sides.

It was filled with kind-hearted people who cared for one another. But even before I turned ten, I quietly began to notice that not everyone respected girls and women in the way they should. As a child, I couldn’t fully understand what I was seeing, but those moments stayed somewhere deep inside me. They became my first lesson that the world could be both beautiful and unfair at the same time.

When I think about my childhood today, I don’t remember it through dates.

I remember the smell of fresh soil after the rain.

The green fields stretching into the distance.

The sound of birds welcoming every morning.

Shiva Dada’s hand holding mine.

My grandfather’s old bicycle.

The laughter of my cousins filling our home every summer.

The glow of Diwali lamps.

The tiny clay kitchen where I cooked imaginary meals.

The photograph of my very first—and very unsuccessful—haircut.

And a little village called Bori that quietly gave me everything I needed before life asked me to become stronger.

That small village may have been one of the smallest places on the map.