Prologue
15 january, 2017
The bass echoed softly through the mirrored walls.
Inside a high-ceilinged dance studio with polished floors and skylights flooding in golden afternoon sun, Diya moved like she was born from rhythm itself.
Barefoot, in a soft beige leotard and black cotton pants, she spun with fluid power—sharp where it demanded presence, liquid where it needed surrender. Her reflection multiplied in the studio's glass, a hundred versions of her sweeping across space, graceful and fierce. Every inch of her knew the language of movement.
Her hair, once always braided tightly by village expectations, now flowed freely, dark waves that curled at the edges, damp with sweat.
Her movements weren't just graceful. They were etched with intent. Like she was trying to breathe in the freedom she bought for herself with every moment.
She danced with the kind of silence that screams.
She danced because she could. Because there was no one left to hide from.
The music swelled. Her arms lifted. Her back arched. The final beat dropped. She lifted her arms—one high, one bent close to her chest and stilled.
Her breath trembled in her ribcage.
Silence fell.
"Cut," called out a soft voice.
"Perfect," added another.
Then, a soft clap.
Then another.
Soon, the small team standing near the door applauded gently. Nobody whooped. No one dared speak too soon.
She exhaled slowly and gave a nod—gracious, proud, calm.
Diya straightened and turned toward her team. Five of them today—videographer, lighting tech, assistant choreographer, studio intern, and someone from the branding team.
They weren't students. They weren't her peers. They worked "for" her.
"Thanks, guys," she said, her voice slightly breathless but firm, wiping sweat off her brow with a towel slung over a chair. "Let's wrap for today."
A few assistants gathered their things quietly. The lighting tech dimmed the harsh overheads, letting the natural light take over.
She walked over to the sound panel and shut off the system herself. The silence now wasn't empty. It was owned.
A younger girl maybe nineteen stepped forward, still a little starstruck. "Diya ma'am, that turn sequence... I've never seen it hit that clean. Ever."
Diya smiled, slow and genuine. "It's the studio. The floor's too perfect not to glide." she said.
"Still..." The girl hesitated, fidgeting. "You think I can ever do it like that?"
Diya's expression softened.
"I've seen your videos," she said. "You've got fight. And rhythm. Give yourself some more time. You'll outdo this."
The girl's eyes glimmered with hope."Thank you, ma'am. That means everything."
Diya nodded, waved at the others, and stepped toward her office tucked in the back of the studio.
It wasn't huge. But it had clean glass doors, a minimalist desk, and an enormous quote painted in black script on the wall:
"She wasn't born to be caged. She taught herself to fly."
Her name was etched into the frosted glass on the door:
"Diya Mehra Studios | Founder | Artistic Director"
She walked inside, the door hissing shut behind her.
Inside, her office smelled faintly of citrus and wood polish. The walls held frames of her performances from Paris, Seoul, and New York. A shelf held trophies, rolled certificates, and a few dried roses from opening nights.
She walked over to her desk, which gleamed with organized papers, an iPad, and a key fob sitting on top of a sealed envelope.
She reached for the envelope on the desk—a blueprint with floor plans and a property listing.
Her next address printed in bold, clean font. Sea-facing. Rooftop terrace. Private lift.
She was moving tomorrow
The penthouse.
Her next chapter.
She set the key fob back down.
Outside the glass walls of her studio, the city shimmered through the windows like a promise kept. The late afternoon sun gilded the skyline, brushing golden edges onto glass towers, fluttering over traffic far below.
Somewhere in that chaos, her name was known. In studios and auditions, in whispers at art festivals, on posters in cafés and flyers tucked inside newspapers.
Diya Mehra.
Not someone's daughter. Not someone's wife. Not someone's shame or burden or burden-to-be.
Just... her.
She gathered her things with mechanical ease—phone, planner, the envelope with property papers and tucked them into her deep tan leather tote. She slung her scarf loosely over her shoulders, soft silk sliding like water over her skin.
One last look around the studio.
Clean. Warm. Strong.
There was a softness to the lighting now, a quiet after the storm of dance. She liked staying a few minutes after everyone left. Letting the echo of movement linger. She felt it in her joints—the ache that was almost affection, in her breath that came a little deeper now, in the faint film of sweat along her spine.
Success didn't feel like champagne or loud applause.
It felt like this. A room she built. Time she owned. Silence she chose.
The next day, Diya arrived at the new building alone.
The real estate agent had sent a small team to help carry her things, but she declined the full service.
"I like placing things myself," she'd told him.
Truthfully, she needed to see her life build up with her own hands.
The apartment was on the top floor of a newly built high-rise in Los Angeles. The lift opened straight into the living space.
Every surface glimmered. Marble floors, white curtains dancing in the sea breeze, and a staircase that curved like a sculpture. Glass walls offered a view of the city lights flickering below like fallen stars.
No neighbors. No noise. No relatives. No "so-called well wishers". Only sky.
As she stepped in, a wide balcony greeted her with glass railings and a breeze so strong it lifted her hair off her shoulders.
She walked through it like someone testing if the space was real.
Kitchen, master bedroom, guest room, dance nook, private study. Every wall fresh. Every fixture sleek. White and beige and warm wood. The palette felt grown.
The smell of new furniture and fresh paint lingered. A bottle of wine and two glasses had been left on the kitchen counter by the interior team. A soft cream envelope lay next to them: "Welcome Home."
A box labeled "Fragile" sat in the corner near the kitchen.
She opened it absentmindedly, as if she has no control over her actions.
Inside was a diary with corners curled from use. A plastic pouch filled with report cards. The anklet she wore the first time she danced in front of a mirror. The ribbon that once tied her school braid. A small, created photo of her sitting at a desk in a white school uniform.
She reached in and her hand met rough metal, a rusted, rectangular tin.
Her old biscuit box.
Then, quietly, she sat by the window, where the moon glowed over the white rug.
She ran her fingers over it. Inside this tin, her phone had once slept like a secret.
She laughed, but it caught in her throat and disappeared.
She opened it.
Still inside: a worn USB stick. Some notes in her own handwriting. A dried marigold petal from a puja she didn't even remember attending.
The phone. The old cracked screen. Still smelling faintly like talcum and dust.
The phone where she secretly hid her dreams.
"Math Notes" —A folder.
Or just a facade to protect her dreams from evil eyes?
She reached into her bag, pulled out her current phone, and placed it beside the broken one.
Two lives side by side.
One belonged to the girl who danced in secret and wore salwar suit which weren't just clothes but another way for society to put a leash on women.
The other belonged to the woman who danced under lights and wore power stitched into her shoulders.
She could barely remember the day she first hid her phone inside that tin.
But suddenly, her chest knew. The ache bloomed without warning.
She leaned back, staring up at the high ceiling.
And somewhere in the quiet, the memories began to flood.
The voices.
The veranda.
The street.
The rusted classroom window.
A boy with tired eyes and a sister with a bruise under her eye.
The same boy who might not be fully devoted to God but treated her like a goddess.
The moon.
And a whisper she once made to the dark.
"One day. Me too."
