Beyond the veil of looks

Morning light filtered through the thin curtains of Lahari’s 1BHK, washing the room in gold. She stepped onto her little balcony, where two pots of tulsi and marigolds stood like quiet companions. She loved watering them each day—it was a small ritual that gave her a sense of belonging, like the city had made space for her in its restless rhythm.

Her apartment was modest, but it was hers. The single bedroom, the compact kitchen with neatly stacked steel containers, the worn dining table pushed against the wall—all spoke of a life she had built with care and discipline.

Every morning, she cooked herself a simple breakfast—idli on weekdays, sometimes dosa on Sundays—and packed her lunch box before leaving for work. On her walk to the office, she passed a bustling café where laughter spilled out in waves. She smiled at the sound, but never stepped in. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she had learned to draw invisible lines long ago.

At work, Lahari was admired for her steadiness. She solved problems calmly, spoke with quiet clarity, and never pushed herself into the spotlight. Younger colleagues often came to her for guidance, and managers trusted her to deliver. By all measures, she had achieved what she once dreamed of—a respectable career, financial stability, and a peaceful routine.

But evenings told a different story.

When her teammates made plans for dinner, for movies, for impromptu weekend trips, Lahari always smiled and said softly, “Maybe next time.” The truth was, there never was a next time. She had grown up in an orthodox family, where daughters were taught not to wander beyond six o’clock, where silence was seen as respect, and freedom was measured by rules.

Even now, though she lived alone in Bangalore, those rules lived with her. She carried them like an unspoken loyalty to her parents—I won’t betray you, even when you cannot see me.

And so, she stayed home. She let her phone buzz with invitations she wouldn’t accept, let laughter pass her by. Over time, she became “that colleague”—the dependable one, the simple one, the one others respected but never truly knew. Some even whispered behind her back, calling her aunty type.

The words stung, not because they were cruel, but because they missed the truth. Inside, Lahari wasn’t “aunty type.” Inside, she wanted to dance to music she had never heard in person, to drink chai at midnight with friends, to feel the freedom of saying yes without guilt.

But wanting and living were different things.

That night, as the city outside blazed with neon lights and laughter, Lahari sat by her window, diary open on her lap. The page stared back at her, waiting. Slowly, she wrote:

“I have everything I wanted. A job. Peace. A life of my own. And yet, I feel unseen.”

She paused, the pen trembling, before she added a second line:

“One day, someone will know me beyond these walls.”

The words gave her no immediate comfort, but they gave her something stronger—hope. And as she closed the diary, she whispered into the quiet:

“Until then, I will wait.”