Siya by Anjali Roongta at Inkitt

Summary

"Once you are an adult, you can be whoever you want." "It's freedom. Independence. The chance to make your life your own." Siya, however, feels the shackles closing in with every step of the way. Can "Arts?" Dripping with scorn and sadness, this one word leaves your mother's mouth and most of your hopes crash. "It's humanities, Ma,” you reply high on righteous indignation and an impromptu surge of courage. "Huma-what? It's Arts! Moreover, who cares? It's not for you! Only idiots and losers who end up begging on streets take this useless subject!" That scrunched up face and the angry tone dash what remaining hope you have left and in that moment realization dawns, that in a country where everyone was encouraged to be doctors and engineers, an author has no place. Author's Note: The latest version of this story has been published by Muses_Saga and nominated for Sahitya Sparsh Awards 2026 and the Legacy of Literature 2025 Award. To read it, head to Muses_Saga, or enjoy this older draft, which is dark and depression. Please note it's graphic and caution is advised.

Genre: Fantasy/Other

Author: Anjali Roongta

Status: Excerpt

Chapters: 1

Rating: n/a

Age Rating: 18+

Prologue One

Prologue One

The dying sun’s golden light falls on the silhouette of a being seated at a table. The strong shadows envelop it in a shroud of darkness as it bends its head and types on. With each word, its hunch seems to lessen but the head remains lowered.

The sun sets.

Darkness is all that spills through the window, leaving the laptop screen to illuminate the bones in the figure’s face. The pale silver-blue light throws in stark definition manic eyes, a frown, and a desperation to prove oneself. The slim bone structure and the frizzy, wavy hair mix in with the blue, turning paper-like. Momentarily the figure looks like a skeleton- corpse, a zombie slaving away. Turning, you peer into the face before reeling in shock, one hand coming up to cover your racing heart. Your eyes hold the same crazy light, overshadowed by fear. The figure, that corpse-like sorry thing, is you.

Your lips open of their own violation as you try to back away, yet a morbid curiosity stops you.

You scream.