By Wednesday, the school rhythm had started to settle into Vishakha's bones — the clang of the morning bell, the warm hum of voices in the corridor, the quiet thrum of the library where the world seemed to breathe slower. She had started to map the school by memory: the way sunlight fell just right in the chemistry lab by 11 a.m., the creak of the wooden bench in the courtyard near the banyan tree, the corner of the canteen that always smelled of samosas and ambition.
But that form — the one folded in her diary — refused to leave her alone.
Every time she opened the pages to jot a note or a reminder, the words "Talent Round – Friday, 2:00 PM – Auditorium" stared up at her like a dare. It wasn't just a talent show. It was an introduction — the way St. Helina's students declared who they were.
"I signed up for a poem," Juhi announced over lunch on Thursday. "About media, freedom, and being 16. It's dramatic. So obviously, it's perfect."
"I'm doing a project demo," said Sana, pulling out a schematic for a light-sensing robot. "Simple, but cool."
"You?" Ananya turned to Vishakha. "Still thinking?"
Vishakha nodded, biting into her aloo paratha a little harder than necessary. She wanted to sing. She wanted to stand under the spotlight and let her voice unfurl into the kind of silence that listens. But the thought of standing in front of rows of well-dressed strangers — classmates, teachers, maybe even seniors — made her palms go cold.
That night, she sat on her terrace with the city lights flickering like scattered stars below. The lucky pen her brother gave her twirled in her fingers.
She thought of her nani's voice — warm, cracked at the edges, humming lullabies and bhajans as she stirred lentils in the kitchen. That voice was her first music teacher.
She thought of her mother humming softly while ironing clothes, of songs that filled the house during festivals, of her father's quiet nods when she sang to herself while solving equations.
It wasn't about performance. It was about remembering who she was.
The next morning, before school, she unfolded the form, wrote "Solo Singing" next to her name, and placed it gently into the submissions box outside the auditorium.
Friday – Talent Round
The auditorium smelled of wood polish and anticipation. The stage was small but well-lit, and the audience buzzed with energy. Teachers took their seats along the sides, clipboards ready. A senior named Niharika, confident and poised in a navy blazer, hosted the event.
Names were called. Juhi's poem was met with thoughtful applause. Sana's robot earned a few impressed nods from the physics department. Ananya clapped loudest for both.
Then came:
"Next, we have Vishakha Sharma, performing a solo Hindi folk song."
Vishakha's legs felt like they were made of air and stone at once. But she walked up. One step at a time. The stage lights hit her eyes. She blinked. Somewhere in the crowd, she saw Ananya's encouraging thumbs-up and her class teacher's faint smile.
She took a breath.
And then she sang.
Not like a trained professional. Not like a competitor. But like a girl singing to the streets she grew up in. The temple bells. The hum of early mornings. Her nani's kitchen. Her mother's maroon bangles clinking as she stirred chai. Her little brother's laugh from behind a curtain.
She sang from all of it. And into all of it.
When she finished, there was a beat of silence. Then a ripple of applause. Then louder.
Backstage, as she stepped off the platform, the senior host smiled. "You've got soul," she said.
That afternoon, as Vishakha walked down the school steps with her badge a little shinier and her heart a little fuller, she caught her reflection in the glass window.
There she was.
Not blending in. Not standing apart.
But standing whole.
And in her diary that night, under "Day Five," she wrote:
I didn't just sing today.
I showed up.
And sometimes, that's the biggest talent of all.
The girl I'm becoming?
She's brave.
And she has a voice.
I think I'm going to like her.
The page fluttered in the breeze, but the words held steady.
Vishakha was just getting started.