The second week of July arrived wrapped in colors — saffron and green streamers along the school gate, posters blooming across noticeboards, and the unmistakable buzz of Independence Week preparations sweeping through St. Helina's.
It was time for Pratibha, the school's annual inter-house cultural fest.
Classrooms pulsed with activity — auditions, costume planning, prop lists, poetry recitals behind closed doors. Excitement sat thick in the air, but beneath it, something more subtle brewed: competition.
And this year, as the newly elected Class Representative, Vishakha wasn't just participating — she was coordinating.
Monday – House Calls and Headaches
Vishakha had barely sat down for her first period when Ananya nudged her with a rolled-up sheet.
"You're in Asha House now," she whispered. "And guess what? You're leading the street play team."
"What?!" Vishakha nearly choked on her water.
"It's not that bad," Ananya grinned. "You're good with words. And people listen to you now."
Street play. Leadership. A team of twelve — all younger students and one outspoken senior who clearly didn't think much of class reps.
By noon, her diary was crammed with task lists. She had to coordinate with the music club for cues, meet the art department for backdrops, finalize the script by Thursday, and—oh yes—also revise for the physics test next week.
The pressure was beginning to boil again.
Tuesday – Cracks in the Cast
The rehearsal in the Amphitheatre was a mess. Two juniors forgot their lines. One girl refused to shout the chants loudly because "it felt silly." And Adira, the senior, kept interrupting with corrections no one asked for.
"This isn't working," Adira snapped, arms crossed. "We need a stronger ending. What even is the message?"
Vishakha tried to explain — the theme was freedom in modern society. It wasn't meant to be dramatic for drama's sake.
"You're too soft-spoken to lead this," Adira said under her breath, not unkindly, just... dismissively.
Vishakha's hands clenched. Her throat burned. But she didn't argue.
She walked home that evening feeling frayed — like a thread pulled too many times.
Wednesday – The Fault Line
That night, it rained. Heavy, relentless, like the sky had finally buckled under its own weight.
Vishakha sat at her study table, diary open, pen frozen in mid-air.
Day Eighteen:
I thought leadership meant being strong.
But it's also about hearing your own voice when no one else will.
I feel like I'm fading into my role.
Into what people expect.
I don't want to just keep the stage standing.
I want to make sure the play means something.
She paused. Then turned to a fresh page. Titled it: New Ending.
And rewrote the last scene.
Friday – The Performance
The day of Pratibha was a kaleidoscope.
Banners waved in the wind. The school ground was packed. Parents filled the guest section, teachers stood at the sides with clipboards, and the auditorium buzzed like a live wire.
The street play teams lined up behind the curtain. Vishakha stood at the center, her palms cold. She looked at her team — now memorized, now ready.
And then: lights. Stage. Silence.
The play began.
It moved through scenes of digital addiction, silent bullying, suppressed dreams — modern cages. And then came the final scene. The one Vishakha rewrote.
Instead of a loud chant or a rallying cry, the cast simply held mirrors up to the audience — fragments of their own reflections.
And Vishakha, standing alone, spoke:
"Freedom is not just walking out of prisons.
It's walking into who we are — without shame, without fear.
It's not flags and fire.
It's choice.
And the courage to live it."
Silence.
Then applause — deep, slow and real.
Even Adira hugged her backstage.
"You proved me wrong," she said. "You have fire. It's just quiet. Like lava."
That night, Vishakha didn't write in her diary.
She sang.
On the terrace, under stars that felt closer than ever, she let her voice carry. Soft, sure. A song without instruments. Just heart.
Saturday – Results and Recognition
Asha House won Best Play.
Vishakha was called on stage to accept the trophy. The Headmistress shook her hand. "For someone new," she said, "you lead like you've been here forever."
And later, as the school emptied and she walked past the giant map of alumni, Vishakha paused.
She didn't want to leave a mark on the wall someday.
She wanted to light a path.
Diary Entry – Day Twenty:
I didn't shout.
I didn't demand.
I didn't lead with noise.
But I led.
And maybe… maybe that's the kind of strength that lasts.
She drew a small star at the end of the page — no caption, no flourish.
Just the truth.
And the torch, still warm in her hands.