Priya POV
When I first heard my name spoken alongside Sarpanchji’s, I thought I’d misheard. A village girl like me? To marry someone like him? For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine it—not with excitement, but with a quiet dread stitched together with guilt.
I wasn’t supposed to dream, and yet I did—every night, under the hay mattress where I hid my borrowed books.
Science chapters, old math problems, stories of girls who wore uniforms and carried lunchboxes. I knew the price of these dreams. And now, I feared I would pay with them
FL Mother
“Sarpanchji se rishta tay hua hai,”
(“The match with the Sarpanch has been fixed.”)
My mother said, eyes lowered, voice trembling—not out of fear, but relief.
Debt can drown a family. I’ve seen it steal fathers’ sleep and mothers’ smiles.
So when they told me my marriage would settle some of that burden, I didn’t cry. I nodded, quietly, like a good daughter.
But my mind buzzed with questions. Would he let me read?
Would he be like the other men—loud, demanding, angry when disobeyed? Or would he ignore me, like furniture shifted into the corner of a new room?
Then I remembered him from the temple courtyard. The way he helped the old bangle-seller lift her basket without saying a word.
The way he listened—really listened—during panchayat, even to women others dismissed.
They said he was kind. And kind men were rare.
So I folded my dreams gently, tucked them away behind my silence, and said yes.
Not because I was ready—but because somewhere in the quiet of his gaze, I hoped he might see more in me than just a bride.
My education was never something spoken aloud—it was a secret stitched into stolen moments and whispered pages. In Gulmohar Gaon, a girl with a book is a girl with dangerous ideas.
Priya Verma/Singh(FL)
They say
Priya Verma/Singh(FL)
“Padhi-likhi ladki kal ko maa-baap ki izzat dhool mein mila degi.”
(“An educated girl will bring shame to her parents one day.”)
But what shame is there in wanting to know more?
My parents… they are not bad people. They are tired people
Worn down by fields that take more than they give, by debt that grows faster than the wheat. My father’s hands are cracked from years of ploughing, his back curved not just from labor but from the weight of five daughters and no sons.
He doesn't understand books. To him, they’re useless papers that never grew grain or spun thread.
When he caught me reading once—just once—he burned the book
No shouting, no slaps. Just a cold finality
FL Father
“Ladkiyan ghar chalati hain, kitaabein nahi.”
(“Girls run homes, not books.”)
So I learned to read in the dark. I bartered embroidery for torn textbooks
I taught the village children under the guise of kahaani sunao—storytime. But those stories were fractions and history lessons dressed as fables.
I never blamed them. Ma stitched old sarees into schoolbag shapes for me even when she said,
FL Mother
“Chhup ke padh le, par kisi ko bata mat.”
(“Study in secret, but never tell anyone.”)
They were afraid. Afraid the village would call them fools for raising a girl who thought beyond her station.
So they did what they thought was best—they arranged my marriage, hoping to trade my dreams for security.
"But dreams, once planted, do not die quietly."
I studied up to Class 10—but not in the way most do, sitting in a classroom, raising hands, collecting report cards. No, my schooling was pieced together like a patchwork quilt—stitched from discarded notes, half-torn textbooks, and the kindness of one old schoolmaster who had long since retired but hadn’t yet lost faith in learning.
Every evening, I would walk 5 kilometers to the edge of the next village where Masterji lived.
He had no children, no visitors. Only dust-covered shelves and a memory full of lessons he still wanted to teach. I told my parents I was going to fetch firewood or help with harvest. But really, I was learning algebra under a flickering lantern, writing essays in the margins of old newspapers.
I didn’t have a uniform or exams, but I memorized everything like my life depended on it—because it did. Education was my only thread of freedom
Education was my only thread of freedom. Masterji prepared me for the board exams unofficially, and when I finally sat for the Class 10th NIOS (National Institute of Open Schooling), it was under a false name arranged by a kind neighbor’s niece in the city.
Priya Verma/Singh(FL)
When I held that certificate in my hands—creased, slightly smudged, but real—I didn’t cry. I just sat under the peepal tree and whispered to the wind, “Main bhi kisi layak hoon.”
(“I, too, am worth something.”)
Priya Verma/Singh(FL)
But I’ve never told anyone. Not my sisters, not my friends. Not yet.
Because in this village, an educated girl isn’t applauded—she’s feared. And dreams, when spoken too soon, can be broken.
Now, secretly—quietly—I’m studying to become a teacher.
It’s the only dream that’s ever made my heart feel light. Not just for me, but for the other girls in Gulmohar Gaon. I want to stand at the front of a class one day—not in the city, but right here—in our village, where the chalk dust would rise from mud floors, and girls like me would no longer have to whisper their questions.
I study from old NCERT books—ones that Masterji's niece sends whenever she can. I hide them under my mattress, in the folds of my blouses, sometimes even in the grain sacks when I’m desperate. I’m halfway through Class 12 syllabus now. Political Science, Hindi Literature, and Elementary Education modules. At night, after everyone sleeps, I light the stub of a candle and read with my dupatta tucked around the flame to hide the glow.
I’ve even started scribbling lesson plans—for imaginary students. Sometimes I smile to myself, thinking of little Meena or Raju learning how to read their own names because “Priya Didi” taught them.
But this world isn’t ready for a girl like me to teach just yet. So I wait. I study. I dream quietly.
And maybe, just maybe, someday soon—I’ll tell him.
CuddlePuff114 (Author)
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CuddlePuff114 (Author)
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CuddlePuff114 (Author)
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