Chapter 1 - "Behind the Small Room Door" 🌷

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Settle in, breathe, and enjoy the journey ahead.

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“Some people aren’t born silent… life slowly teaches them to be.”

Morning light slipped into the world with gentle hesitation, touching rooftops, treetops, and rusted balconies one after another. The neighbourhood breathed quietly — birds stretching their wings atop electric wires, a soft breeze brushing against the tulsi leaves in the courtyard, and the faint fragrance of someone brewing chai drifting through the air.

But deep inside the Sharma house, past the main hall and through a narrow corridor, lay a tiny room where the morning sunlight always arrived last. A room small enough to be mistaken for storage, yet arranged with the quiet care of someone who had learned to survive inside limited spaces.

A thin mattress lay neatly on a wooden cot.

A single table held a cracked mirror and a comb with missing teeth.

Clothes folded with delicate precision filled a small iron shelf.

And a lone window — narrow, barred, half-painted — allowed one sliver of morning gold to enter without fail.

In that slender slice of sunlight… she stood.

At first, only her silhouette appeared — soft, slender, unthreatening.

Then her outline, gentle as a watercolor painting.

And then, slowly, the girl herself stepped into the light.

Her presence wasn’t loud. It never had been.

She had the kind of beauty that didn’t declare itself — it simply existed.

Warm, natural, unpolished… like the quiet glow of dawn before the sun learns how to shine fully.

Her hair — long, dark, and silky — fell loosely down her back, swaying with every small movement. Her skin carried a soft golden hue, untouched by makeup. And her eyes… large, innocent, framed with naturally curled lashes… held a depth that only those who suffer silently ever carry.

There was kindness in her gaze.

Fear beneath that kindness.

And a strange, fragile hope tucked somewhere in between.

Her lips, naturally tinted rose, pressed together nervously as she adjusted her dupatta. A habit. Something done without thought… yet revealing everything about her life.

She moved carefully, like someone who had learned not to disturb the world.

She breathed softly, like someone who feared being heard.

She stood still for a moment — a quiet girl in a quiet room — gathering courage for yet another day.

This girl…

this gentle soul who had never raised her voice, never been celebrated, never been allowed to dream loudly…

was Roohi Sharma.

A girl described by everyone as soft, polite, pretty, obedient—

but never once described as free.

Because freedom was a luxury she had only seen in birds outside her barred window.

Roohi Sharma had always been described in many ways—gentle, soft-hearted, quiet, pretty, polite—but never once in her life had anyone called her free. She belonged to a house where she lived, breathed, and moved like a bird whose wings were folded long before it ever learned how to fly.

Her beauty was not loud. It was not the kind that announced itself aggressively. It was the kind that crept into people’s awareness slowly, quietly—like dawn slipping into the sky while the world was still half-asleep.

Her skin held a natural radiance, the kind that came from innocence rather than effort. A soft golden warmth, like sun rays touching honey. Her eyes were large and doe-like, framed by lashes that curled naturally—eyes that carried both fear and kindness in the same breath. People often said that her eyes looked like they had stored stories she never dared to speak.

Her hair, long and dark, fell like a smooth curtain down her back, always tied loosely because Sarika did not allow her to spend “too much time looking pretty.” Yet even when tied carelessly, her hair framed her face in a way that made her look untouched by the world’s harshness.

Her lips were soft, naturally pink, always trembling slightly when she spoke—because she had learned from childhood that anything she said could be twisted against her.

She was the kind of girl who apologized even when she wasn’t wrong, who asked for little, who dreamed quietly, and who cried softly so no one would hear.

Roohi was beauty wrapped in gentleness—and gentleness trapped inside cruelty.

“Roohi! Did you finish cleaning the storeroom?”

Sarika’s sharp voice rang through the hallway like a bell meant to announce punishment.

“Yes… I’m almost done,” Roohi replied softly.

“Almost?” Sarika’s heels clicked sharply as she entered the room. Her eyes scanned the shelves, her face twisting with irritation. “Look at this! Dust still on the corner. Do you expect me to do everything in this house?”

Roohi lowered her eyes. “I’ll fix it. Sorry.”

Sarika crossed her arms. “Sorry doesn’t clean the house, Roohi.”

Beside her stood Alisha—Sarika’s biological daughter—and Roohi’s stepsister. Beautiful in a polished, artificial way. Expensive clothes, manicured nails, and an attitude sharpened like a knife. Alisha smirked.

“Maa, don’t expect much from her,” she said casually. “After all, she’s your stepdaughter.”

That word—stepdaughter—always carried poison in this house.

Roohi didn’t reply. Sarika hated when she talked back. She hated when she stayed silent too. Roohi had mastered the art of existing in the smallest possible way—so she would not provoke the storms inside Sarika.

“Finish the cleaning,” Sarika said, voice colder now. “And after that, chop vegetables, wash utensils, and iron Alisha’s clothes. Don’t think you’ll rest today. We have guests coming in the evening.”

Roohi nodded. “Okay.”

Sarika’s eyes narrowed with dissatisfaction. “Say ‘Yes, Maa.’ Don’t make your tone sound like you are doing a favour.”

Roohi swallowed. “Yes, Maa.”

Alisha, sitting comfortably on the couch with her phone, scoffed loudly. “Maa, she’s just useless. She only knows how to look innocent. For anything else, she’s slow.”

Sarika shot her stepdaughter a cold look of disgust. “If only you were half as smart as Alisha…”

Roohi lowered her head. “Sorry.”

Sarika’s anger only increased. “Stop saying sorry every second! It irritates me!”

Roohi didn’t reply.

She wasn’t allowed to reply.

Alisha snickered before leaving the room with her mother.

Her father never saw this side of the house. He believed Sarika treated both girls equally.

He believed Roohi was shy, not mistreated.

He believed everything Sarika said—because Sarika always wore sugar-coated sweetness when he was around.

And Roohi… she never complained.

She didn’t know how to.

She had been raised to adjust, obey, and stay invisible.

Roohi was only five when her biological mother passed away. Her father remarried two years later, marrying Sarika—a woman who wore sweetness like perfume in front of others but turned bitter the moment the doors closed.

Sarika had tried, in the beginning. She tried to like Roohi. But liking required patience, and Sarika’s heart had none. Roohi reminded her of her husband's first love. And Sarika hated the fact that people in the neighbourhood always said:

“Roohi has her mother’s beauty.”

It sparked jealousy in Sarika’s heart—a jealousy that turned into long-term resentment.

By the time Roohi was ten, Sarika had already fixed her role in the house:

The unwanted child.

The house helper.

The girl who would never outshine her own daughter.

Sarika controlled Roohi’s clothes, her studies, her outings—sometimes with fake affection, sometimes with cold anger.

“You don’t need new clothes, Roohi. Learn to adjust.”

“Don’t keep your hair open—Alisha looks better that way.”

“Why do you need extra tuition? You’re already doing enough.”

“Don’t go out. Your skin will tan, and then no one will ever marry you.”

It was always disguised as care.

And Roohi, still young, believed her.

When Roohi was young, she used to wait behind the curtain, watching Sarika feed Alisha with her own hands, brushing her hair, praising her clothes, taking her to shops, and hugging her affectionately.

Roohi would sit quietly on the floor, hugging her knees, pretending she didn’t want any of that.

But she did.

Her soft heart would ache seeing scenes of motherhood she never received.

She still remembered one evening when she was ten. Sarika was showing Alisha how to tie her hair.

“Maa, do this braid for me also…” Roohi had asked shyly.

Sarika had glared. “Do it yourself. Don’t cling to me. You’re old enough. And don’t bother Alisha.”

Roohi had nodded, but that night, she cried alone in the washroom, pulling clumps of her own hair in frustration because she couldn’t make her braid look nice.

That moment stayed with her for years.

Alisha grew up confident, outspoken, bold—encouraged by her mother at every step.

Roohi grew up quiet, scared, lacking self-worth—suppressed by Sarika’s harshness.

Sarika never admitted it, but she resented Roohi from the very beginning. Not because Roohi did something wrong. But because Roohi existed.

Sarika hated being compared.

And she hated that Roohi inherited the same beauty.

So she made sure Roohi never outshined Alisha—not in clothes, not in studies, not in confidence, not in anything.

The entire Sharma household was buzzing when the Mehra family—a wealthy, respected family from Delhi—sent a marriage proposal.

Sarika almost squealed with joy.

“Yes, yes! You can come today! My daughter would love to meet him,” she said eagerly.

Alisha jumped from the bed, eyes full of dreams. “Maa, they want to see me?”

Sarika kissed her daughter’s forehead dramatically. “Of course! Why wouldn’t they want you? You’re beautiful, well-groomed, educated—”

Alisha smirked. “And Roohi?”

Sarika’s face turned sour. “She better stay in the kitchen. I don’t want her ruining this.”

Sarika made Roohi wear a simple faded salwar and tied her hair harshly.

“Don’t come in front of them. Serve tea and disappear. Understood?”

Roohi nodded.

But fate had prepared something else.

But the proposal wasn’t for Alisha, as Sarika imagined.

It was for Roohi.

Sarika had dressed Alisha in perfect designer wear when the Mehra family arrived. She made her sit in the living room, smiling, engaging, displaying her talents loudly.

Roohi was told to serve tea and then stay in the kitchen.

But something unexpected happened.

Mr. Mehra’s eyes stopped on Roohi the moment she placed the tray on the table.

The way she lowered her gaze with respect…

The way her voice barely whispered…

The softness in her features…

The innocence in her presence…

Mrs. Mehra whispered to her husband, “She’s the one.”

Sarika’s heartbeat stilled.

Alisha’s smile died.

“We want to proceed with Roohi, if she agrees,” Mr. Mehra said politely.

Roohi froze.

Sarika’s smile cracked.

Alisha’s eyes turned red with jealousy.

That night was the worst night of Roohi’s life.

THE JEALOUSY THAT TURNED VIOLENT

As soon as the Mehra family left, Sarika barged into Roohi’s room, dragging her by her wrist.

“You shameless girl!” she screamed, slapping her hard.

Roohi staggered back.

“Maa… I didn’t do anything—”

“Shut up! You stole my daughter’s chance!”

Sarika’s voice was high-pitched with rage. “Do you think you deserve a rich family? You think you’ll live a queen’s life while I raised you?”

Alisha entered, eyes burning.

“She always acts innocent, Maa. She pretends to be simple, so people feel sorry for her.”

“Alisha, I swear I didn’t—”

Sarika slapped her again.

This time harder.

“You should’ve stayed in the kitchen! But no, you had to show your face!”

Roohi’s cheeks burned from pain.

Her eyes filled with tears she forced back.

Sarika pushed her against the wall, gripping her chin.

“You listen to me, Roohi. You will never get a better life than this house. Never. Even if proposals come for you, I will make sure you lose them.”

Roohi’s breath trembled.

“Maa… please…”

“From now on,” Sarika shouted, “you won’t step out unless I tell you. You won’t talk unless I allow you. And you won’t dress nicely ever again. Understand?”

Roohi nodded weakly.

Alisha smirked victoriously.

Little did Roohi know…

this was only the beginning.

Roohi felt guilt she didn’t know how to handle.

Why me?

Why not Alisha?

Did I do something wrong?

Did I stand too close?

Why did I come out with the tray?

She began blaming herself instantly.

The next afternoon, Roohi dressed in a simple peach salwar.

Sarika didn’t allow her to wear anything better.

“Don’t try to show off,” Sarika warned.

Roohi nodded, clutching her dupatta nervously.

Raghav arrived with his parents.

Sarika and Alisha sat stiffly, faking smiles.

Roohi walked into the hall, nervous steps, heart pounding.

Raghav stood up gently.

“Hi, Roohi,” he said warmly. “It’s nice to meet you properly.”

“H-Hello,” she whispered.

Sarika forced a smile. “Go to the terrace and talk.”

Roohi nodded and led Raghav to the terrace.

She kept distance, hesitant and shy.

Raghav spoke first.

“You don’t have to be scared. I’m not here to judge.”

Roohi stared at her hands. “I’m… not used to talking.”

“That’s okay. I’ll talk,” he chuckled lightly.

For the next half hour, he spoke about his studies, his business dreams, his world travels.

Roohi replied with small hums, shy smiles, and occasional answers.

Her voice was soft…

but her eyes shone when she talked about books and children.

That’s when she felt safe.

Raghav noticed.

“You like teaching?” he asked gently.

“Yes…” she whispered. “I want to… one day.”

“You will,” he said.

Roohi blinked with surprise.

No one had ever encouraged her.

He seemed nice.

Normal.

Gentle.

Roohi didn’t feel love or excitement.

She felt confusion.

Because people like him were not meant for girls like her.

After talking for almost an hour, Raghav said:

“I would like to consider this proposal… if you’re comfortable.”

Roohi froze.

“I… I don’t know…” she whispered truthfully.

Raghav smiled. “That’s okay. Take your time. I’m not rushing you.”

It was the first time someone gave Roohi the freedom to choose.

And that… terrified her.

Because she knew Sarika wouldn’t allow it.

Before leaving, Raghav’s mother said:

“We are hosting a grand business party tomorrow evening. We would love if Roohi and her family joined us. Let them see the environment she may become part of.”

Sarika almost choked on her anger.

Alisha’s nails dug into her palm.

Roohi looked shocked.

“I… I will come,” she whispered.

“Good,” Mrs. Mehra’s said warmly.

As they left, Alisha stormed into her room.

Sarika followed, seething.

Roohi stood alone in the hall, feeling guilty, confused, scared, and lost.

Tomorrow’s party was supposed to be a happy day.

But deep in her heart, Roohi felt an ache—

the kind that whispered:

This day shouldn’t have happened.

None of this should’ve happened.

And everything from here…

will only get worse.

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That’s all for now, lovelies!

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Happy reading, always. 💖