HER FROM ME

The Girl with Cinnamon Curls September 28, Udaipur The hospital smelled of antiseptic and despair. A shrill cry pierced the silence of the maternity ward, followed by the nurse's weary announcement: "It's a girl." Parul Sen, drenched in sweat and tears, reached for her child with trembling hands. Her heart ached with a love too vast for words. She looked down at the tiny, pink bundle and whispered through cracked lips, "My Aaru... my little miracle." But not everyone shared her joy. Devansh Sen stood at the edge of the room, his expression unreadable. He already had a son—Aarav—the heir, the pride. Another child, especially a girl, didn’t ignite the same spark in him. His eyes flicked to the newborn briefly, but he said nothing. No smile. No warmth. Just a nod, as if acknowledging a formality. Parul noticed. She always noticed. --- Aarvika's childhood was not one wrapped in the unconditional love of a father. Devansh provided, yes. He wasn’t cruel. But his affection was rationed, reserved mostly for Aarav. For Aarvika, there were distant nods and rare pats on the head. Her real world began and ended with two women: her mother Parul, and her nani, Saradha. --- At two years old, Aarvika was unforgettable. Her skin was soft and milky white, as if carved from moonlight. Her cheeks, round and dimpled, were made for kisses. And those cinnamon curls—wild, bouncy, full of personality—framed a face far too expressive for her age. She would often sit on the veranda steps, her favorite ragged teddy in her arms, watching the world with those big, black eyes. One afternoon, she saw Devansh return from the market, laughing with Aarav. Her brother wore a brand-new red jersey. In his hands: a box of Sketchers shoes and a shiny plastic bag filled with toys. Aarvika's eyes followed them. She said nothing. Not then. But later that night, as Parul tucked her in, Aarvika spoke up. "Mumma... Papa bringed jersey and shoes for bhaiya... and toys too." Parul froze for a second. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Aarvika close. "Beta... sometimes Papa doesn’t see everything. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care." Aarvika blinked. Her tiny hands clenched her teddy tighter. "But he never bought anything for me..." she whispered. Before Parul could respond, Saradha walked in, holding a glittery pink frock and a new Barbie doll with rainbow-colored hair. She sat beside Aarvika, cupped her little face in both palms and said gently, "Till I’m alive, I’ll buy you everything, my dove. Frocks, Barbie dolls, fairy books, chocolates... everything." Aarvika’s face lit up. "Promise, Nani?" Saradha smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Promise, meri jaan." --- (Kindergarten came like a breeze—and a storm.) . . Aarvika, despite her soft looks, had fire in her soul. She was the tallest in her class, always a little more aware, a little too observant. There was a boy in her class—a brat with a love for trouble. He tugged her braid every morning and made faces when the teacher wasn’t looking. One day, Aarvika turned around, narrowed her eyes, and said, "Touch me again and I'll punch you" He laughed. He pulled. She punched. Right on the nose. That evening, Parul received a call from the kindergarten teacher. She sat Aarvika down on the bed. "You hit a boy today?" Aarvika nodded without hesitation. "He touched my hair. I told him not to." Parul sighed, rubbing her temples. "Fighting isn’t good, Aaru.. but I’m proud you stood up for yourself." Saradha, standing at the kitchen door, chuckled. HAHAHA "She’s got her Nani’s temper. And her spine." ---AARVIKA (6yrs) When kindergarten ended, she entered First Standard like she was born for bigger things. Her presence was striking. Other kids clung to their mothers; Aarvika walked in on her own. Her teachers noticed it quickly. She was tall, composed, and unusually articulate for her age. She didn’t cry. She didn’t fear. "She doesn’t look like a first grader..." one teacher whispered. "Her eyes... they’re too old," said another. Even the children felt it. Some steered clear. Others tried to befriend her. But Aarvika was never desperate to belong. She would sit at the front of the class, doodling when bored, answering questions before the teacher finished asking them. One month into the school year, Parul was summoned to the principal’s office. She clutched the letter in her hand, her eyes scanning the words in disbelief. "Your daughter, Aarvika Sen, has been assessed for emotional and intellectual growth beyond her grade level. We are recommending her promotion to Second Standard." Parul stared blankly, heart thudding. She walked home in silence. At the threshold, she showed the letter to Saradha. Saradha read it slowly. A moment of proud silence passed between them. Then she said: Parul sat beside Aarvika that night, brushing her curls slowly. "You’re going to Second Standard now, Aarvika... a big girl." Aarvika blinked. "Will I still be in your lap, Mumma?" Parul smiled and pulled her close. "Always, beta. Even when you grow taller than me." Saradha came in with a new diary and a box of fancy pencils. "Every story of yours begins now, my dove. Write your name on the world." And somewhere deep in her small, steady heart, Aarvika promised herself she would. To be continued...