WOUNDED HEART

CHAPTER 1

The metal gates of St. Mary’s Orphanage creaked open with a sound Meera had heard her entire life. But today, it sounded different—like a farewell. Like freedom.

She stepped out, her worn sandals crunching against the gravel path, the early morning sun brushing her cheeks with a soft, golden warmth. Her heart fluttered inside her chest like the wings of a caged bird released into the open sky. She paused at the edge of the steps and turned around for one last look.

The building behind her stood in silent stillness. It was old—its paint peeling in stubborn patches, bricks weathered and dulled with time. But to Meera, it had been everything. Her home. Her shelter. Her prison and her haven. It was the place where she had laughed until her stomach hurt, cried into her pillow at night, fought over silly things, prayed with quiet hope, and dared to dream impossible dreams.

It was within those crumbling walls that she had learned to make birthday cakes from leftover bread, found magic in secondhand books with doodles from past owners, and stitched memories together with the only people who had ever understood what it meant to be unwanted and still want more from life.

She clutched her small suitcase tightly—the handle was fraying, the lock slightly rusted—and smiled. It held two salwar suits, a diary, a few books, a folder with her certificates, and exactly four hundred and thirty rupees.

But Meera had never needed much to be happy.

“Go live a beautiful life, child,” Sister Alina had whispered that morning, pressing a warm tiffin box into her hands, a steel tumbler filled with cold coffee and passing a book to her. Her voice had trembled, her eyes wet behind thick glasses. “The world isn’t always kind. But you... you have a way of softening even the hardest edges.”

Meera had hugged her tightly. Her throat ached with the tears she refused to let fall. Not today.

Today wasn’t an end—it was a beginning.

The world beyond the orphanage walls was loud, alive, and frightening in its chaos. Buses honked, vendors shouted, children ran past with schoolbags bouncing on their backs. The city didn’t wait for anyone.

But Meera was ready. Ready to step into the Real world.

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Three Years Later

The ceiling fan buzzed lazily above her head as Meera danced barefoot across the cool cement floor of her one-room flat, a spoon in one hand, a half-cooked roti in the other, music drifting from a tiny Bluetooth speaker perched precariously on a shelf.

The flat was small—barely big enough for a single bed, a table, and a kitchen corner—but it was hers. It smelled of incense sticks, coriander, and fresh hope.

The bed wore a cheerful floral bedsheet, its corners never quite tucked in. On the corner table, a tiny cactus she had named Sunny stood tall, next to a cracked ceramic mug filled with her favorite pens. A string of fairy lights curled across the only window, lighting up the walls each evening like stars trapped in a jar.

She twirled once, laughing softly to herself as the roti puffed on the tava. “Victory!” she declared, lifting her hands as though she had just claimed Olympic gold.

Meera’s days were simple but full.

She worked part-time at a local library sorting books, helping children with their reading and tutored school kids in the evenings. With the little she earned, she paid rent, bought groceries, and saved just enough to buy herself one pretty dress every three months. Her most recent treasure was a lavender kurta with tiny mirror work that shimmered like fireflies.

She rode crowded buses, walked in the rain without an umbrella, ate roadside momos with chutney that made her eyes water, and sang Bollywood songs loudly while sweeping the floor. Her idea of luxury was a mango bar on a hot day or a book bought from a secondhand stall near the railway station.

Most people would’ve called her life “small.”

But Meera found joy in everything.

On Sundays, she would visit Lodhi Garden with a borrowed sketchbook and sit by the lake, drawing people’s faces , old couples feeding ducks, children blowing bubbles, and girls with secrets in their eyes. One time, an old man had leaned over and said, “You have a poet’s eyes.”

She had smiled. That compliment stayed with her longer than most people did.

She had graduated top of her class in English Literature and all thanks to scholarships, part-time jobs, and sheer determination. The day she walked across the college stage, wearing a simple cotton saree and scuffed sandals, the applause had rung in her ears like music. The principal had shaken her hand proudly, and Meera had smiled like the sun.

There had been no one in the audience for her.

No cameras flashing, no flowers or congratulatory hugs.

But her smile had lit up the auditorium anyway.

That evening, sitting alone with a samosa and a bottle of orange soda, she had whispered to herself: I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m living.

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Today, Meera stood in front of her mirror, dressed in a pale yellow kurta, her hair braided loosely over one shoulder. A maroon bindi sat neatly on her forehead. Her bag was packed with eight crisp copies of her resume, a notebook, a pen, and a bottle of water.

She had scribbled down the addresses of five publishing houses and three education NGOs that were hiring. Her fingers trembled with a mix of nerves and excitement.

Her dream? To become an editor. Or a writer. Or maybe someone who helped other lost children find their voices—just like she had found hers in stories and poetry.

“Today’s the day,” she said to Sunny, tapping the cactus’s pot affectionately. “Today, I begin the next chapter.”

She slipped on her sandals, checked the time, and stepped out.

The hallway smelled of frying onions and fresh detergent. A neighbour’s child waved at her; Meera waved back, her smile as bright as the morning sun.

Outside, the world waited.

The city was still loud. The streets were still chaotic. But Meera no longer flinched at the honking or the crowds. She walked with a quiet confidence, her bag swinging gently at her side.

A dog barked somewhere in the distance. A boy pedaled past on a rusted cycle. Someone called out for chai. The world buzzed and bustled, indifferent to one girl with dreams in her eyes.

But Meera had always known how to make her place in the noise.

She crossed the street, her sandals clicking on the pavement, hope tucked into the folds of her kurta like a secret. The sun was warm, the sky a brilliant shade of blue, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and dust.

As she made her way toward the bus stop, there was only hope in her steps.

She stopped briefly at the tea stall on the corner, where the owner, Ramu Kaka, gave her an extra biscuit with her five-rupee chai.

“Job interviews today, beti?” he asked, wiping his hands on a rag.

Meera nodded with a smile. “Yes, Kaka. Say a little prayer for me.”

He chuckled. “The world may not deserve a girl like you, but go show them anyway.”

She tucked his words into her heart like a charm and climbed onto the crowded bus. Her resume folder was pressed tightly against her chest as the vehicle jerked into motion.

Unaware that life was watching.

Unaware that fate—cruel, unpredictable, and dark—was waiting just around the corner.

A bus would screech around a turn. A scream would split the afternoon. A shadow would fall.

But not yet.

Not now.

Now, she was just a girl who had finally stepped into her story.

And for a brief, beautiful moment, everything was golden.