The wall between us leads to the destination

The grand auditorium of St. Xavier's Cultural Hall buzzed with a tense, crackling electricity that only a final round could bring. Inside, rows of plastic chairs had been packed tightly together, shoulder to shoulder. An anxious crowd of parents filled the audience seating area, whispering nervously and checking their programs. Meanwhile, somewhere in the chaotic shadows backstage, nervous competitors were frantically practicing vocal warm-ups and reading through wrinkled music sheets. Nearby, a small group of excited students moved through the crowd, filming everything on their phones to post live updates on the school's official i********: page.Today was no ordinary inter-zonal music competition. Today was the defining day that would decide who represented the entire Zone at the highly anticipated state finals. Absolutely everyone in that packed hall knew the truth: the real contest wasn't just between two random names printed on a piece of paper. It was a bitter, long-standing rivalry between two families.Tucked away in a quiet corner backstage, Naira Khurana calmly adjusted the woven strap of her guitar. She softly hummed a melody under her breath, completely unbothered by the frantic chaos swirling around her. Her hair was tied up in a loose, effortless knot, with a few stray strands escaping the clip to frame her face. She wore a simple, comfortable kurta paired with casual denim jeans—a look that was a far cry from the extravagant, glittering costumes of the other performers. She was ready. Naira caught her reflection in the small mirror propped against the wall and grinned at herself. "You look like you're about to get coffee, not perform in front of three hundred people," teased Ria, her friend, who stood beside her clutching a bottle of water like it was a life raft. "That's the point," Naira said, plucking a string lightly. "Music doesn't care what you're wearing." A few feet away, in a separate makeshift green room sectioned off by a thin curtain, Meera Agarwal sat perfectly still while her grandmother fussed over the dress. The Veena rested across her lap, polished and gleaming, an instrument that had belonged to her grandmother's grandmother - an heirloom, a responsibility, a weight Meera Agarwal had carried since she was six years old. "Sit straight," Parvati Agarwal instructed, her voice low but firm, the kind of voice that didn't need to be raised to command a room. "Remember what I taught. This is not just a competition, Meera. This is about who we are." "Yes, Dadi maa," Meera murmured, her eyes fixed on the strings in front of her. She didn't argue. She never did. Outside, the announcer's voice crackled through the speakers, calling the final two contestants to the stage. Naira jogged out first, guitar slung over her shoulder, waving cheerfully at the crowd as if she'd known them all her life. A ripple of applause followed her, mixed with a few appreciative whistles from the back rows.Meera walked out next, measured and graceful, her gaze lowered respectfully before she settled onto the bed pad positioned at the stage. The audience quieted instantly, the kind of hush reserved for something near sacred. Two girls. Two instruments. Two entirely different worlds, standing ten feet apart under the same stage lights. Meera went first.She placed her fingers on the veena with the precision of somehow who had rehearsed this exact moment a thousand times in her head. The first notes rang out - slow, deliberate that silenced even the restless teenagers in the back row. This was a raga passed down through generations, taught to her not as a hobby but as an inheritance. She lifted her eyes to Naira as they locked eyes both had a smile in their eyes. Then it was Naira's turn.The moment her fingers hit the strings, something in the room shifted. It wasn't classical, it wasn't polished in the traditional sense - it was raw, warm and unmistakably alive. She sang an original composition something she had remixed with meera's traditional composition while chasing a horizon that kept moving further away. Her voice cracked slightly on the high note in verse, and instead of covering it up, she let it stay, let it become part of the composition. Now Meera turn, her eyes were closed. Her fingers moved like they belonged to someone twice her age, someone who had lived through every note before playing it. For a few minutes, the entire hall seemed to hold its breath, suspended in the ancient, aching between the beauty of the piece. Then Naira played with Meera, unconsciously they sang together by the same tune but different instrument. They continued by creating a new level where the audience cheered for them.By the time they strummed the final chord, half the audience was on its feet. Naira's grandmother, Shoba Khurana, sat in the third row, beaming with the pride that bordered on smug. She turned slightly toward the row behind her, where Parvati Agarwal sat with her spine rigid and her expression unreadable, and allowed herself the smallest, most deliberate smile. On the stage, the two girls continued where Meera felt alive with the music within the soul speaks freely as Naira always do. And then - a sharp, jarring snap The high string of the Veena broke, whipping back and slicing across Meera's fingertip. She gasped, more from shock than pain, her hand freezing mid-air as a thin line of blood welled up on her finger. The music died on her part with her soul silencing inside. Only one part of the instrument is playing.While Meera's music stopped, Naira continued her part in her music world. For a moment, Meera simply sat there, staring at her hand at the broken string curling uselessly of the instrument, at three years—no, thirteen—of practice unraveling in a single second.She didn't cry. Not yet. A teacher rushed onto the stage to check on her, but Meera shook her head, quietly insisting she was fine. Naira was on the final chord with cheers from the audience and to the end she finished with shouts and clapping. Sounds of cheers echoed through the room.Meera was only feeling sorry for scholarship reward but she was happy for Naira. The results were announced. "And representing our zone at state-level finals—Naira Khurana." The hall erupted, Naira was stunned for a second then turned her head towards Meera who had a wound in her finger. There was worry in Naira's eyes when she was about to go to her. Meera shook her head with a signal that their grandmother was there. Naira stopped letting out a sign but Meera Congratulated her with a smile. Then Ria practically tackled her in a hug. Somewhere in the crowd, Shobha Khurana rose from her seat, clapping so enthusiastically that her bangles clinked together like tiny bells of victory. She made a way to the Agarwal section without any hesitation, a spring in her step that could be described as triumphant. "What a shame," Shobha said, her tone dripping with false sympathy as she stopped in front of parvati. "All that heritage, all that discipline - and one string was all it took. Roop Perhaps modern hands are simply steadier than the old traditions, hain?" Parvati's jaw tightened, but she said nothing, her silence somehow sharper than any retort could have been. Backstage, Meera sat on a bench with a strip of cloth wrapped around her fingers, her veena resting beside her like a wounded companion as she was thinking about how to handle her grandmother. When Parvati finally found her weaving through the congratulatory chaos surrounding Naira, her expression had shifted from disappointment to something colder, more calculated. "Dadi maa, I’m sorry." Meera’s voice wavered, her eyes brimming "The string just – I don’t know what happened, I checked It this morning, I - ” “Sorry doesn’t win competitions,” Parvati said curtly, though there was the faintest c***k beneath her sternness - not anger at Meera, exactly, but something heavier. Old wounds, perhaps, reopened by a familiar face in the audience. “Get your things. We’re leaving.” Two girls walking on the ice. one strong minded and another with strict tradition chained her.