The school bus rumbled beneath her feet, its usual chatter and jolting turns lost to the storm of thoughts inside Vishakha's head. The slip of paper Mrs. Gupta had handed her—containing the symposium details—was folded neatly in her pocket, though it may as well have been glowing. She hadn't said yes. Not yet. But she hadn't said no either.
That night, she sat at her study table, staring at the trophy again. It had stopped gleaming quite so boldly, now just reflecting the lamp's yellow light. Her fingers hovered over her diary. A soft knock came at the door.
"Come in," she said, expecting her mother.
But it was her younger brother, Ahan.
"You left your water bottle downstairs," he said, placing it beside her, then pausing. "You okay?"
She smiled faintly. "Yeah. Just thinking."
He nodded sagely, the way only a twelve-year-old with a new sense of self-importance could. "Is it about that speech thing? I heard Mummy talking on the phone. She was really proud."
Vishakha blinked. "Already?"
"She said something about 'finally understanding what Adira saw.'"
That word again—Adira. Like a lighthouse in fog, that name anchored her, reminding her of how this had all started. A street play, a challenge, and a voice that had once been hesitant now daring to echo louder.
"Thanks, Ahan," she said, ruffling his hair.
He grinned and darted out, leaving her alone again with the quiet hum of the table lamp and her racing thoughts.
She opened her diary. The torch drawing stared back at her. Underneath it, she scribbled: What if the path I light is not just mine to walk?
By Friday, she had made her decision. Her hands were still sweaty as she stood outside Mrs. Gupta's classroom. Before she could second-guess herself, she stepped inside.
"I'd like to try," she said.
Mrs. Gupta's smile was immediate and warm, as if she'd known all along. "Good. You have two weeks. Take this weekend to begin shaping your thoughts. Remember, it doesn't have to be grand—it just has to be honest."
The first weekend was clumsy. Vishakha's first draft was riddled with abstract words: narrative, resistance, amplify, oppression. All correct, technically—but it felt like she was imitating someone else's speech, not finding her own.
She deleted the entire thing Sunday night.
Instead, she went for a walk. The narrow lane behind her building still had chalky reminders of Independence Week—half-faded rangoli, bits of ribbon caught in tree branches. She paused at the corner tea stall, where a familiar voice called out.
"Madam Vishakha!"
It was Ramesh, the chaiwala who had offered their play troupe water during rehearsals.
"Still famous, are you?" he grinned, handing a cup of tea to a customer.
"Hardly," she smiled, walking over. "I'm working on something new. A speech."
"Another play?"
"No, this time… just me. Talking."
He nodded, pouring hot water into cups. "Talking can be harder than acting, na? But if it comes from here—" he tapped his chest—"people listen."
She smiled, something clicking into place.
That night, her words flowed differently.
She began the speech with a story.
When I was little, I used to believe voices had weight. That the louder you were, the more you mattered. I didn't understand that silence could be a voice, too. That some voices are not missing—they're just waiting.
She wrote of Meera, the girl in the play who held up a mirror to society. She wrote about her own shyness, her struggle to speak up in class, the ache of being overlooked. She mentioned the quiet strength of her classmates who spoke up for others, the unnoticed janitor who worked long hours without recognition, the boy who painted murals in the back corridors.
She wrote about echoes—how one voice could spark another. How Adira's challenge had lit a flame in her. How leadership was less about standing above and more about standing beside.
By Wednesday, she had a full draft. She printed it out and read it to her mother, her father, and finally to Mrs. Gupta.
There was silence afterward.
"Is it too raw?" Vishakha asked.
Mrs. Gupta shook her head slowly. "No. It's perfect. It's you."
The symposium day arrived like a whisper, not a storm.
St. Helina's auditorium was vast, with mahogany-panelled walls and an audience of over two hundred students and faculty. Vishakha sat backstage, her notes in her lap, breathing slowly. She had practiced. She had prepared. But it wasn't the words she clung to now—it was the feeling. The truth behind them.
Her name was announced.
She stepped onto the stage.
At first, the lights blinded her. The microphone stood like a sentinel. Her heart thudded.
What if I forget a line?
What if they don't care?
But then she spotted a girl in the third row. Leaning forward, listening already. She looked just like Vishakha had once felt: curious, unsure, ready.
Vishakha exhaled. She began.
The speech was eleven minutes long.
But what people remembered wasn't just the words. It was her voice. Clear, certain, and gentle. She didn't quote great thinkers or thunder into the microphone. She spoke like someone offering a hand.
When she stepped down, the applause followed her offstage like waves.