The symposium was over, but its afterglow lingered in unexpected ways.
On Monday morning, Vishakha found a note slipped into her locker—neatly folded, anonymous.
"I've never spoken in class before. But after your speech, I think I want to try. Thank you."
She read it twice before carefully tucking it into the back of her diary.
Later that day, in the corridor near the library, someone tapped her shoulder. It was a junior girl from Class 7, the same one who had painted the backdrop for the street play.
"Didi," she whispered shyly, "can I show you something I wrote?"
Vishakha blinked. "Of course."
The girl handed over a sheet of lined paper, her handwriting tilted and uneven. It was a poem—raw, full of hesitation and hope. About a tree that wanted to speak, but couldn't, until the wind passed through its branches.
Vishakha smiled, genuinely moved. "This is beautiful. Would you like to share it during our next assembly?"
The girl hesitated, then gave a quick nod before scurrying away.
Vishakha stood there for a long moment, paper in hand, marvelling at the quiet magic of connection. Words had become bridges.
By the end of the week, Mrs. Gupta had called her to the staff room again.
"You've started something," she said simply. "I've had students come up asking about writing clubs. Juniors looking for mentors. There's a spark. I was thinking… maybe you'd like to help us shape something permanent out of it?"
"Like… a club?" Vishakha asked.
"More than a club. A collective, maybe. A space for expression. A forum where students can share personal narratives—spoken, written, performed. Something student-led."
It sounded large. And ambitious. But as Vishakha looked out the window and saw two classmates laughing under a peepal tree, sharing a worn copy of a novel, it didn't seem impossible.
"I'd love to," she said.
That weekend, Vishakha sat with a sheet of paper and a fresh idea.
Name: The Listening Room.
A space for unheard stories.
She floated the concept during class rep hour the next week, expecting mild interest. Instead, hands shot up. Ideas poured in—spoken word nights, zine projects, open mic sessions, interviews with school staff. Everyone wanted a space like this.
"I think we're making something real," whispered Kritika, one of her fellow reps, as they walked to the admin office to book the AV room.
Vishakha smiled. It didn't feel like leadership. It felt like weaving threads—connecting people to ideas, stories to ears.
Even at home, change was subtle but steady.
Ahan had started recording short audio stories on her old phone—narrating made-up adventures with his cricket bat as a superhero. Their mother listened during evening chai, laughing out loud sometimes, eyes full of something quiet and proud.
Their father had asked to read Vishakha's speech. Twice.
One evening, he placed the printed copy beside her plate at dinner and said softly, "Your words reminded me of something I'd forgotten—how much I used to love writing letters."
"Letters?"
He nodded. "Before email, before WhatsApp. Real letters. I used to write to your mother every week while I worked in Pune."
Vishakha looked at her mother, who was trying to hide a smile behind her glass of water.
He continued, "You made me want to write again."
And just like that, another ripple.
Weeks passed.
The Listening Room officially launched with its first open forum in the school amphitheatre. Lights strung across the trees. Handwritten signs. A crowd bigger than they expected.
Vishakha sat in the front row as students read out monologues, short stories, diary entries. One boy sang a song he had written for his grandmother. Another girl described what it felt like to move cities and leave behind a language.
No one clapped immediately. There was always a moment of pause. As if the audience needed to hold the words a little longer before responding.
Vishakha took the stage last—not with a new speech, but with a letter.
To the girl who didn't know her voice mattered, she read, this is what happens when you try anyway. When you dare to speak, and find others waiting to listen.
Tears glimmered in a few corners. The applause came like breath—soft, sincere, alive.
Later that night, she wrote in her diary again, beneath the old torch drawing:
When you light a torch, you don't just see the road—you let others find it too.
She paused, and added:
"The path is never mine alone. And that's what makes it beautiful."