🇮🇳 Republic Day Special — From Me to You

On this Republic Day, I’m beginning Farz-e-Dil—a story born from duty, resilience, and the kind of love that’s earned, not rushed. If these pages move you, stay with me—vote, comment, and let me know you’re here. Your presence turns words into a journey, and together we’ll walk it slowly, honestly, and with heart. 🤍

Enjoy!

THE HOUSE THAT TAUGHT ME SILENCE

I learned early that walls have ears.

Not the kind people joke about—

the kind that listen, remember, and repeat.

This house didn’t creak when people walked.

It didn’t sigh when doors shut.

It stood still, like it was trained to.

As if even bricks here knew when to stay quiet.

I woke before the azaan, before the city decided whether it wanted to breathe peacefully or choke on news again. The ceiling fan was still spinning, slow and uneven, like it was tired of pretending it worked properly. I counted its rotations the way some people count sheep.

One.

Two.

Three.

Routine was survival here.

You didn’t ask why.

You didn’t ask how long.

You only learned when to stop thinking.

My mattress lay directly on the floor.

Thin. Folded at the corners. Easy to roll up if needed. Everything in my room was movable, replaceable, forgettable.

Including me.

I sat up slowly, careful not to let the metal spring beneath the door make a sound. Even the smallest noise could become a question later. Questions weren’t dangerous by themselves.

Answers were.

The room smelled faintly of damp concrete and old incense. Someone had lit agarbatti downstairs the night before—probably to mask another smell. There was always another smell.

Gun oil.

Sweat.

Fear.

I folded my blanket, aligned its edges, and placed it against the wall. Habit, not pride. Order gave the illusion of control. Illusions mattered.

From the corner shelf, I picked up my dupatta and wrapped it around my head—not tightly, not loosely. Just enough. Too much invited comment. Too little invited worse.

I caught my reflection in the cracked mirror.

Still the same face.

Still careful eyes.

Still breathing.

Good.

Downstairs, voices murmured—low, clipped. Men who didn’t waste words. Men who had learned that silence could protect more than bullets.

I paused at the top of the stairs, listening.

“…route clear hai.”

The route is clear.

Another voice replied, rougher. “Koi gadbad nahi chahiye.”

I don’t want any trouble.

I waited until footsteps moved away from the living area before descending. Timing mattered. It always had.

The kitchen light was already on. A single tube, flickering like it might give up any second. I liked it better when it flickered—it reminded me nothing here was permanent.

I filled a steel glass with water and drank slowly. No rush. Rushing made people notice you.

On the counter lay a folded newspaper. I didn’t touch it. I never did. News here was never just news. It was warning. Code. Threat.

Behind me, a chair scraped.

I didn’t turn immediately.

“You’re awake early.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It never was. Loud voices were for people who wanted to be remembered.

“Yes,” I said.

That was enough. Full sentence. Neutral tone.

I turned after a respectful pause.

He sat at the table, sleeves rolled up, a cup of untouched tea in front of him. His eyes were sharp, alert—always calculating distances, exits, possibilities.

People called him many things outside these walls.

Inside, he was simply him.

Never abba.

Never father.

Those words required safety. I had never owned that currency.

“You didn’t eat last night,” he said.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

A lie. But a permitted one.

He studied my face for a moment, like he was trying to read something written in a language he’d once known and forgotten.

“Today, you’ll stay inside.”

I nodded.

No question. No resistance. Staying inside was easier. Inside had rules. Outside had consequences.

He stood, took a sip of tea, then stopped. “If anyone asks—”

“I don’t know anything,” I said quietly.

A muscle in his jaw flexed. Approval? Relief? Something else? I didn’t care to name it.

Good. Silence maintained.

He left without another word.

The door shut behind him with a finality that echoed longer than it should have.

I leaned against the counter only after his footsteps disappeared. My fingers curled into my dupatta, nails biting fabric.

This was how mornings worked here.

Orders.

Absence.

Aftermath.

I washed the cup he hadn’t finished and placed it upside down to dry. Water dripped steadily into the sink, each drop loud in the empty kitchen.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

I wondered—briefly, dangerously—what it would be like to wake up in a house where mornings meant breakfast conversations instead of instructions.

The thought passed.

Thinking too far ahead was another luxury I couldn’t afford.

I returned to my room, closed the door, and sat cross-legged on the floor. From beneath the mattress, I pulled out the only thing that was truly mine.

A notebook.

Its pages were mostly blank. Not because I had nothing to say—

but because writing things down felt like leaving fingerprints.

Still, sometimes, the words pressed too hard against my chest.

I opened to a random page and wrote one line. Just one.

“Agar main chup hoon, iska matlab yeh nahi ke main mehsoos nahi karti.”

If I am silent, it doesn’t mean I don’t feel.

I closed the notebook immediately and slid it back into hiding.

Feeling was dangerous.

Remembering was worse.

From the window, I could see a sliver of sky—grey, undecided. Somewhere beyond it, life went on. People laughed. People argued over tea. People fell in love without calculating escape routes.

I pressed my forehead to the glass.

One day, I promised myself.

Not hope. Not belief.

Just a quiet, stubborn promise.

The house settled into its daytime silence after he left.

It wasn’t peace.

It was suspension.

Silence here meant the air was waiting—holding its breath until someone decided to disturb it.

I sat by the window longer than I should have. The glass was dusty, layered with fingerprints that weren’t mine. Outside, the lane looked ordinary enough if you didn’t know where to look. A chai stall at the corner. A half-broken streetlight. Two boys kicking a flat football back and forth like they had all the time in the world.

Normal was camouflage.

I watched a woman hang clothes from her balcony across the lane. Red dupatta. Blue kurta. She moved without looking over her shoulder. That alone made her feel unreal to me.

She laughed suddenly—sharp, unrestrained.

The sound cut through the air like something fragile being broken.

I flinched before I could stop myself.

Laughter here was reckless.

My body reacted before my mind could correct it. I stepped back from the window, heart picking up speed, palms damp.

Control it.

I pressed my fingers into my wrist until the pulse slowed.

This was what survival looked like—constant correction. Constant adjustment. A life spent unlearning instinct.

By mid-morning, the house grew warmer. Heat climbed the walls, settled into the rooms, made breathing heavier. I moved quietly from room to room, cleaning things that were already clean.

Order was an excuse to stay busy.

Busy meant less thinking.

In the back room, a cupboard stood locked. It always was. The key stayed with him. I didn’t wonder what was inside anymore. Curiosity had been trained out of me years ago.

Still, as I wiped the dust off its surface, my hand paused.

I remembered being younger—small enough that my feet barely touched the ground when I sat on the counter. Back then, I had asked questions without understanding what they cost.

“Yeh kya hai?” I had pointed once, at a stack of sealed envelopes.

What is this?

He hadn’t raised his voice. He never did.

“Tumhein zaroorat nahi hai jaanna.”

You don’t need to know.

That was the day I learned the difference between don’t and can’t.

I finished cleaning and returned the cloth to the sink. Noon prayers echoed faintly from a distant mosque, carried by wind and distance. I stood still until they faded.

Time here moved strangely. Hours stretched and snapped without warning.

Around afternoon, the phone rang.

I froze.

It rang again.

Three short rings. Pause. Two long.

A pattern.

I didn’t move until the third cycle ended. Only then did I pick up, careful not to breathe too loudly into the receiver.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then a voice—not his. Younger. Unfamiliar.

“Zoya?”

My stomach tightened.

“Yes.”

A pause, then, “Tum ghar par ho?”

Are you at home?

“I was told to stay in,” I replied carefully.

A breath on the other end. “Achha hai.”

That’s good.

I waited. He would speak if he wanted to. Interrupting felt dangerous.

“There may be people watching the lane today,” he continued. “Bas… khidki se door rehna.”

Just… stay away from the window.

“I understand.”

The line went dead.

I held the phone for a few seconds longer than necessary, listening to nothing. Then I placed it back exactly where it belonged.

Watching the lane.

Watching us.

The thought settled cold and familiar in my chest.

I pulled the curtains fully shut this time. The room dimmed, edges blurring into shadow. Safer like this. Darkness hid reactions.

I sat on the floor with my back against the bed and let my head fall back.

Sometimes, I wondered what people thought when they heard my name. If they imagined a face. A story. A choice.

They never imagined this.

They never imagined a girl who learned how to disappear while standing in plain sight.

The afternoon dragged. My stomach growled, sharp and insistent. I ignored it at first. Hunger passed if you waited long enough. Eventually, everything did.

By evening, clouds rolled in—thick, heavy. The kind that promised rain but enjoyed making people wait.

Thunder rumbled distantly.

The front door opened just after dusk.

I stood automatically, spine straight, expression neutral.

He entered with two others. I recognized neither of them. Both men scanned the room quickly, assessing exits, shadows, distances. Their eyes skimmed over me like I was furniture.

Good.

One of them spoke to him in a low voice. “Army ka movement badh raha hai.”

Army movement is increasing.

My breath caught before I could stop it.

Army.

The word carried weight. Order. Authority. Everything this house worked to stay invisible from.

“Route change kar denge,” he replied calmly.

We’ll change the route.

The men nodded and left within minutes, their presence evaporating like they had never existed.

He turned to me then.

“Tum theek ho?”

Are you okay?

“Yes.”

Always yes.

He studied me for a second longer than usual. Something unreadable passed through his eyes—calculation mixed with something else. Fatigue, maybe.

“Kal subah hum yahan se jaa rahe hain.”

We’re leaving here tomorrow morning.

My fingers curled at my side.

“Where?”

A single word. Dangerous.

He didn’t scold me for it. Instead, he looked away.

“Bas… jagah badalni hai.”

Just… need to change places.

I nodded.

Change places.

Change names.

Change lives like clothes.

That was how it had always been.

Night fell heavy and sudden. Rain finally broke, loud against the tin sheets of neighboring houses. I lay on my mattress, listening to each drop hit like punctuation.

The city smelled clean for a few minutes—washed, honest.

I stared at the ceiling, counting cracks instead of fan rotations.

Somewhere out there, men in uniform walked streets openly. They didn’t whisper. They didn’t erase themselves.

I wondered—quietly, carefully—what it would feel like to stand beside someone like that. Not hidden. Not protected by lies.

The thought scared me more than it should have.

I turned onto my side, pulling the blanket up to my chin.

Tomorrow, everything would move again.

New walls.

New silence.

But the same rule would follow me.

Survive first.

Feel later—if at all.

The house doesn’t sleep.

It only pretends to.

Night here is not silence — it is surveillance. Every wall listens. Every switch remembers who touched it last. Even the shadows feel owned.

I lie still on the thin mattress, counting breaths instead of sheep. One. Two. Three. If I count too fast, fear wins. If I count too slow, memory crawls in.

So I stay in between.

The ceiling fan clicks once every rotation — a tired sound, like something that wants to stop but can’t. I keep my eyes open, fixed on the crack near the tube light. That crack wasn’t there when we first came. It appeared after an argument I wasn’t part of. Things break here even when you’re silent.

My fingers curl around the edge of the blanket. I don’t pull it tighter. I never do. Wrapped warmth feels like restraint. I learned that early.

A door opens somewhere in the house.

Not slammed. Not careful. Just… deliberate.

My body reacts before my mind does. Spine stiff. Breath caught halfway. Muscles ready for a command that hasn’t been given yet.

Footsteps. Measured. Familiar.

I don’t turn my head. I don’t pretend to sleep either. Pretending invites inspection.

The door to my room stays open. Always has. Privacy here is a word people use elsewhere.

He doesn’t enter. He never does at night. Night is for thinking, not correcting.

“You were late,” he says.

Not loud. Not angry. Just stated — like a fact on a report.

“I stayed back to clean,” I reply. My voice doesn’t shake. I practiced that too.

Silence stretches. He likes silence. It makes people fill it with mistakes.

“Hm.” A pause. “Don’t repeat it.”

“I won’t.”

That’s enough. He leaves.

The footsteps retreat. The house exhales — not relief, just continuation.

I wait another full minute before moving. Rules here are invisible but strict: never rush after permission.

When I finally sit up, my shirt sticks to my back. Sweat. Fear. Same thing most nights.

I swing my legs down and touch the floor. Cold. Grounding. Real.

The window beside my bed is barred — thin metal rods painted white, pretending to be decorative. Beyond them, the city glows faintly. Somewhere out there, people laugh at night. Somewhere, doors close because people want them closed.

I press my forehead lightly against the bars. Not hard enough to bruise. Just enough to feel resistance.

This is not home, I tell myself.

I have never allowed myself to call it that.

A memory tries to surface — younger, smaller, a different house. I push it down. Some memories don’t fade; they sharpen. I don’t need sharper.

Instead, I think of numbers. Timetables. Patterns. Safer things.

I trace invisible grids on my palm, aligning chaos into order. I imagine a future where information is power — where knowing how systems work matters more than who raised you inside them.

I don’t know when that thought became survival instead of ambition.

A sound cuts through my focus — not from inside the house, but outside.

Sirens. Distant. Brief.

I freeze.

Not fear this time. Awareness.

Sirens mean many things. Tonight, they pass. They always do.

Still, my chest tightens with something else — not panic, not hope. A question I don’t let myself ask.

Who stops them when they don’t pass?

I don’t know his face. Not clearly. I’ve seen uniforms, boots, authority in fragments. Strength that doesn’t shout. Control that doesn’t need threats.

I’ve learned not to imagine saviours. But sometimes my mind slips.

I shake my head once, sharply.

Dangerous habit.

I return to the mattress and lie down again, this time on my side. The wall is cool against my cheek. Solid. Unfeeling.

Sleep comes slowly. Carefully. Like a negotiation.

Just before my eyes close, one thought presses through — unwanted, uninvited, stubborn:

One day, I will choose my silence.

And it will not belong to this house.

Outside, somewhere far away, boots hit the ground in rhythm. Orders are given. Lines are crossed.

I don’t know it yet — but tonight, two lives move closer on opposite paths.

And neither of us is free.

The ceiling doesn’t change, but something inside me does.

It’s subtle. Not loud enough to call courage. Not sharp enough to call anger. Just a quiet tightening — like a thread pulled once too often, refusing to snap.

I notice how time behaves differently here. It doesn’t move forward; it circles. Every sound returns to me twice. Every silence stays longer than it should. Even my breathing feels supervised, as if the air itself has clearance levels.

I think of the man who stood between me and fire — not as a saviour, not as a protector — but as someone who chose impact over safety. I don’t know what it cost him. I only know it wasn’t free.

And that thought refuses to sit still.

If survival was meant to feel like relief, why does it feel like a question?

My fingers curl slowly against the sheet. The fabric is rough, hospital-clean, unfamiliar. Everything familiar has been removed. Even my past feels archived — sealed somewhere I’m not allowed to access without permission.

I remember rules. I grew up around them. Unspoken ones. The kind that live in lowered voices and locked doors. The kind that teach you how not to ask.

So I don’t ask.

But something in me watches.

The guards change shifts. The nurse avoids my eyes when I ask for water the second time. A file is carried out of the room and not brought back. These are small things. But small things are how danger announces itself — politely.

I turn my head slightly, just enough to see the window. Bars disguised as frames. Protection dressed up as care.

A thought lands, unwanted but steady.

I didn’t survive to be preserved.

I survived because something unfinished followed me back.

My throat tightens, not with fear — with resolve I don’t yet understand.

I whisper, barely sound, barely intent:

“Main sirf zinda rehne ke liye nahi bachi hoon.”

I didn’t survive just to stay alive.

The words surprise me. Not because they’re brave — but because they’re honest.

Outside, boots pause. Then move on.

Whoever is deciding things about me believes silence keeps people safe.

They’re wrong.

Silence doesn’t protect.

It prepares.

And somewhere beyond this guarded room, I know — without proof, without permission — that the man who walked away from my bedside didn’t leave because he didn’t care.

He left because staying would have meant crossing a line even he was afraid to name.

That knowledge doesn’t comfort me.

It steadies me.

Because if lines exist, they can be redrawn.

And if I am a risk — then I will learn why.

Not today.

Not loudly.

But soon.

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P♥️

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