Street alive — vendors shouting, horns blaring, samosas frying, the smell of wet soil mixing with spices. I clutched my basket tightly. “One day, I’ll sell my own things here,” I whispered to myself. Cooking had always been my passion, but since childhood I’d been told, learn to cook this for your future husband, that for your family. Everyone had a voice for my life except me.
I learned anyway. I watched Amma fry crispy golden pakodas, her hands steady and sure. I followed Masi’s instructions on cheesy pasta, fumbling at first but laughing at every mistake. Nights I spent glued to YouTube, experimenting with flavors, dreaming of a little shop where people would come just for my creamy cheesackae, chatting, smiling, leaving with something warm in their hands — and in their hearts.
Suddenly, a horn blared. A bulky man with a protruding stomach shoved past and muttered, “Are you blind?” I froze for a moment, my dream breaking like glass. This was the real world again. I sighed deeply and turned toward the vegetable vendor.
“Two kilos of potatoes, uncle,” I said softly. He smiled at me knowingly, as if he understood my heart. “Ah, so someone is coming to see you, beta. All the best,” he said.
I carried my basket and walked slowly, feeling both the weight of the vegetables and the spark of my dream still alive in me.
Will I wait for the world to notice me, or will I carve my own space here?
