Deepa, a docile teenager, was exuberant when she held the scholarship form for higher studies in her hands. She remembered vividly that her teacher had asked for parental consent and wanted her father’s signature on the dotted line. She knew she must not walk at a tardy pace as she stepped out of the matriculation school. She simply wanted to escape the cacophony of voices emanating from the school premises. As her feet found their way back to her house, she was inundated with echoes of the past.
On a sunny afternoon, a young teeny-weeny girl with two oiled, sleek ponytails was returning from primary school. She eagerly entered the two-room semi-brick-mud house to show her mother the marksheet. Her illiterate mother hugged her, and with a deep-throated chuckle, said, “Deepa, I always want you to complete your education no matter what odds are against you.” She looked at her intently with those deep, sunken eyes, and in between violent bouts of coughing, held out her hand. “Promise me,” she urged in a hoarse whisper. Deepa placed her hand on top of hers and nodded as she mouthed the word, “Yes.” In a few weeks, her mother left her earthly abode. But that resounding Yes was the zeal with which she topped the class, every grade after grade, for the last six years.
The sky grew dark as dusk set in, and so did her foreboding thoughts about being chastised by her cold, distant father. Her father, a daily wage labourer, returned home an hour past sunset. Deepa groaned inwardly, her body stiffened, and she flexed her palms into tight fists before she uttered without forethought, “I received the scholarship to continue my education. All I need is your consent,” she asked nervously.
Her father looked horrified. “You cannot study any further. Girls your age must marry and settle,” he declared.
“But I…” she pleaded almost inaudibly.
“No! Impossible!” he thundered.
“Do you want to live in this house?”
“No,” was all she could muster, weeping profusely.
Deepa fled with a few belongings, and under the tutelage of her teacher, she pursued her education.
Fifteen years later, Deepa worked as a doctor in a reputed private hospital in the city. She had never set foot in her native village since that fateful day, except for the fortnightly calls and occasional visits from her teacher.
It was on one such visit that her teacher disclosed that her father’s worsening health was due to a lack of medical treatment. Deepa yearned to seek forgiveness from her father, who had been nagging her for years.
She immediately admitted her father to a nearby hospital in the village. His frail eyes noticed Deepa diligently conversing with medical staff, making frantic calls, and taking charge of everything. A few days later, her father acknowledged with a glint of pride in his eyes, “Yes, you made the right choice, and that has saved my life.”
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– Vandana Kumar
About The Writer:
Vandana Kumar is a writer at heart and a marketer by profession. After years in the corporate world of search engine marketing and content writing, she continues to find her voice in the beauty of poetry, storytelling, and painting. Her work reflects a deep love for words, emotions, and the stories that connect people. Whether she’s creating content for a brand or penning a heartfelt verse, Vandana believes that creativity — in any form — has the power to inspire, heal, and make the world a little brighter.
