Patrama Prem ~ A Gosham SS [Completed] - Page 2

Originally posted by: themasked

Is there a reason why Ashi is toying with Gopika's emotions?

She is jealous and wants to see her suffer

Originally posted by: coderlady

Why did Gopika think the note came from Chirag? He was not even present when she found the note. Or maybe she thought the note was placed long before.

Because Aashi had already manipulated into thinking that Chirag admires her so when she got the note, it is from Chirag.

Chapter 2 (Notes in the Shadows)

Chirag’s Encouragement

The next few days at Modi Jewels carried an odd sweetness for Gopika. Each time she delivered the tiffin, she stole nervous glances at Chirag. He was kind as always—professional, polite, busy with clients and gemstones—but her heart fluttered at every word, as if hidden meaning lurked between his sentences.

One afternoon, when she bent to collect the empty containers, Chirag paused.
“These designs,” he said, glancing at the scrap of paper she had used to wrap the lids, “who drew them?”

Gopika froze, spectacles slipping dangerously. “I… I did, sir.”

Chirag smiled, adjusting his cufflinks. “You have an eye for detail. The curves, the motifs—they’re fresh. With practice, you could refine them further. Try studying proportions, balance. Jewelry must not only be beautiful; it must sit well on the body.”

His words were measured, professional. But to Gopika, they glowed like sunlight through temple glass. He noticed. He guided me. She clutched her sketchbook tighter that evening, replaying his advice as though they were intimate confessions.

From across the office, unseen, Saksham had been watching.

Saksham’s Gaze

Through the glass partition of his cabin, Saksham often caught sight of her—small, spectacles slipping, sketchbook always clutched to her chest. She never lingered, never spoke more than was necessary. Yet there was something unguarded about her, a purity that unsettled him.

When Chirag leaned down to offer guidance, Saksham’s jaw tightened. It wasn’t jealousy—not yet—but a gnawing curiosity. What kind of girl poured devotion into designs yet flinched from recognition?

That night, as the office emptied and the city’s neon glow lit his desk, he pulled out another notepad. His pen hesitated before touching paper. This time, his words came less like advice and more like confession:

Your lines are prayers in graphite. Do not let the world silence them. They belong to you, as much as breath belongs to life.

He folded the note, slipped it under the tiffin tray the next morning.

The Second Note

When Gopika lifted the containers, the slip of paper fluttered free again. Her heart leapt. Fingers trembling, she unfolded it.

Your lines are prayers in graphite. Do not let the world silence them. They belong to you, as much as breath belongs to life.

Her vision blurred behind her spectacles. The words felt more intimate, more certain, more… tender. This cannot be anyone but Chirag sir. Who else in the world could write so knowingly, so poetically, about her hidden soul?

Clutching the note to her chest, she whispered, “Chirag sir sees me.”

Aashi Fans the Fire

That evening, Aashi found her staring at the note again, her cheeks pink with quiet joy. “Another one?” she gasped theatrically.

Gopika tried to hide it, but Aashi plucked it from her hands, skimming the lines. Her eyes widened in mock astonishment. “Oh, Gopi! This… this is practically a love poem!”

Gopika’s ears turned scarlet. “No… it’s only encouragement. Professional encouragement.”

Aashi tilted her head, voice sly. “Professional? Gopi, wake up! Do you think Chirag sir would write this to just anyone? Your lines are prayers in graphite…” She repeated the phrase with dramatic emphasis. “That isn’t office talk, that’s—” she lowered her voice mischievously—“a man too shy to say what he feels aloud.”

Gopika’s breath caught. “You really think…?”

Aashi clasped her hand warmly. “Of course. Some men hide their hearts behind silence. But their words slip out in other ways. You’re lucky, Gopi. He sees your soul.”

That night, Gopika lay awake, the second note pressed to her chest. She did not know that in another corner of Ahmedabad, the hand that had written those words belonged not to Chirag, but to the man she had barely dared to notice—the one whose eyes had already begun to follow her in secret.

A Budding Whisper in the Halls

It began with one sketch, then another. Gopika, her sketchbook always tucked under her arm, had started slipping in little doodles whenever she delivered the tiffin. Not intentionally—sometimes a sheet was left beneath a container, sometimes her pencil slipped mid-delivery and left behind a fragment. Slowly, they found their way into the hands of artisans at Modi Jewels.

At first, the karigars chuckled, amused by the timid girl’s attempts. But soon, whispers spread: her lines were fresh, devotional, oddly moving. A pendant with lotus buds. A bangle that curled like waves. Earrings that seemed to hum with Kanha ji’s flute.

One afternoon, as Chirag walked past a worktable, his eyes landed on a sketch pinned for reference.
“Not bad,” he remarked casually, adjusting his tie. “It has… feeling. Whoever drew this has promise.”

The words were offhand, nothing more than professional acknowledgment. But Gopika, standing nearby with her tiffin tray, felt them pierce straight into her heart. Her cheeks burned. He said it has feeling. He noticed me again.

Saksham’s Silent Turmoil

From the glass cabin above, Saksham saw it all—the way Chirag’s small praise lit up her face, the way she held her sketchbook tighter as though it were a secret diary. His own hand tightened around his pen.

Twice now, he had left notes. Twice, she had received them as though they were drops of ambrosia. A part of him ached to reveal himself, to claim her gaze for his own. But another part whispered caution: what if she shrank from the truth? What if the shy delivery girl wasn’t meant to be tangled in his world of deals and diamonds?

That night, he drafted a note again. This time it was bolder, almost confessional:

Some lines are so alive they haunt the beholder. Yours haunt me still.

But as his eyes lingered on the words, he folded the page and tucked it into his drawer instead of her tray. His heart wanted to reach for her, but his mind pulled him back. Not yet.

A Design for Chirag

Gopika’s heart, however, had already chosen its direction. Convinced Chirag sir admired her secretly, she spent a sleepless night pouring her reverence into a single design.

It was a necklace—graceful, yet bold. The chain coiled like a flute’s stem, each curve twined with lotus petals. At its center hung a delicate pendant shaped like a heart, encircled by feathers. A design woven of devotion, her own quiet tribute to the man she believed saw her.

The next morning, her hands trembled as she slipped the sheet among the regular design proposals at the office. She imagined Chirag discovering it, his eyes softening, his lips curving in a hidden smile.

The Wrong Pair of Eyes

But it was not Chirag who saw it first.

Saksham, alone in his cabin, shuffled through the day’s submissions when the sketch fell into his hands. He stilled. His breath caught.

The necklace shimmered on paper as though alive. The devotion in its lines—delicate, reverent, full of unsaid longing—struck him like a chord plucked too close to the heart.

For a long moment, he could only stare. He didn’t see it as a design for Chirag, or for anyone else. To him, it was a confession left in graphite—a soul speaking to him in silence.

“Who are you?” he whispered into the quiet office, his thumb brushing the fragile lines. “And why do your sketches feel like prayers meant only for me?”

Unaware, Gopika walked home that evening with her spectacles slipping and her heart fluttering at the thought of Chirag sir’s secret admiration—while in another corner of Ahmedabad, Saksham sat haunted, believing the design had been made for him.

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To be continued.

Chapter 3 (Whispers Between the Lines)

A Note That Lingers

The following morning, when Gopika approached the Modi office with her usual tiffin tray, a folded note waited beneath the lid. Her pulse quickened. This one felt heavier, more deliberate. Carefully, she unfolded it:

I see the devotion in your lines, the quiet courage behind every curve. Keep drawing, even if the world does not notice. Some hearts—like yours—cannot hide, and neither do they go unseen.

Her fingers shook. The words were so personal, so intimate, they seemed to reach past her timid heart and settle directly inside. She blinked behind her spectacles, tears threatening to spill. Chirag sir… he sees me… even when I feel invisible.

Gopika clutched the note to her chest. She could not have known that Saksham had written it, carefully weighing every word, deliberately allowing her to believe it was Chirag’s. Yet each syllable wrapped around her like a warm, protective veil.

Aashi’s Game

Later that afternoon, Aashi swooped in like a mischievous shadow. She leaned close, whispering, “Gopi… did you see? Chirag sir lingered by the design table again today.”

Gopika’s eyes widened, her cheeks blossoming red. “He… really?”

Aashi smirked knowingly. “I swear I caught him looking. Not at the designs—at you.”

Gopika’s heart skipped. Every tilt of her head, every downward glance of her spectacles, she imagined him noticing her hidden behind the sketches. She pressed her hands to her chest, trembling with quiet joy.

Ramila, from her corner, sipped her chai slowly, savoring the scene. Her lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. The gentle chaos of innocence and longing entertained her more than any soap opera or tattle could.

Strengthening Belief

For Gopika, the world had narrowed to these small, electrifying moments: a glance, a note, a whispered word. Every interaction with Chirag, every imagined secret admiration, made her feel less like a timid girl in spectacles and more like an artist whose soul could reach across the office’s glass walls.

Chirag, meanwhile, continued on with his day—unaware, entirely, of the storm of belief he had ignited in Gopika’s heart. To him, she was simply the quiet tiffin delivery girl, always polite, always careful, occasionally leaving behind intriguing sketches that he had yet to fully study.

A Quiet Spectacle

Ramila leaned back in her chair, eyes twinkling. She exchanged a glance with Aashi, who nodded imperceptibly. “She’s completely captivated,” Ramila murmured, her tone soft, but edged with satisfaction.

Aashi’s grin widened. “And every day, she falls a little deeper.”

Outside, the Ahmedabad sky stretched wide and blue. Inside, in the cozy corners of the Joshi household, a shy girl pressed a note to her chest, imagining the eyes of her secret admirer—and a pair of sharp, amused eyes watched her innocent belief unfold, quietly savoring the gentle, unfolding spectacle.

A Passing Gesture

It was a quiet afternoon at Modi Jewels. Gopika had just finished arranging Ramila’s stainless-steel tiffin on the pantry counter and, before leaving, knelt near the workbench. Out of habit, she began carefully aligning a set of colored pencils and fine-tip graphite on a small tray that had been left untidy.

Her spectacles slid down her nose again, and she absently pushed them up as she worked, every motion neat and precise—as if her hands were trained not only for cooking but also for order.

Chirag passed by, his eyes catching the slight tilt of her head and the meticulous care in her hands. Without thinking, he adjusted a few misaligned pencils, nudging them into a perfect row.
“It’s good that you keep tools so organized,” he said casually, his tone calm and professional. “Discipline in preparation makes all the difference in the final design.”

Gopika froze for a moment, her heart fluttering. To her, he wasn’t just Chirag sir—the co-CEO who gave her guidance whenever he saw her shy sketches tucked between tiffin lids. His hand had lingered just slightly longer than necessary, and his eyes—gentle, patient, yet sharp—seemed to see more than pencils.

Intimate Misreading

She swallowed, cheeks flushing beneath her spectacles. He cares… he notices… he’s worried about me, even in little things.

Her mind spun tales of secret concern, of tiny, intimate attentions. Every professional word felt like a whisper meant only for her.

Gopika’s fingers tightened around her pencil, her pulse quickening. She imagined his eyes lingering on her as she sketched between tiffin rounds, his thoughts silently cheering her on. Chirag sir sees me. He notices the smallest details. He… he cares.

An Observer Hidden

From his glass cabin, Saksham leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He had seen the small adjustment, the way Chirag’s fingers hovered over her tools, the soft praise that was meant to be casual.

And yet… something twisted in him. A strange pang of jealousy surged in his chest, unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Why am I feeling this? She was just a girl delivering meals, her dupatta always scented faintly of turmeric and soap—yet somehow, she had already taken a corner of his thoughts he hadn’t intended to give away.

He studied her quietly: the way she tucked her spectacles with nervous fingers, the shy glance she gave Chirag, the humility with which she carried her tiffin trays. All of it stirred something he hadn’t anticipated—a protectiveness, a yearning, a… claim.

The Invisible Line

Chirag, oblivious to both Saksham’s gaze and Gopika’s interpretation, moved on to check the next set of sketches.

Gopika returned to her drawing, cheeks still warm, hands shaking slightly—but her mind was alive with imagined intimacy.

Saksham leaned forward, fingers resting lightly on the desk. The sketch he had seen tucked in her tiffin yesterday now felt like a secret thread tying him to her soul, even if she did not know it.

For the first time, he wondered: what would happen if he revealed himself? But the thought of destroying her delicate belief—or shocking her with his presence—made him pause.

Outside, sunlight spilled across the office floor, touching each pencil, each tiffin, each quiet, beating heart—two of them unaware of the other, one fully convinced, and one quietly captivated.

A Gesture from the Heart

That evening, after returning from her tiffin deliveries, Gopika sat cross-legged on her room floor, sketchbook balanced carefully. Her heart still fluttered from Chirag’s casual praise. He cares about the small things… he notices me… I must show him I notice him too.

With trembling fingers, she began drafting a small letter, accompanied by a sketch: a pendant coiled like a flute, petals blooming gently into a heart-shaped motif. She wrote softly along the margins, her words shy but heartfelt:

"Sir, your guidance means more than you know. Your words have inspired me to draw with my whole heart. Please see this as a small token of my gratitude."

Satisfied, she folded the sheet and tucked it carefully into her pencil roll, imagining Chirag reading it and smiling quietly at her devotion.

A Near Miss

The next morning, Gopika walked into Modi Jewels with Ramila’s tiffin balanced neatly, her pencil roll clutched close. From his glass cabin, Saksham’s eyes lingered on her small, careful movements.

When she bent down near the workbench to slip her folded sketch-letter among the papers, he instinctively rose, drawn to glimpse what she carried.

At that moment, Aashi—who had accompanied Gopika under the guise of “helping with deliveries”—leaned in with a hushed whisper. “Careful, Gopi! Don’t drop anything.” Her glance darted briefly toward Saksham, not with understanding, but with the simple mischief of someone who enjoyed stirring curiosity.

Saksham froze mid-step, realizing any movement might betray his growing fascination. Aashi, amused by Gopika’s nervousness but oblivious to the deeper currents in the room, nudged her forward with a teasing smile. “Go on, your sketch—better not keep Chirag sir waiting.”

Oblivious, Gopika placed the letter-sketch carefully among the other sheets and retreated with a bow.

Saksham, his curiosity and desire at war with his restraint, watched the paper vanish into the pile—hidden from his eyes, yet somehow pulling at his heart.

Transition: A Night of Anticipation

That night, after a long day of tiffin deliveries, Gopika tucked her sketch-letter deep into her pencil roll, her heart fluttering with nervous anticipation. Tomorrow… he will see. He will understand.

Every detail of Chirag’s imagined reaction filled her thoughts—his calm smile softening into warmth, his eyes pausing over her lines, perhaps even saving the sketch as something precious.

She hugged the roll close, whispering, “He’ll know it’s from me… he’ll know what I couldn’t say aloud.”

Sleep carried her through a haze of hope, each dream painted with quiet promises. By morning, her steps felt lighter, her spectacles slipping as she walked with a rare, unguarded smile.

She could not know that the very day she longed for would not bring whispered affection, but the cruel breaking of her illusion.

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To be continued.

Does aashi know who wrote the note to gopika?

Originally posted by: Aleyamma47

@blue - The meaning of the title is "Love in Letters" in gujrati. Since this story is set in a gujrati setting and since it is about how love happens through letters in the form of small notes. I chose this particular title.

@red - Chirag is actually Gopika's mentor who gives her guidance and the co-CEO of the Modi Jewels where she delivers tiffins.

@pink - Because they are jealous of her talent and are evil who want Gopika to suffer.

@purple - Because Aashi was too engrossed in executing her ploy against Gopika that she never thought that someone like Saksham, the CEO of Modi Jewels would write a note to Gopika.

I will make some changes in the first chapter and rewrite it so that these things are clear in the first chapter.

Originally posted by: jasminerahul

Does aashi know who wrote the note to gopika?

She doesn't infact she doesn't even know the note was meant for Gopika, she is just busy playing her game without realizing that fate is playing a bigger game with her.

Evil as they are, how have Aashi and Ramila not wondered who is the writer of the notes? Someone is writing them and its not them.

The designs are made for the one who worships them. While Chirag admires them professionally, they don't stir his soul. The one whose soul is involved is sadly overlooked.

When her illusion breaks, hopefully the reality will also make its way towards her. That reality is grander than the illusion.

Chapter 4 (The Illusion Breaks)

The Sketch Before the Fall

The sketch she had prepared still rested in her pencil roll, edges neat, words trembling with devotion. To Gopika, it was no longer just a design—it was her heart on paper, waiting for Chirag to see it.

But the same hands that had drawn with hope would, before long, tremble with shame and tear through those very pages. The pencil that once carved love would soon erase it, stroke by stroke.

The Gathering Turns Unexpected

The Joshi house brimmed with noise that evening—teasing laughter from relatives, the clink of steel plates, children running around with sparklers. Gopika lingered quietly at the edge of the gathering, her sketchbook close to her chest, her mind still turning on one thought: Had he seen it yet? Did he understand?

When the knock came, her breath caught. It must be him…

But it was not just Chirag.

The entire Modi family stepped into the Joshi household—Mithila and Minal with graceful smiles, Keshav with his quiet dignity, Tejal bouncing in with youthful energy, Saksham standing tall just behind his parents, and finally Chirag, holding a small bouquet.

The sudden presence of the Modis in her modest home made the room fall instantly into hushed awe. Ramila bustled forward with exaggerated warmth, guiding them inside.

Gopika’s eyes searched only for Chirag, her pulse racing. He came… and he brought them all. This must mean…

The Shattering Request

But before her hopeful thoughts could take root, Chirag stepped directly toward Aashi. His voice rang clear, formal, deliberate—meant for every ear in the room:

“Ramila aunty, Badi Maa, Maa, Papa… I have come with a request. I have been in love with Aashi for a long time, and today, with my family beside me, I wish to ask for her hand.”

Gasps swept the room. Aashi glowed under the attention, tilting her chin proudly, while Ramila’s eyes gleamed with triumph. Mithila and Minal exchanged approving smiles, Keshav nodded gravely, and Tejal clapped her hands in delight.

And in the shadows by the wall, Gopika’s breath shattered.

Her sketchbook slid from her arms, tumbling to the floor with a soft thud. The folded sketch-letter she had prepared slipped out and landed near Saksham’s shoes. His eyes flicked down, catching the delicate lines of her handwriting before Gopika snatched it back with trembling hands.

No… not like this. He can’t see it this way.

A Shattering Question

Desperation forced her forward, her trembling voice cutting into the room’s applause.

“Chirag… sir… what about the notes? The letters? All those words you wrote to me?”

The gathering stilled. Every Modi, every Joshi, turned. Silence pressed heavy in the air.

Chirag blinked, puzzled, his bouquet lowering slightly. “Notes? Letters? Gopika, I don’t understand. I’ve never written you anything. Not a single note.”

Her face drained of color. “No… no, you must have. The sketches I left… the words I received… they were yours. They had to be yours…”

Chirag shook his head gently, pity softening his features. “I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken. I never knew of any notes. I… I’ve only ever loved Aashi.”

Humiliation in Front of All

The words cut through her like glass. Around her, whispers rose—relatives muttering, children giggling, Aashi smirking in quiet triumph.

Mithila’s brows knit with concern, Minal exchanged a glance with Keshav, Tejal tilted her head in confusion. And Saksham—still standing at the back, his jaw tight—saw it all: the way Gopika’s hope crumbled in front of both families, the way her eyes filled with tears she tried to hide. His gaze lingered on the sketch folded tight in her hands, realizing it had been meant for his brother.

Gopika hugged her sketchbook to her chest, but it no longer felt like a shield. It felt like a spotlight exposing her foolishness.

“I… I thought… I believed…” Her voice cracked, and she turned away, fleeing toward her room.

The Withdrawal

Behind the closed door, Gopika pressed her back against the wood, her breath ragged. Tears spilled freely, blurring the sketches in her lap. Each page—once a token of imagined affection—now mocked her gullibility.

How could I be so blind? How could I believe so easily?

Anger churned inside her, sharp and bitter, but it was aimed at herself more than anyone else. She felt small, foolish, exposed—like a child caught dreaming aloud.

Downstairs, the family’s chaos resumed, voices rising in excitement around Chirag and Aashi’s union. No one knocked on her door. No one asked if she was alright.

And for the first time in weeks, Gopika wished she had never seen those notes at all.

Alone with Her Shame

In the dim quiet of her room, Gopika sat on the floor, her sketchbook open before her. Her tears had left dark blotches on the page, smudging the delicate lines of a half-finished pendant design. She stared at it blankly, her hand hovering, unwilling to touch the pencil again.

Every echo from the hall—the bursts of laughter, Aashi’s coy voice, Ramila’s proud exclamations—stabbed at her like tiny needles. She pressed her palms over her ears, but the sound still found its way through.

How could I have thought…? The notes replayed in her mind, each word now tinged with bitter irony. “Your art speaks of your heart.” “Don’t be afraid of your talent.” She had believed them to be Chirag’s secret affection. Now they felt like cruel tricks played on her own innocence.

A Lonely Mirror

Rising unsteadily, she moved toward the small mirror by her bedside. Her reflection looked back at her—round spectacles fogged by tears, hair disheveled, cheeks blotchy.

“What did you think, Gopi?” she whispered at herself. “That a man like Chirag could ever see someone like you?”

The reflection seemed to mock her. She looked away quickly, pulling the dupatta tighter around her shoulders, as if to hide from even her own eyes.

Retreating Further

For the next few days, Gopika moved like a shadow. At Modi Jewels, she kept her sketches tucked close, avoiding eye contact, her usual nervous glances now replaced with averted gazes. When spoken to, she replied with soft nods, never lingering long enough for anyone to notice the crack in her voice.

At home, she spent more time in her room than ever. The sketches she once poured her heart into remained untouched in the drawer. Every time she opened it, shame gripped her chest, reminding her of how foolishly she had dreamed.

A Battle Inside

Beneath the silence, however, churned a storm of conflicting emotions. At times, anger flared—sharp and quick. Why did I let myself believe? Why didn’t I ask sooner? Other times, sorrow softened her edges, leaving her feeling small and helpless. It wasn’t wrong to hope… was it?

But most of all, it was embarrassment that suffocated her. To imagine the family whispering about her mistake, to see Aashi’s smirk, to remember Chirag’s puzzled denial—it was unbearable.

So she withdrew deeper, hiding not just from others but from herself, unsure if she would ever find the courage to sketch again.

The Act of Erasure

Late one night, when the Joshi household lay in stillness, Gopika sat cross-legged on the floor, her sketchbook resting on her lap. A half-finished design stared back at her—a delicate anklet woven with lotus petals. Once, it would have thrilled her to see it bloom under her pencil. Now it mocked her.

Her hand trembled as she picked up the eraser. At first, she only rubbed lightly at the petals. But the more she stared, the harder she pressed, until the page tore under her hand.

“No more,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “No more foolish dreams.”

One by one, she flipped through the sketches that had once been her secret prayers. The flute-necklace, the feathered earrings, the designs she thought he admired—she smudged them, erased them, tore them out. Each crumpled ball of paper felt like a piece of herself being thrown away.

But in her desperation, one sketch slipped free and fluttered beneath the edge of her bed—a simple lotus pendant, the faint curve of her handwriting trailing beside it. She did not notice it, hidden in shadow.

The Weight of Ashes

When she was done, only blank, ruined pages remained. She shoved the torn pieces into a tin box, pressed it shut, and slid it beneath her bed. Her shoulders shook as she hid her face in her dupatta.

The silence was unbearable. She felt as though she had buried her own voice.

An Observer Unseen

At Modi Jewels the next day, her absence was almost louder than her presence. She no longer lingered at the design desk, no longer hummed softly while adjusting her spectacles. She delivered the tiffin quickly, her head bowed, and left without a word.

But someone noticed.

From behind his glass office door, Saksham watched her go. The sketches she once carried close to her chest—gone. The quiet glow in her eyes when she thought no one was watching—dimmed.

That evening, when he passed through her work desk, his foot nudged against a folded slip of paper that must have fallen from her bag. He bent, picking it up before anyone else could.

It was a sketch. A lotus pendant, fragile yet luminous, the graphite lines trembling with tenderness. And just beneath it, in her careful hand: “A design is not just for wearing. It is for remembering.”

Saksham froze, recognizing the truth of her heart hidden in those strokes. Something inside him twisted. He had meant only to encourage her, to keep her light alive. But now, holding this secret fragment she thought destroyed, he felt as though fate itself had placed a thread between them.

A Decision Stirring

That night, he sat at his desk with pen in hand. A blank slip of paper lay before him, waiting. He hesitated, tapping the nib against the page. This time, the words would have to go deeper. This time, he could not let her light vanish into silence.

And yet… would another anonymous note save her, or wound her further?

He closed his eyes, the image of her tear-stained face etched into his mind. Slowly, he began to write.

An Empty Sketchbook

The next morning, the Joshi household buzzed with its usual rhythm—Ramila’s voice sharp from the kitchen, Aashi humming as she admired herself in the mirror. But inside Gopika’s small room, silence hung heavy.

Her sketchbook lay open on the floor. The pages were nearly blank now, except for faint smudges of graphite that no eraser could fully erase. Gopika traced one torn edge with her fingertip, her eyes swollen from a sleepless night.

She whispered to herself, almost pleading, “It was just paper. Just drawings. Not my heart.” But she knew the truth—those sketches had been her voice, the only way she dared to speak her feelings. And now, she had silenced herself.

The Cruel Echoes of the Day

When she stepped out of her room, her dupatta pulled tightly around her shoulders, she caught fragments of conversation she wished she hadn’t.

Aashi laughed lightly, her voice carrying from the veranda. “Chirag sir was so shy asking for my hand yesterday. Who knew he had such a romantic side?”

Ramila chuckled in reply. “And you, dikra, looked so perfect beside him. A good match indeed.”

The words struck like arrows. Gopika kept her eyes down, moving quickly past them, clutching the empty tiffin carrier as if it were a shield. She didn’t notice Aashi’s sly glance following her, nor the faint smirk curling her lips.

Loneliness as a Companion

Back in her room that evening, Gopika sat by the window. The Ahmedabad streets outside glowed under strings of fairy lights from a festival nearby, but none of that brightness reached her.

She pressed her chin to her knees, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her spectacles had slid down, but she didn’t bother to push them back. Through blurred glass, she watched children run with sparklers, their laughter ringing into the night.

Her own laughter felt like a memory from another life.

Maybe I’m not meant for such dreams, she thought. Maybe Kanha ji gave me these hands to cook, to clean, to serve—but not to draw, not to hope.

The tin box under her bed seemed to pulse with the weight of her destroyed sketches. She wanted to throw it away, to bury it, but she couldn’t. It was all she had left of her foolish heart.

A Silent Prayer

For the first time in years, Gopika didn’t sketch before bed. Instead, she clasped her hands together, whispering into the darkness.

“Kanha ji… forgive me for dreaming too much. Forgive me for thinking someone like him could see me.”

Her voice broke. A single tear slid down her cheek and disappeared into her pillow.

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To be continued.