𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒
What happens when
𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐀𝐑𝐀 𝐃𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐏𝐔𝐓𝐑𝐀 - the girl who mastered the art of being unseen,
stitched together with silence and scar tissue,
haunted by the ruins of love and friendsh...
"Nobody's heard from me for months, I'm doing better than i ever was"
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"Samayara, you'll need it. Take this," Mom insisted, packing yet another seemingly unnecessary item.
"Mom, we'll be given our hiking uniforms there," I sighed, gently pulling it back out.
"But what if they don't fit?"
Mom – 1, Samayara – 0.
I gave in with a defeated sigh, stuffing it back in. A second later, a playful tap on my head jolted me from my sulk.
"What?" I muttered, already sensing who it was.
"Why are you so grumpy about THE STUDENT CAMP? You were counting down the days the minute your boards ended," Samrat Bhai grinned, tapping my head again, this time with exaggerated flair.
"Yeah..." I breathed out, my voice quieter, heavier.
It was supposed to be magical.
My first flight.
The mountain air of Himachal Pradesh.
Hours of laughter with Ishaana and Laksh.
Recording memories, taking silly videos, living the moments I had dreamed of during endless study hours.
And him. My boyfriend.
Back then. I had imagined sweet glances on the trails, soft hands brushing in secret.
But now—he's my ex.
He chose her. My best friend.
My soul sister. And now she's neither.
What stings more?
That they betrayed me?
Or that they smiled while doing it?
To add insult to injury, I'm forced to confront them both on this trip, all while being manipulated by my newly toxic friend group—people who treat me just a notch above the worst.
But I guess something is better than nothing, right?
Because the thought of being completely alone in junior college scares me more than anything.
"Three minutes and forty seconds," Bhaiya's voice cut through the fog in my mind.
"You've been zoned out that long." I blinked, suddenly aware that Mom had already left the room.
"Oh," I muttered, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
"What's wrong, Myra? Is something bothering you?" he asked gently.
I wanted to tell him.
I really did. My Bhaiya wasn't just another brother. He was my anchor, my shelter in every storm.
We'd shared secrets, dreams. If anyone could understand, it was him.
But I couldn't. Not this time. The words felt too raw, too messy. They might spill over, start something I couldn't stop.
"I'm just nervous," I replied instead, forcing a small smile.
"It's okay to be nervous, Myra. This is your first trip, and so many firsts are waiting for you. Let them come. Welcome them with an open heart. They're meant for you."
And just like that—his words made something inside me soften.
We smiled at each other. That unspoken kind of smile only siblings understand. Then he whacked me lightly and took off running.
"Also, wear your ID card at all times," he called over his shoulder, "just in case you die by mistake—your body should reach us!"
I burst out laughing, the absurdity of it pulling me out of my gloom. Maa's swift reaction made it even better.
"Samrat! Bite your tongue and don't say such things," she scolded, tugging at his ear.
"I've bitten it three times already, Maa! Let go!" he squeaked, wriggling dramatically.
Their banter lifted the room's energy.
For a moment, everything felt normal.
Warm.
Light.
I laughed so hard my stomach ached, and they laughed with me. We finished packing—Bhaiya and I carefully arranged two bags, sneakily planning to leave behind the "extras" Mom had lovingly packed.
We didn't want to hurt her feelings, but I didn't need a week's worth of sportswear or half a kitchen's worth of snacks.
I checked off most items on my to-do list, and then made the final call.
"Should I visit now, Papa?" I asked, excitement bubbling in my chest.
"Yes, beta, you can. It's ready," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
I rushed to his store, and right there in the window stood a saree that made my breath catch—a stunning green silk piece shimmering.
I couldn't help but marvel at my Dad's craftsmanship.
My father is a weaver, and he truly worships his art. He owns a shop—not too small, not too big—and as his daughter, or perhaps as an admirer of ethnic attire, I always find myself falling in love with the aesthetics here.
"Come inside, beta," he called. I entered, eyes wide, heart racing.
"Where is it, Papa?" I asked, my voice barely steady.
"Here you go, meri pyaari beti," he said, holding out a lilac saree threaded with gold—a breathtaking Kanjivaram he'd made just for me.
I gasped. It was perfect.
I draped it across my shoulder, looking at myself in the mirror. My smile stretched across my whole face.
"The most beautiful saree for the most beautiful girl in this world," Papa said softly, pride shining in his eyes.
I turned and hugged him tightly, the scent of yarn and sandalwood clinging to his clothes.
"Meri pyaari beti, kab itni badi ho gayi?" he whispered.
(When did my little girl grow up so much?)
"Jab aap mere liye saree bana rahe the," I replied, grinning through the mirror.
(When you were busy making sarees for me.)
He kissed my forehead. I carefully packed the saree and ticked off the final item on my list.
I crawled into bed, tucked under familiar blankets, And for the first time in weeks, I drifted off to sleep with hope instead of heartache.
