Swapnisthan
So many of our childhood stories began this way. It seemed harmless, just a simple line. But hidden within it was a dangerous seed—an idea planted in young minds that farmers were always poor, villages were always backward, and progress was only possible by leaving the soil for the city.
When 9-year-old Janu joined Swapnisthan, she barely spoke. A hearing-impaired girl, she avoided eye contact, had no friends, and often left sessions midway. Her classmates whispered, laughed, and excluded her.
Dressed in heavy red lehengas and saris, with long veils covering their heads, and adorned with jewellery, my sisters were brought to the wedding altar by my aunts, who held their hands and sang local songs.