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~Chandini Rajput

I turned twenty-three today and nothing in the universe announced it.

no sudden shift in the air,

no dramatic sunrise spilling gold across my ceiling as if the sky itself had marked the date, just the same pale blue paint above me, slightly chipped near the fan.

The same faint crack running like a thin vein across the corner, and yet something inside my chest felt rearranged, as if a quiet drawer had opened where I had been storing unspoken things for years.

Birthdays are strange when you grow up as the second daughter because they arrive without rehearsal and leave without evidence.

I have trained myself...

not to expect noise,

not to expect cake,

not to expect anyone to wake me up with laughter or loud affection, but even with all that training, even with all that logic.

At exactly 4:57 a.m. when my eyes opened on their own, my first thought was not discipline or routine but a small, foolish, trembling question will anyone remember??

I actually rolled my eyes at myself for even thinking it because hope is embarrassing when it survives in places where it has never been fed.

I pressed my lips together, biting the inside of my cheek lightly as if to punish the softness before it could bloom. 

Then I heard Dadi’s footsteps outside my door, slow, familiar, the slight drag of her slippers against the floor, and three gentle knocks that felt like they belonged only to me, and when she called me “Chandu” in that whisper that carries warmth instead of demand, my chest tightened in a way that was almost painful because there is a kind of love that does not need witnesses to be real.

she entered with the diya flickering against the dim hallway light, the flame casting small gold shadows against her wrinkled hands.

I felt seen in a way that made me swallow hard before I could speak and when she placed the tilak on my forehead, her thumb cool and steady murmuring her prayer that I may never shrink myself for anyone.

I felt my throat close, my eyes sting slightly, and I blinked quickly because I hate crying even in front of people i love.

when she handed me that simple silver pen wrapped in cloth and said “Sign bigger things this year,” I looked down at it longer than necessary, tracing the smooth metal with my thumb, imagining signatures I have not yet written,approvals that might one day carry my name in bold letters.

after blessing me she left, closing the door softly, I stood in the center of my room without moving for a full ten seconds breathing slowly.

The pen still in my hand, and then I turned toward the mirror because something inside me demanded to be acknowledged at least by myself.

when I looked at my reflection, I did not see tragedy or drama, I saw predictability, neat hair tied back, neutral night clothes, calm expression, and yet my eyes always betray me carried that restless storm I never allow to rain.

I tilted my head slightly, studying the faint dark circles, the sharpness of my jawline that has grown more defined with years of clenching through silence.

I slowly untied my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders, shaking it out gently, watching how it framed my face differently softer yet stronger.

I leaned closer to the mirror, running my fingers through it, when I opened my cupboard and my fingers brushed against the deep maroon Anarkali I bought with my first salary a salary earned through late nights and silent resilience..

I felt a strange flutter in my stomach  not fear exactly but anticipation,  I hesitated, my fingers gripping the hanger tighter, debating for a full minute whether wearing it would invite questions I did not feel like answering, then Dadi’s voice echoed in my head—sign bigger things.

I exhaled slowly, a tiny smile forming despite myself, and I slipped into the dress carefully, smoothing the fabric over my waist, adjusting the fall near my ankles.

Turning slightly left and right before the mirror, watching how the color deepened my skin tone, how it made my collarbone stand out more, how it added warmth to my otherwise composed exterior, and my heart began to beat a little faster, not from anxiety but from something like excitement.

I reached for my kajal, drawing a thin line along my lower lash, my hand steady lips parted slightly in concentration, and when I finished, I blinked a few times, noticing how my eyes looked deeper more intentional.

I hesitated again before picking up the nude lipstick because I rarely wear it at home, because I rarely allow myself visible softness in spaces where I am mostly functional.

I pressed my lips together after applying it, examining the subtle change, the way it made me look alive instead of just efficient, and when I opened my jewelry box and took out the small silver jhumkas Dadi had gifted me years ago, I held them for a moment, remembering how she had insisted they would suit me when I had shrugged indifferently

I wore them and heard their faint chime when I moved my head, I felt a ripple of something inside me like stepping into a version of myself that has been waiting patiently behind the curtains and I stepped back from the mirror, folding my arms loosely, tilting my head again, studying myself not for flaws but for presence.

I imagined, just for a second, someone looking at me like this, not assessing my usefulness, not comparing me to anyone else, just noticing, choosing, and the thought made my stomach tighten unexpectedly.

I quickly shook my head, biting my lip again, whispering “Don’t be foolish ,How much beautiful May the moon look..!!But sunflower doesn't change its direction..” a quite bitter laugh passed through my lips.

when Maa called from outside, her voice practical as always, I inhaled deeply, picking up the silver pen and placing it carefully in my handbag, opened the door.

stepping into the hallway with a strange steadiness in my spine, my jhumkas chiming softly with each step, and I noticed the sound more than anyone else did, and as I approached the living room, I slowed slightly, not out of fear but out of intention.

  when I stepped in and Dadi’s eyes widened in pride, I felt heat rise to my cheeks and I forced myself not to look away immediately because I am tired of looking away from affection and Papa’s surprised blink made me instinctively straighten my shoulders.

"This colour suits you chandini" he said  I felt my heartbeat jump in a way I pretended not to notice, pressing my lips together to hide the smile threatening to appear.

"Thank you Papa" i said with glint of happiness in my eyes

Maa’s indifferent hum stung less than usual because I was already anchored.

"You look different chandinii"my sister tilted her head , I raised one eyebrow slightly, fighting the urge to roll my eyes again, asking if that was bad.

"Happy birthday  chanduuu you look pretty as moonn"when Dadi announced it the room fell quiet.

I felt tension coil in my stomach, my fingers tightening around the teacup handle waiting for disappointment,

"Ohh!! Happy birthday !!!" Papa said as he admitted to forgot.

"Thank you papa"I forced my expression to remain neutral,biting the inside of my cheek again to stop the sting from reaching my eyes.

"You should  remind us yesterday we could atleast wish you today"  Maa asked like it sounded normal thing. But for my sister they never did this .

"Sorry maa. Work pressure"I inhaled slowly replied but a  part of me wanted to say that remembering should not require reminders but I chose calm instead,.

when Dadi adjusted my dupatta and called me glowing, I swallowed hard my throat tight again  as I stepped outside into the morning sun.

The maroon fabric catching the light, I felt something click inside me like a lock opening quietly.

As I stepped out of the house that morning, the sunlight still soft and pale, barely stretching across the courtyard tiles.

my phone vibrated gently in my hand. It was too early for college, too early for anyone to remember it was my birthday, and for a second I simply stared at the screen before unlocking it.

A single message from the unknown number waited there.

“Happy 23rd, Chandini. Maroon suits you. And I know you’re leaving for the temple.”

My breath caught instantly.

Morning air brushed against my face, cool and quiet, but my pulse warmed rapidly beneath my skin.

I hadn’t told anyone I was going to the temple. I hadn’t announced it at breakfast.

I hadn’t even decided it properly until five minutes ago while adjusting my dupatta in the mirror.

My fingers tightened slightly around the phone as my eyes lifted from the screen and instinctively scanned the street outside our gate.

The milkman cycling away, a stray dog stretching lazily, the neighbor’s window half open but no one seemed unusually attentive.

Maroon suits you.

The detail settled deeper than the rest of the sentence. He knew what I was wearing. Not guessed knew.

I looked down at myself reflexively, at the maroon fabric falling neatly around me, at the way the morning light made it appear richer against my skin.

A strange mix of awareness and vulnerability crept into my posture.

It wasn’t fear exactly.

It wasn’t comfort either.

It was the unsettling sensation of being seen on a day when invisibility had always been my norm.

And then I know you’re leaving for the temple.

How?

My jaw tightened slightly, but instead of replying, I locked the phone and slipped it into my bag.

If he was watching, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing confusion on my face. I straightened my shoulders, lifted my chin, and stepped fully out of the gate.

Each step down the quiet morning lane felt different now measured, deliberate as though the air itself carried awareness.

Somewhere, someone had chosen to notice the smallest details of me. And on a morning that was supposed to feel ordinary despite turning twenty-three, that single message made everything shift.

The message stayed unread in spirit, even though my eyes had scanned every word.

I did not reply.

I did not slow down.

I did not allow my expression to change.

If someone was watching, they would see nothing except a girl adjusting her dupatta and stepping out for the morning like any other day

The temple welcomed me the way it always had

without questions,

without expectations.

The bells rang softly as the morning aarti began, the rhythmic chants echoing through carved stone pillars, incense smoke rising in thin, graceful spirals toward the ceiling.

I removed my sandals and stepped onto the cool marble floor, letting the chill ground me.

The world outside the unknown number, the maroon comment, the unsettling accuracy faded into the background as I folded my hands and stood before the idol.

There was no dramatic prayer.

No long list of wishes.

Just a quiet conversation between my heartbeat and the silence in front of me.

I thanked God for Dadi.

For strength.

For ambition.

For the stubborn fire inside me that refused to die even when affection was unevenly distributed in my own house.

I didn’t ask to be loved more.

I asked to never need it in order to grow.

After the aarti, instead of rushing home

I walked around the temple courtyard slowly.

I sat near the tulsi plant for a while, watching sunlight filter through neem leaves, creating shifting patterns on the ground.

Children ran past me laughing. An elderly couple shared prasad from the same leaf.

Life felt simple there.

Balanced.

Nobody knew I was the second daughter. Nobody knew I turned twenty-three. Nobody compared me to anyone.

I bought a small box of ladoos from the stall outside not because anyone had arranged something for me, but because I wanted to mark my own day.

By late morning, instead of heading back home immediately, I made another impulsive decision.

I went to the beach.

The sea had always been my quiet rebellion.

Whenever things felt too tight inside the house,

too measured,

too emotionally uneven,

the ocean felt like permission to breathe fully.

The sun was brighter now, reflecting sharply against the water,

waves folding into each other endlessly as if they carried stories too large for containment.

I removed my sandals again and walked toward the shore, letting the wet sand press beneath my feet.

The wind played with the loose strands of my hair, tugging gently at my braid, and for the first time that day, I laughed softly to myself.

No performance. No expectation.

Just me.

I walked along the shoreline for a long time, the hem of my maroon outfit darkening slightly where waves kissed it.

I didn’t check my phone.

I didn’t think about who might be watching. If he was somewhere out there observing, then let him observe this version of me the one who chose joy deliberately.

I sat down eventually, hugging my knees lightly as I watched the horizon blur into a soft silver line.

Twenty-three.

Not unloved.

Just differently built.

I thought about everything I had achieved academically, professionally things my family proudly mentioned when speaking about “their daughter,”

even if emotionally they reserved warmth elsewhere.

I had become what they dreamed of. Stable.

Capable.

Accomplished.

And yet, here at the beach The waves kept coming as if they had memorized my breathing.

I stood where the water met the shore, letting each wave rush toward me with careless excitement before dissolving around my ankles.

The sea didn’t hesitate. It didn’t measure itself. It didn’t shrink because the shore might not accept it fully.

It simply arrived again and again confident in its return.

I laughed when a stronger wave splashed higher than expected, soaking  my outfit completely.

The fabric clung to my calves, darker now, heavier.

I didn’t step back.

I stepped forward.

The wind was louder here than anywhere else.

It pulled loose strands of hair free from my braid and tossed them across my face.

I didn’t fix them immediately.

I let them stay wild.

Let them exist without discipline.

The salty air settled against my skin, and for the first time that day, I felt entirely unobserved not because no one was watching, but because I stopped caring if someone was.

Another wave crashed, colder this time, curling around my feet before retreating.

I followed it a few steps, chasing the foam as it slipped back into the ocean only to be replaced by another surge.

The rhythm felt personal.

Intimate.

Like the sea understood something about persistence.

I closed my eyes and stretched my arms slightly away from my sides, breathing deeply. The world behind me

expectations,

comparisons,

the silent household hierarchy faded into a blur.

In front of me, there was only endless water and a horizon that refused to be limited.

I walked further along the shore, barefoot, letting the wet sand press and release beneath each step.

My footprints formed briefly before the next wave erased them. For a moment, I watched that happen—watched how easily the sea claimed space and then smoothed it over.

Maybe that’s what I had been doing all these years.

Arriving.

Being erased.

Arriving again.

But today felt different.

Today, I wasn’t waiting for anyone to validate my presence.

I was laughing out loud when the water splashed too high.

I was spinning once just because the wind felt dramatic.

I was bending down to pick up a small shell shaped almost like a heart and slipping it into my bag as if it were treasure.

I walked toward a quieter stretch of the beach where fewer people stood.

The sound of waves grew fuller, uninterrupted by chatter.

I sat down finally, hugging my knees, watching the water shimmer under the afternoon sun.

The ocean didn’t ask who was loved more at home.

It didn’t care who was first-born. It didn’t measure worth.

It simply existed in magnitude.

A stronger gust of wind brushed against me, and I smiled softly to myself.

I am a tide.

And tides don’t beg the shore to notice them.

They arrive with force.

Another wave rushed forward, splashing higher than before,

droplets catching sunlight like scattered diamonds.

I stood up again and walked straight into it, laughing as the water rose to my knees this time.

Not small. Not silent. Not shrinking.

The sea roared again as if agreeing.

And in that moment, with salt on my skin and wind in my hair,

I wasn’t thinking about the past.

I realized I wanted something beyond achievement.

I wanted presence.

I wanted someone who noticed without being asked.

The wind grew stronger for a moment, brushing against my face, and I closed my eyes, letting it happen. Letting the day happen.

The water slowly began to calm as the afternoon stretched toward evening, though I refused to leave just yet.

I stayed where the waves could still reach me, letting the last few stronger tides crash and retreat around my legs.

My laughter had softened into a quiet smile now the kind that lingers even when no one is around to see it.

My maroon outfit was heavier from the saltwater, clinging to my skin, but I didn’t mind.

It felt like proof that I had truly stepped in, not just stood at the edge of something beautiful.

I walked back toward the dry sand and sat down again, this time stretching my legs out in front of me. The sun reflected off the water in broken silver patterns, and I watched the horizon carefully, as if it might reveal some hidden truth if I stared long enough.

The wind carried the faint scent of salt and distant street food from vendors behind me.

Somewhere nearby, a balloon seller’s bell chimed lightly as he walked past children building sandcastles.

I dug my fingers into the sand absentmindedly, letting the grains slip through slowly.

Each tiny particle moved freely, never clinging too long. It made me think about attachment about how tightly I had once held onto the idea of being equally loved in my own house.

Maybe some things were never meant to be balanced.

Maybe strength was built in uneven spaces.

I tilted my head back and closed my eyes for a few seconds, listening only to the waves.

Not analyzing.

Not comparing.

Not proving.

Just existing.

A small smile curved my lips when I realized something simple but powerful I had spent the entire afternoon doing exactly what I wanted.

No permission.

No explanations.

No silent competition for attention.

Just me and the sea.

When I finally stood up, brushing the sand off my hands and adjusting my dupatta, I felt lighter.

Not because anything in my life had changed drastically.

Not because my family suddenly saw me differently.

But because I had given myself a day that belonged only to me.

I walked slowly along the shore one last time before leaving, letting the water touch my feet briefly as a quiet goodbye.

The sky had begun shifting into warmer shades, and the breeze cooled slightly against my damp clothes.

My reflection flickered faintly in the wet sand before disappearing with the next retreating wave.

This time, I didn’t chase it.

I turned away from the ocean and walked toward the exit, steady and calm.

And as I stepped off the sand and onto the pavement, carrying nothing but a small shell in my bag and salt on my skin, I knew one thing with certainty— This was the first birthday where I truly felt present in my own life.

As I walked back home, skin slightly sun-kissed, heart unexpectedly light, I realized something quietly powerful

If someone was watching me from afar, then they were witnessing a girl who was no longer invisible to herself.

And that, more than anything, made this birthday different.

By the time I reached home, the sky had begun to soften into late afternoon hues, pale blue melting into a muted gold.

My sandals carried traces of sand, and the edge of my maroon dupatta still held the faint stiffness of dried seawater.

I paused outside the gate for a brief second, brushing my palms together as if I could dust off not just the sand, but the entire morning the message, the awareness, the quiet strength I had gathered at the temple and the sea.

The house looked the same as always.

Unchanged.

Ordinary.

Inside, Maa’s voice floated from the kitchen, instructing the maid about dinner.

Papa was on a call in the hall, his tone sharp and businesslike. My sister’s laughter echoed faintly from her room, light and effortless, as if the world had never required her to fight for space inside it.

No one noticed immediately that I had returned.

No one asked where I had been.

No one asked how my day was.

And surprisingly… it didn’t sting the way it once would have.

I walked quietly to my room, closing the door behind me. The familiar scent of my books and mild jasmine room freshener greeted me.

The mirror reflected a version of me that looked slightly sun-kissed, hair looser than morning, eyes softer.

I stepped closer to the mirror.

There was dried salt near the edge of my sleeve.

A faint line of sand near my ankle. Evidence of freedom.

I smiled at my reflection

not widely,

not dramatically but with recognition.

“I had a good day,” I whispered softly to myself.

Saying it out loud felt important.

I changed into comfortable clothes and washed my face, watching the salt and sun disappear down the sink.

The cool water against my skin felt grounding. I picked up the small shell I had collected from the beach and placed it carefully on my study table.

There was a knock on my door.

I opened it to see Dadi standing there slowly, her hands folded behind her back.

“You went somewhere far,” she observed gently.

I nodded. “Beach dadi.”

Her eyes softened. “Good. The ocean listens without interrupting.”

I almost laughed. Only Dadi could say something like that and mean it completely.

She stepped inside, sat on my bed, and patted the space beside her. I sat down quietly.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

It wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t distracted.

It was intentional.

I thought about the temple bells.

The waves touching my knees.

The way I had laughed freely.

The way I didn’t wait for anyone to celebrate me.

“Yes,” I said honestly.

She smiled and placed her hand on my head, blessing me without ceremony.

“Then that is enough take some rest beta .” dadi said with relief over her face and with that she left my room .

I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The house outside my door continued its usual rhythm plates clinking, conversations overlapping, my sister’s laughter echoing again.

But inside my room, there was stillness.

I reached for my notebook and opened the page wrote “23” with the silver pen.

Underneath everything else, I added one more line:

— The day I stopped waiting for someone else to make it special.

I closed the notebook slowly.

Tonight, there would be no dramatic cake-cutting.

No exaggerated affection.

Maybe a simple “happy birthday” before bed.

Maybe not.

But something had shifted permanently.

I no longer felt like the overlooked second daughter standing in the shadow of someone brighter.

Today, I stood under the open sky.

I stood in the sea.

I stood in my own presence.

And when I turned off the lights and lay down to sleep, there was no heaviness in my chest.

Only a quiet, steady certainty

I am growing into someone who does not need to be chosen loudly to feel worthy.

And that realization felt stronger than any celebration ever could. night didn’t feel poetic. It felt sharp.

I lay there staring at the ceiling and suddenly everything I had swallowed for years started rising not as tears,

not as anger but as a tight pressure in my chest.

Twenty-three.

That’s old enough to understand patterns. Old enough to stop pretending you don’t see them.

I was always the convenient daughter.

The one who understood.

The one who adjusted.

The one who never asked, “Why not me?”

Because I already knew the answer.

It wasn’t that they didn’t love me.

It was that loving her came naturally to them.

Loving me required attention.

And attention was always limited.

I remember being small and watching the way their faces softened when she entered a room.

I used to study that softness like it was a subject in school.

I learned what it looked like.

I memorized it.

I waited for it to turn toward me.

Sometimes it did.

But never first.

And you know what that does to a child?

It teaches her to become exceptional.

Not for passion.

Not for joy.

But for proof.

Proof that she deserves the same warmth.

I built myself carefully.

Every achievement polished.

Every flaw hidden.

I became what they could proudly introduce.

I became the daughter people complimented.

I became dependable, mature, composed.

And somewhere in that becoming, I stopped being held.

That’s the part that stings tonight.

Not the comparison.

The absence of softness.

Because strong girls don’t get checked on. They get relied on.

Strong girls don’t get protected.

They get praised for surviving.

And praise is not the same thing as comfort.

At the beach today, when the waves kept hitting me over and over, I didn’t step back. I stood there and let them crash into me.

And for the first time in my life, I felt something that wasn’t earned.

The sea didn’t care if I was firstborn. It didn’t care who was loved more. It didn’t care about hierarchy.

It just reached for me equally.

And standing there, soaked and laughing, I realized how hungry I had been for something that simple unmeasured acceptance.

I don’t hate my family.

But I see them now.

I see how easily affection flowed in one direction.

I see how naturally I stepped aside.

I see how I convinced myself that being second was strength.

It is strength.

But it is also lonely.

Tonight, I am not crying because I was unloved.

I am crying because I was never allowed to be small.

Never allowed to fail loudly.

Never allowed to demand reassurance. Never allowed to be the priority without earning it first.

And I’m tired.

Not of them.

Of proving.

I will still respect them.

I will still achieve.

I will still be strong.

But I will no longer starve myself emotionally just to keep peace.

If I want celebration, I will create it.

If I want love, I will not chase crumbs.

If I want to be seen, I will not shrink to make someone else brighter.

I was the second daughter.

But I was never second in depth.

Never second in resilience.

Never second in worth.

They just didn’t know how to look properly.

And maybe one day they will.

But even if they don’t— i hope they will look with all lovee...

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