Life... life had never been gentle with her. It had always tested her in ways a child should never be tested. But she never complained. Not even once. Not when, at such a tender age, she didn't even know what a father meant. All she knew was that other children had one, who loves them... brings lots of barbies and toys for them...protect them with bully people.. and she didn't. They mocked her, laughed behind her back, threw questions at her like stones — questions her little heart couldn't answer. People looked at her not with kindness, but with something sharp... like shame, as if she carried a scar she was too young to earn. But she was just a child. She couldn't fight back, couldn't speak up — all she could do was run, crying into her mother's arms, whispering with trembling lips, "Devika Maa... what is a father? Where is mine?" And each time, Devika's silence wrapped around her like a blanket soaked in pain. That silence became her lullaby, her answer, her wound. A childhood not lived, but endured — quietly, heavily, alone.
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