Samriddhi

White always felt like honesty to her.

Samriddhi stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the fabric of her white floral suit, the tiny blue petals blooming gently against the cloth. Simple. Comfortable. Very her. She leaned closer to the mirror, tilting her head just enough for the light to catch what she loved most.

Her jhumkas.

Silver, delicate, familiar — resting against her neck like they belonged there. She smiled, lifting a hand to touch them, the soft chink of metal instantly calming her. Some people wore jewellery to look beautiful. She wore her jhumkas because they felt like home.

“You look good,” she whispered to her reflection, half amused, half fond.

“Samriddhi!” her mother’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “Breakfast is getting cold.”

“Coming!” she replied, grabbing her bag and giving herself one last glance before stepping out of the room.

At the dining table, her mother looked up, instantly noticing the hurry in her movements.
“You’re leaving early today?” she asked, placing a cup of tea in front of her.

“Yes,” Samriddhi said easily, taking a sip. “There’s some important work in class today.”

Her mother narrowed her eyes slightly — the way mothers always did — but said nothing.
“You barely ate.”

“I’ll manage, Maa,” Samriddhi smiled, standing up. “I really have to go now.”

She bent down to touch her mother’s feet, shouldered her bag, and was out the door before any more questions could follow.

But her destination wasn’t her art class.

Not yet.

The car slowed down in front of a familiar gate — Tulip Orphanage — its pale yellow walls glowing softly under the morning sun. The moment Samriddhi stepped inside, her pace changed. Her shoulders relaxed. Her smile widened, becoming real in a way it rarely did elsewhere.

“Didi!” a chorus of voices rang out.

Before she could even react, tiny arms wrapped around her legs, her waist, her hands. Laughter filled the courtyard as she knelt down, letting the children swarm her.

“Slow down, slow down,” she laughed, brushing a boy’s hair back. “Did you miss me this much?”

“Yes!”
“You came late yesterday!”
“Look what I drew!”

She listened to everyone at once, her laughter mingling with theirs as she played, chased them around, sat on the floor while they showed her their crooked drawings and unfinished stories. Time slipped by unnoticed — as it always did here.

Later, she walked into the manager’s office.

The door closed behind her.

What they talked about stayed between four walls — numbers, responsibilities, promises quietly kept.. Just work done silently, the way Samriddhi preferred it.

When she stepped out again, glanced once at the children playing, and smiled softly.

“Next time,” she murmured -looking at her watch , more to herself than anyone else.

Only then did she finally head towards her art class — unaware that somewhere, fate had already begun collecting pieces of her story.

And one of them was about to fall… quietly.