The Story Nook

Once upon a time, in the bustling heart of a middle-class Indian household, a little girl named Meera was born. She was the second of three siblings — nestled between an older sister and a younger brother. Her family was one of education and accomplishment. The dinner table talk often revolved around science, medicine, engineering, and finance, with doctors, engineers, and chartered accountants all present in the extended family.

On the surface, Meera had what many might call a “normal” childhood. She studied in a good school, wore neatly ironed uniforms, and did her homework diligently. But behind her bright eyes, there was a quiet storm brewing.

You see, Meera was often told — sometimes in jest, sometimes with unsettling seriousness — that her birth was a mere accident. A consequence of her parents’ desire for a son. “Had your brother been born before you,” someone would smirk, “you probably wouldn’t be here.” The words clung to her like shadows.

Over time, these careless remarks—flung around by relatives, echoed by siblings, or whispered by school friends—began to build walls around her heart. She started to wonder: Was I really wanted? Did anyone actually wish for me to be born?

This constant questioning seeded a silent rebellion in her. She became defiant, not out of mischief, but from the aching need to be seen, heard, valued. The bonds with her siblings weakened, strained by the loneliness she carried. Even at home, she often felt like an outsider — tolerated, not cherished.

As she grew older, another challenge crept into her life — the mirror. Meera, with her dark complexion, found herself at the receiving end of cruel comments. Beauty, as defined by the narrow standards around her, was not something she was believed to possess. And soon, she began to believe it too. No matter how well she studied, no matter her sharp mind or kind heart, all people seemed to notice was the color of her skin.

Years passed, and Meera blossomed into a smart, educated, and capable young woman. But as the time for marriage arrived, her past insecurities were stirred again. In the arranged marriage meetings, whispers returned — “She’s well-qualified, but not very fair,” or “We may have to compromise on her looks.”

Eventually, she met a man who agreed to marry her. But even during their courtship, he would make passing remarks suggesting he had “done her a favor” by accepting the proposal. His family echoed the same sentiment — as if her marriage was a charity, not a partnership. Meera, used to this narrative of being “less than enough,” accepted it in silence. She had been told she was unwanted for so long, that she had begun to live like she was.

The cycle continued. In her marital home, her voice was muted. She was pressured to have a child, even though her heart wasn’t ready. But as always, she put aside her feelings. Her desires didn’t seem to matter — not to others, and not even to herself anymore.

And then, one day, Meera gave birth to a daughter.

She held the tiny being in her arms, and for a moment, time stood still. But instead of joy, the air around her grew heavy again. Her in-laws frowned. A girl. And a dark-skinned one at that. Meera knew the looks, the whispers, the sting of rejection — all too well.

But something shifted inside her that day.

Looking into her daughter’s innocent eyes, Meera felt a surge of strength she never knew she had. For the first time, she refused. Refused to let this child grow up with the same burden she had carried for so long. Refused to let someone else write her story. Refused to let her daughter question her worth.

That very moment, Meera made a silent promise. Her child would never be made to feel unwanted, unworthy, or unseen. She would grow up knowing that she was desired, dreamt of, and deeply loved.

And so, Meera named her daughter Ichcha — meaning “wish” or “desire.” Because unlike the whispers Meera had heard all her life, this child was not an accident. She was Meera’s Ichcha, her heart’s deepest wish, her soul’s gentle rebellion against generations of silent pain.

Meera’s story is not just one of sorrow. It’s a story of awakening, of quiet courage, and the fierce power of a mother’s love. Through Ichcha, Meera found her voice — and finally, her freedom.