Chapter 2: The Girl with Starlit Eyes
Aanya's POV
Gopalganj was a place forgotten by time. Here, mornings began not with the sound of alarms but with the rhythmic ringing of temple bells and the distant bleating of goats. The earth smelled of wet mud and mango blossoms, and the skies wore hues of pink and gold like a shy bride.
Aanya Verma had known no other world.
She walked barefoot down the dusty path, her old jute bag bouncing lightly against her side. The hem of her faded blue kurti was damp from the morning dew that clung to the grass. Her long braid swung behind her like a quiet rhythm, and her eyes—large, brown, and full of untold stories—sparkled even in the dim light.
Everyone in Gopalganj knew her as the girl with starlit eyes.
Aanya was seventeen, and yet there was a softness to her that made her seem younger. Or maybe it was the innocence that still clung to her like her mother’s old dupatta—the one she wore every Thursday when she visited the temple.
Her mother had died two years ago.
Some wounds didn’t bleed. They just stayed.
Her death had been quiet—a fever that refused to break, a night of rain that never ended. Aanya had held her mother’s hand until the warmth faded. Since then, she had never cried in front of anyone. She became the mother to her younger brother, Aman. The home she once shared with her mother became her duty, her temple, her entire universe.
Cooking, cleaning, stitching, teaching Aman—she did it all with a quiet strength. But at night, when the village slept, she opened her books. Under the flickering kerosene lamp, she read until her eyes burned.
Her mother had once told her, "Padhegi toh raushni banegi, Aanya. Andhera sirf roshni se mita hai."
You’ll become light, Aanya. Only light can chase away the darkness.
And so she chased it.
Her teachers adored her. "Topper again," they’d whisper with pride. The schoolmaster, a kind old man with spectacles too large for his face, had once said, "You’re not meant for this village, beti. The world is waiting for you."
She had smiled then, unsure if she believed it.
But destiny was listening.
One dusty April afternoon, a letter arrived—crisp and official-looking, stamped with the seal of Mumbai University. Aanya opened it with trembling hands.
"Full scholarship," it read. "Admission granted. Accommodation included."
She stared at the paper for minutes, as if afraid it would vanish.
That evening, she sat on the roof under a sky full of stars and spoke to her mother in whispers.
"Maa, mujhe bulaya hai unhone. Mumbai jaa rahi hoon... teri Aanya."
She wept then—not out of sorrow, but out of something far more fragile. Hope.
The journey to Mumbai was like being thrust into a new universe. The train roared like a beast as it carried her away from everything she’d ever known—her village, her brother, her memories. She had never seen buildings that scraped the sky, or roads that never slept. The city was a creature that breathed in sirens and exhaled chaos.
She clutched her backpack like armor, the letter tucked safely in her diary.
The university campus was a world of its own. Students rushed past her in jeans and headphones, speaking in English and laughing loudly. Aanya felt small—like a misplaced page in a foreign novel.
Her hostel room was on the third floor. The walls were plain, but there was a window that let in the evening light. Her roommate, Tara, was a girl from Pune with a nose ring and a playlist full of Western music.
"You're from Gopalganj? Where’s that?" she asked, friendly and curious.
"Near Patna," Aanya replied shyly.
"Well, welcome to madness."
Classes began the next morning. Aanya dressed in her best kurti and carried a second-hand backpack. She sat in the front row, pen poised, eyes wide. Her professors noticed her immediately—quiet, attentive, sharp.
She struggled at first. English wasn’t her strongest language, and the city buzzed with slang she didn’t understand. But she observed, absorbed, adapted. She borrowed books from the library and practiced speaking with Tara.
Despite the challenges, Aanya remained kind. She helped lost freshmen find their classrooms, offered her notes, and smiled at the cleaning staff every morning. People began to notice—the girl with the quiet grace and the fierce determination.
But her heart still missed the slow mornings of Gopalganj. The sound of her mother’s bangles. The smell of boiling rice. Her brother’s laughter.
Every night, she called Aman. She listened to his stories, reminded him to study, and told him she loved him.
The city had not changed her heart.
Only widened her world.
And somewhere in that world, unbeknownst to her, walked a man of darkness. A man whose life was inked in violence.
Raaz Singh.
Their paths had not crossed yet.
But fate had already picked up the thread.
And when light meets shadow—everything changes.
During one lecture on constitutional law, Aanya answered a complex question with clarity and precision. The professor paused, genuinely impressed. "Excellent, Ms. Verma. That’s the most concise analysis I’ve heard all day."
A ripple of whispers passed through the class. Some looked at her with admiration. Others with envy.
Later that day, during lunch break in the open courtyard, Aanya sat quietly with her tiffin when a sharp, mocking voice rang out.
"Oh look, Miss Gopalganj is giving competition to us city girls now. What’s next, English poetry from the cow shed?"
A group of girls—well-dressed, with designer bags and manicured nails—snickered. One of them, Meher, leaned closer. "Must be easy impressing teachers when you’re the charity case."
Aanya blinked, the words cutting deeper than she let on.
Before she could speak, Tara walked in, books in hand. Her eyes flicked from the group to Aanya.
"Wow, Meher. Still insecure even with all that makeup? Must be exhausting."
Meher’s smirk faded.
"Don’t you have anything better to do than bully someone who actually got here through talent? Or are you just jealous that someone from a village answered a question better than you ever could?"
The group muttered and scattered, clearly uncomfortable with the confrontation.
Tara sat beside Aanya and opened her sandwich box. "Ignore them. They feed on attention. Besides, you made the professor stop mid-sentence. That’s power, girl."
Aanya offered a grateful smile. "Thank you."
Tara shrugged. "Anytime. We village girls stick together, even if one of us is from Pune."
They both laughed, the tension melting into warmth.