"I'll never be enough,"
"Am I?" Maya constantly gazed at herself while questioning her reflection in the mirror. For years, she dreamed, dreamed, dreamed of a home where emptiness didn’t echo, and her life would be full of love and warmth. The clock had been ticking for the past half hour, and Maya stood, looking at herself in the mirror. Sweat was continuously dripping from her face to her neck in June's heat. The ticking of the clock was interrupted by a message on her phone.
Samaira: We'll take your dance audition, but we need some sympathetic story for TRP.
Maya laughed loudly after reading the message. Her hair became disheveled. Her eyes turned red with all the rage she had been carrying for so long, and she started screaming loudly.
"Oh, you disabled girl, you dreamed of becoming a dancer!"
"Why should we take you?"
"Oh, you danced well."
"Danced well? What does that have to do with anything? Give us some masala; we can make your disability a sensation."
Maya was five years old when her dad showed her the ghungroos, classical music, and the rhythm that flowed with it. Her dad was a recognized guru in the Indian classical dance industry. Watching her dad every day, she dreamt of dancing. One day, she went to her dad and pleaded with him to teach her dance the way he did.
"Baba, I want to dance like you do."
"Oh, dance is sadhana. This is sadhana for Ishwar. Once you dance for Ishwar, the rhythm will flow naturally. Dance with your heart, love."
"Would I be able to do it with one leg, Baba?"
"Dance is all in the heart. It's all in your heart."
Since that day, Maya followed the rhythm of her heart. She fell many times, but her dad was there every time she fell.
She remembered her father's words: "Every time you fail, I'll be there." She found herself in the embrace of her father's arms.
"Remember, I told you. Every time you fail, I'll be there," her Baba said, smiling.
"Is this what I am, Baba? A TRP SPICE-UP STORY? Oh, see the woman who can dance without leg support?"
"People will say what they want to say. Present yourself the way you want to be perceived. Remember, Baba will always be there every time you fall."
"You melodramatic father-daughter duo. Come on now, let’s go for dinner," Maya's mother said while standing at the door.
The next morning, Maya texted Samaira and refused to come.
Maya: I won't be joining you. I am proud of who I am.
Maya took her ghungroos from her cupboard and called her Baba.
Her Baba watched her dancing with all her heart while recording her. She uploaded her dance videos consistently for 5 years.
"So, audience, that was my story," said the judge of the Indian dancing show.
"Music"
The music swelled, filling the room with a powerful crescendo, and Maya’s body moved as if the very rhythm of the universe had taken over her soul. Her heart beat in sync with the music, every step a testament to her defiance, every movement a declaration of her spirit’s triumph. She swirled and leapt as if the weight of the world no longer rested on her shoulders, as if the struggles, the doubts, the judgments—none of them existed. In that moment, she was free.
The audience gasped in awe, and the entire room seemed to hold its breath. And there, at the edge of the stage, her father, his face shining with pride, clapped so loudly it echoed through the hall. "That’s my daughter!" His voice was thunderous, booming with love, reverence, and admiration. His words reverberated through her, lifting her higher than she had ever been before, higher than she had ever dreamed.
Maya danced, not just for the world, not for the camera, but for herself. In that moment, she was home. The warmth, the love, the acceptance she had longed for her entire life filled her heart to the brim. She had finally found it. The dream she once had of a home—of love, of acceptance, of warmth—had come true in the most unexpected way. And she had done it on her terms, without compromise. She had danced, not just for Ishwar, but for her soul. She was everything she had ever wanted to be.
And as the final note of music lingered in the air, Maya stood tall, breathing heavily, sweat trickling down her face, but her smile was radiant—unbreakable, unstoppable.
"That's my daughter," her father repeated, his voice trembling with pride. And in that moment, Maya knew: she had made it.
The music played, and she danced freely, swaying her heart out because she was at home — full of love and warmth.
The home she'd always dreamed of. Completing her father's dream.
After she finished the dance, her father clapped loudly and said "That's my daughter."
She stepped off the stage, her legs wobbling, the rush of adrenaline slowly wearing off. For a split second, the world around her spun, and she felt herself losing balance. Just as she was about to fall, a pair of strong arms caught her. Her father had leapt from the audience, rushing to her side.
Before she could speak, he whispered softly, a smile tugging at his lips, “Told you, every time you fall, I’ll be there.”
Tears welled up in Maya's eyes as she looked up at her father. In that moment, it wasn't just about the dance, the applause, or the competition. It was about love, about trust, about the unwavering belief he had always placed in her. When the world doubted her, when the world turned away, he had always been there, his belief in her unshaken.
She smiled, her heart swelling with gratitude. “When the world doesn’t believe in me, you always did,” she whispered, as her father held her close, the warmth of his embrace filling her with the strength to rise again.
Together, they stood there, in the silence after the performance, the love between them more powerful than anything the world could say.
