Chapter 4: The Tower and the Mirror

In front of the campus notice board, I stare at a faded part-time job ad for ten minutes.

The air is thick with the scent of old books and nimbu soda from the nearby canteen. “Café hiring part-time, ₹60 per hour”—not much, but enough to buy the necessities my mother forbids.

I take out my phone, carefully snap a picture of the contact info, my finger hovering over the dial pad, then withdrawing.

With my mother’s ₹120 daily limit, even buying a bottle of shampoo takes three days of ‘saving.’

Yesterday my period came unexpectedly, and I had to borrow pads from Priya.

The pity in her eyes stung more than my mother’s scolding.

Priya had even offered a chocolate silently, the universal balm for a bad day. I had to look away.

“Ananya?”

I turn. Senior Sneha from the student council is looking at me, curious.

She’s the president of the literature club and once praised my book review.

Her dupatta drapes elegantly over her shoulder, bindi shining. “Hello, Didi.” I instinctively shield the notice board, as if it’s something embarrassing.

“Looking for a part-time job?” She smiles kindly.

“The literature club is also hiring an editorial assistant. You’d organise submissions each week—there’s a stipend.”

My heart races.

“Do I... need an interview?”

“Just send me your work.”

She hands me a flyer. “By the way, there’s a citywide college writing contest next month. First prize is ₹20,000. You should enter.”

Twenty thousand rupees.

That’s five months’ living expenses from my mother.

My hand trembles as I take the flyer.

Back in the room, I quickly tuck the flyer into my textbook.

The room is empty. My roommates probably went to the canteen together—since the ‘tandoori incident,’ they rarely invite me anymore.

Their laughter echoes down the corridor, mingling with the clang of steel plates in the mess. My phone vibrates: my mother’s routine check-in.

“Did you sign in for class at noon? Send me a screenshot.”

Her voice comes from the speaker. “Also, I saw on Family UPI that you only spent ₹30 at the canteen yesterday. What did you eat?”

“Sabzi and rice...” I answer softly.

“What about dal? Didn’t I tell you to eat balanced meals?”

She sighs. “If you keep this up, you’ll fall sick. Then what will you do?”

I stare at my roommates’ travel photos on the wall and suddenly interrupt her. “Ma, I want to apply for work-study.”

There’s a long silence on the other end.

“What work-study? Are you short of money? Didn’t I give you living expenses?”

“It’s not about money...” I choose my words carefully. “It’s... to gain experience.”

“Nonsense.”

Her voice sharpens.

“A student’s job is to study. Experience and all is a waste of time. Are you being influenced by bad friends again?”

I bite my lip and stop arguing.

After hanging up, I dig out my old notebook from under the mattress, flip to the page titled “Student Loan,” and draw a heavy X beside it.

Parents will definitely find out about student loans. That path is closed.

At the back of the notebook are story fragments I secretly wrote—a girl locked in a high tower, braiding her long hair into a rope every day, trying to escape.

I add a few new lines: [The girl discovers the witch guarding her is actually afraid of mirrors...]

I chew on the end of my pen, imagining the tower’s dusty window, the wind outside. For a moment, I am free.

The next day in the literature club activity room, I hand three revised stories to Senior Sneha.

“These are very well written.” She flips through the pages, her eyes shining. “Especially this one, ‘The Tower.’ The metaphor is so clever. Are you really just a first-year?”

I lower my head, staring at my toes, unused to praise.

My big toe draws circles on the mosaic floor. “Just... casual writing.”

“No, you have real talent.” She says seriously. “You must enter the contest. The deadline is next Friday. Need help revising?”

Leaving the activity room, it starts to drizzle.

I stand under the eaves, watching raindrops splash the dusty road, and remember how my mother never let me step in puddles as a child.

I lift my foot and stomp into the nearest puddle. Muddy water splashes my salwar, and a strange, wild joy surges through me.

My phone rings again: a video call from my mother.

I take a deep breath and answer.

“Ananya, where are you? Why is there a classroom building behind you?”

“Shouldn’t you be in the library at this hour?”

Her gaze sweeps the background like a searchlight.

I wipe my brow, rainwater mixing with sweat. “Just... just finished an elective.” I lie, my heart pounding.

“What elective? It’s not on your schedule.”

“It’s... literary appreciation. A last-minute addition.”

I quickly change the subject. “Ma, my phone is dying. Let’s talk tonight.”

After hanging up, I realise I’m drenched in cold sweat.

So lying is this easy. My mother isn’t all-knowing after all.

This realisation fills me with both fear and excitement.

From then on, I move between two worlds like an undercover agent.

By day, I’m the obedient daughter, sending class check-in screenshots and spending only in the canteen.

By night, I write furiously in the library, pouring years of bottled-up imagination into my contest story.

Sometimes, as I write, I hear the distant clanging of utensils from the mess and the laughter of girls outside—reminders that life is happening all around me.

The day I finish “The Tower,” I save it to a pen drive, my hands shaking as I type in my email.

Twenty thousand rupees is my goal, but more than that, this is the first thing I’ve ever chosen for myself.

“Once you send it, you really can’t take it back,” Senior Sneha says, smiling.

I shake my head, click send, and when the email says ‘Sent,’ I feel a wave of relief.

“I won’t regret it.”

On my way back to the room, the Family UPI alert sounds—my mother has transferred next week’s “limited living expenses.”

I stare at the number and suddenly laugh.

She doesn’t know her daughter has already found another key, slowly turning the lock on the tower door.

I run my thumb over the edge of the pen drive, feeling a strange, delicious thrill at my own small rebellion.