Whispers at the Shrine

In a city sanctum, a young girl shares how her parents' love story turned into a lifelong sentence for her.

- Fiza Masoodi

It was just after noon when I stepped into the shrine. The scent of rosewater and the faint rustle of prayer threads filled the air. People came and went with folded hands and hurried footsteps.

She was sitting by the carved window, her dupatta slipping, eyes closed, lips moving soundlessly.

At first, I thought she was praying. But then I noticed: she was whispering, as if speaking to someone just out of sight.

That's how I met Naina.

We didn't speak right away. I sat near her and waited. A minute passed. Then another. She opened her eyes and glanced sideways.

"Do you believe in saints?" she asked.

I said, sometimes.

She gave a dry laugh. "I come here to complain. Not to worship."

And slowly, like someone turning the pages of a half-burned diary, she began to tell me her story.

What are you complaining about?

"My parents," she said, without blinking. "I come here and I tell the saint everything. How they hurt me. How they failed me. How they made me a prisoner in my own home."

She paused, tugged at the corner of her sleeve.

"I was born out of love. Can you believe that?" she asked. "They fought for each other. Broke ties. Ran away. Everyone said it was the greatest love story. And then I arrived. The story ended."

What changed?