Haripur
In the heart of North India, cradled among endless fields and tangled banyan roots, there was a little village called Haripur. The village was old, yet its atmosphere sparkled with an innocence and warmth that every heart longed for. Every corner brimmed with the fragrance of happiness, as if the very earth wore a gentle, contented smile. Here, time seemed to stand still; yet, beneath that stillness, life stirred—houses slowly transformed from mud to brick, the proud clatter of new bicycles echoed on dusty lanes, and the distant school lit new hopes in the eyes of Haripur's children.
Among them lived thirteen-year-old Ruchika Chaturvedi—our Gudiya, as everyone called her—a slip of a girl with dreams as endless as the wheat fields. Her grandfather, Prashant Chaturvedi, the widely respected sarpanch, was the pillar every villager leaned on. Whenever troubles brewed, his house was the first to be visited; his words still carried the authority of tradition, spoken always with the compassion of a father to all.
For Prashant, little Ruchika was dearer than life itself. Her father Rakesh was a farmer whose hands and heart were both tethered to the land. Her mother Diya, the quiet centre of their home, had chosen Ruchika's name—a name that glowed with meaning and affection. Even at dawn, when a peacock's cry broke the gentle silence, Ruchika would join her father in the fields: the wetness of dew, the feel of soil—these were her everyday joys. In those days, there were no mobile phones, no instant messages. Love and news traveled through breathless letters, each word pulsing with emotion. Haripur never shouted its stories, but each dawn and dusk seemed to weave new memories into the village's soul.
Everything seemed perfectly ordinary—almost too perfect. Perhaps that's why no one wanted to admit to the quiet cracks opening underneath. Yet, sometimes, fate creeps in silently, catching even the happiest places off guard.
A few days before disaster, Prashant Chaturvedi sat late into the night with elders from nearby villages. "We can't ignore those strangers roaming near our fields," he urged, concern clouding his normally twinkling eyes. "They're not from here, and their intentions aren't clear. We must be prepared." But others waved him off—"Let it be, Prashant Bhai. These things pass. No need to worry the whole village." Yet his unease lingered; every night, he made sure his gun was within arm's reach, just in case.
Until that one night, when darkness brought more than sleep. That night, fate took a merciless turn.
The next morning dawned without birdsong, without the chatter that usually floated through Haripur at sunrise. Instead, Ruchika woke to the sound of muffled screams and heart-rending cries. Frightened, she pressed a trembling hand to the old wooden door. "Ma?" she called, but heard nothing but chaos outside.
Hands shaking, she opened the door. The village she had always known—its comforting houses, its gentle smiles—was gone. In its place was devastation: homes still smoldered, ash swirling in the air, blood splattered on the ground. Her mother's body lay just outside their home, her face frozen in a final, gentle expression. Nearby, under the old banyan, her grandfather lay still—his gun fallen from his outstretched hand, having fought till his last breath.
Ruchika could not understand any of it. She looked around wildly, her mind refusing to accept what her eyes saw. She threw herself at her mother's side, shaking her limp body and sobbing, "Ma! Ma! Get up, Ma! Please!" Her tears were unstoppable. Somehow, hope still fluttered in her chest—that her mother might wake, wrap her in her arms, and hush away every sorrow.
All around her, Haripur was in ruins. Houses once proud were now reduced to smoking embers and charred wood. No one had imagined that joy could disappear so completely—in a single, merciless night.
Her father was nowhere in sight; he had likely gone to the fields before the world had turned upside down. But now even the fields—once full of life—were lost in the devastation.
Just as the first haze of mourning settled, Rakesh finally returned, wounded and weary from trying to find safety. He stumbled upon his daughter broke beside her mother's body. He ran to her, pulling her into his arms as she sobbed and shivered with grief and confusion. He pressed his trembling lips to her forehead. "It's all gone, beti…it's all gone," he choked, fighting back his own tears
Rakesh found the strength to bring his wife and father's bodies inside, away from the twisted chaos. He worked silently, burning the image into his heart, sprinkling the last drops of kerosene around the house. Clutching Ruchika—whose tears would not stop—he struck a match and set their home alight, letting it carry their memories to the sky. Together, under the angry dawn, they watched as the flames consumed everything they had loved.
When the final flames died down, all that remained to them were a few scraps of paper and each other. The riots, born from the country's division, had swallowed Haripur whole. There was no village left, no place to return. All Ruchika and her father could do was hold hands, hearts shattered but alive, and begin walking—toward survival, with nothing but memories and hope left to guide them.