This is the story of Poonam Devi (Anonymous).
I was born in the late 1970s in a small, quiet village in Haryana, the daughter of a hardworking farmer and a traditional housewife. Growing up, the landscape around us was rigid, and very few families allowed their daughters to step outside the domestic perimeter, let alone cross the threshold of a school. Yet, my father stood like a wall against the entire village. He had a grand vision for his two daughters—my elder sister, Roshni, and me. He wanted us to break the mold. He desperately wanted to see both of us study hard, clear the exams, and become government officers. He wanted us to be free.
For a long time, I honored his dream. Until the 7th standard, I was a bright, promising student, navigating my textbooks with ease and making my parents proud.
Then, the early 1990s arrived, and with them came a box of magic that changed everything: our very first black-and-white television.
It was an Onida TV, and to my young eyes, it was the most fascinating, attractive object in the entire universe. To watch Ramayana and Mahabharata, my parents had pooled resources to buy it, and soon, our house became the neighborhood hub. Kids from across the village would gather, eyes glued to the screen. Recognizing the massive distraction, my parents strictly enforced a time-limit rule. The TV was to remain off most of the time—partly to save on the expensive power bills, but mostly to ensure Roshni and I didn’t lose our way.
Both of our parents desperately wanted us to clear the crucial 8th-standard board exams, as we sisters were the first in our whole family to reach class 8. In those days, passing the 8th board was the first major step toward securing a coveted government officer job—a life of dignity and security.
As the board exams drew near, my father made an executive decision: the Onida TV was to be switched off entirely for a few weeks.
For me, it felt like an existential crisis; I simply could not imagine life without it. One heavy evening, the power was out, and we were sitting in the pale, smoky glow of a lalten (lantern), trying to study. Suddenly, with a sharp buzz, the electricity returned. The bulb hummed to life. Instinctively, I jumped up and ran to power on the television.
My father’s voice cut through the room. He asked me to step back, sit down, and focus on my books. “You can watch all you want after the exams are over,” he said firmly.
But I was young, stubborn, and blind to his vision.
Something snapped inside me. Rebellion, fueled by youth and anger, boiled over. I looked him straight in the eyes, anger clouding my vision, and scolded him. I told him this was pure torture. Then, I threw a challenge that would alter the next three decades of my life: “What will you do if I just keep the book open in front of my face and refuse to read a single word?”
My father looked at me, a deep, heavy silence settling into his eyes. He didn’t yell. He didn’t hit me. But that argument was the last time he ever pushed me. Left to my own defiance, I completely failed the 8th-grade board exam and walked out of the school gates for what I thought was the last time.
Suddenly, I was out of school, just like the other village girls. As I turned 18, my parents, still holding onto hope, asked if I wanted to resume my studies. But around the same time, wedding preparations began for my elder sister, Roshni. I watched the flurry of excitement around her—the ornaments, the bright new silk clothes, and the grand attention a bride gets. Chasing that superficial glitter and consumed by greed for new dresses, I refused to study and eagerly agreed to my own marriage. I just did not understand or care at the time that this choice would break the heart of my father, who desperately wanted to make me a government officer.
The illusion broke within twelve months.
Once the wedding songs faded and the new clothes lost their shine, the hard, unvarnished reality of the world hit me. I entered a household strained by financial pressure. My in-laws strictly refused to give me any money for personal or household expenditure, and I watched my husband break under the immense pressure of struggling to find a stable job. Suddenly, I wasn’t a protected princess in bright clothes; I was a dependent spectator in a harsh world, completely powerless because I had no standing of my own.
One year into the marriage, desperation set in. I saw an advertisement for police and army recruitment. I wanted that uniform. I wanted that authority. But the minimum requirement was a 10th-grade pass certificate, and I hadn’t even cleared the 8th.
In a panic, I went back to my father. “Find a way,” I begged him. “Get me a forged 10th-standard marksheet from the Uttar Pradesh board. Just get me the paper so I can stand on my own feet.”
My father, a man of absolute principles, looked at me and refused. He had wanted to give me a real future through hard work, not a counterfeit escape.
Years rolled on, and the walls of the house closed in further. In a society obsessed with male heirs, I gave birth to five daughters. With each birth, the pressure and silent resentment from my in-laws grew heavier. The house demanded a boy. Finally, after the sixth pregnancy, a son was born, and the grueling cycle of childbearing ended. But inside, I was empty. I fell into a deep, dark depression.
As my daughters grew, I looked at them and saw my own reflection. I vowed I would never let them make the mistake I made. I pushed them with everything I had. I wanted them to reach all the heights I had failed to climb. One of my daughters reached the doorsteps of the Chartered Accountancy (CA) exams; another poured her heart into preparing for the UPSC civil services.
I prayed for their success, believing their victory would heal my old wounds. But life is a complex web. Both of them faced failure at the final hurdles. After all, they were my daughters—bound by the same heavy rhythms of societal expectations, stress, and timing. Eventually, with a heavy heart, I had to arrange their marriages too.
Watching history repeat itself was the ultimate reality check. I sat alone in the quiet of my kitchen and finally understood the ultimate law of existence: If you want to change your life, you cannot rely on a fake certificate, and you cannot live through the achievements of your children. You have to walk through the fire yourself.
Thirty years had passed since I flippantly threatened my father with an open book in the light of a lalten. Thirty years of silence, domestic labor, and carrying the weight of a dropped dream.
At an age when people prepare for retirement, I bought 10th-grade textbooks. I sat down, opened the pages, and this time, I didn’t just hold the book in front of my face. I read. I learned. I memorized.
I appeared for the 10th-board examinations, and I passed.
That piece of paper wasn’t just a certificate; it was my passport back to the world. Armed with it, I stepped out of the domestic perimeter and joined the sales team of a private company. Today, I work hard, I navigate the market, and I earn well. I provide for my family, but more importantly, I provide for my own self-respect.
When I talk to my daughters now, my voice has a different weight. I don’t just lecture them as a mother; I speak to them as a colleague in the school of life. “Never give up,” I tell them. “Pick up your books. Start studying again. If I can do it after thirty years, your journey hasn’t even begun.”
Life gave me a brutal, beautiful lesson. Sometimes, we are simply too slow to understand what life is trying to teach us when we are young. But the bell never truly rings for the end of the game. Life goes on, and as long as you are willing to learn, it is never too late to become the person you were always meant to be.