Night after night, the city glittered in lights she could never reach.
But under one faint flickering streetlamp near the orphanage gate—
Aaradhya found her moon.

It began the day she saw a group of schoolchildren walking by, wearing blue uniforms, polished shoes, heavy schoolbags. Their laughter was loud, bright… free.

She paused mid-step, roses in hand, eyes devouring the sight like someone starving for more than food.

A girl her age recited tables aloud,
“Five twos are ten! Five threes are fifteen!”

Numbers. Words. Knowledge.

Things Aaradhya had never tasted.

A sharp ache burned inside her.
Not jealousy—longing.

While others chased toys,
She chased the alphabet.

That evening, she dug through garbage bins behind the school wall.
Her hands were dirty, knees scraped, but determination clean as fire.

She found torn notebooks—scribbles, half-written spellings, broken crayons.

Most pages were ripped.
Some were stained with food.
But a few had magic left.

“A– for apple…”
She traced the letter with trembling fingers.

Her heart thudded like it had discovered treasure.

From that day forward, every night she stood under the streetlight with those discarded pages.
Feet numb.
Stomach empty.
Mind hungry.

She read.

Slowly.
Painfully.
Passionately.

People passed.
Some stared.
Some laughed.

“Arre dekh, phate kapdo mein scientist ban rahi hai!”
(Look, she thinks she’ll be a scientist in torn clothes.)

One day

A group of boys threw pebbles.

Tu roadside hi rahegi, padh ke kya hoga?”
(You will remain on the roadside. What will reading change?)

Aaradhya didn’t look up.

She whispered to her notebook,

“Padhna hoga. Warna duniya yahi dikhayegi.”
(I must study. Otherwise, the world will always show me this.)

Her lips moved, reciting the alphabet while tears dried on her cheek silently.
She was used to pain.
But failure—no, that she would never accept.

Some nights, strangers paused, softened by the sight.

An old chai vendor once left a cup beside her and murmured,

“Kitabi ladki ho tum. Dil mey aag hai.”
(You’re a book girl. Fire in your heart.)

She smiled faintly for the first time in days.

Another time, a woman placed a box of food near her feet.

“Reading in darkness makes eyes weak, beta,” she said gently.

Aaradhya looked up, voice steady like a rising tide.

“And not reading keeps life weak, aunty.”

The woman froze, stunned by the weight in those six-year-old words.

Every night she read.

Pages torn—dream whole.
Lamp flickering—willpower blazing.
Hunger sharp—ambition sharper.

Wind blew her pages away sometimes.
Rain soaked them into pulp.
Still, she collected new ones the next day.

She was building a future brick by brick
with paper scraps the world threw away.

One night, she closed her notebook and looked up at the sky.

Her voice was soft, but destiny heard it like thunder.

“Ek din main sabse badi imarate khadi karungi.”
One day, I will build the tallest towers.

“Aur unme school hongae—badi kursiyan, bade sapne.”
And inside them, there will be schools with big dreams and bigger hope.

Her eyes shone—not with tears—
with purpose.

“Aaj main sadak ke neeche padh rahi hoon,”
Today I study under a streetlamp,

“Par kal—iss duniya ke sabse bade boardroom mey baithungi.”
But tomorrow I will sit in the biggest boardrooms in the world.

“Aur phir ek baat likhungi…”
And then I’ll declare one thing,

Her tiny fists tightened around the torn notebook.

“No girl like me will ever beg for education again.”

That night, she didn’t just learn alphabet.

She defined her destiny.