Rani’s fingers were always stained black — not with ink, but with bits of charcoal she used to draw on scraps of paper. She was only ten, selling flowers at traffic signals, weaving between cars to earn a few coins. But whenever she found a quiet corner, she would sketch. A kite floating in the sky, children with heavy schoolbags, the temple gopuram she saw every morning — all of it found life in her drawings.

One evening, as she doodled on the wall near a tea stall, an art teacher passing by stopped. He watched the little girl, crouched with concentration, shading the outline of a bird. “Who taught you?” he asked. Rani looked up, startled. “No one,” she murmured.

The teacher smiled, bought her flowers, and returned the next day with a small box of paints and a sketchbook. It was the first gift Rani had ever received. Her eyes shone brighter than the marigolds she sold. Slowly, she began attending a community art class he arranged. Her drawings grew bolder, more colourful, telling stories of dreams she never dared to speak.

Months later, at a small exhibition, one of her paintings was displayed — a little girl with wings, flying above a city. Visitors paused, admired, and applauded. Rani stood shyly in a corner, her heart soaring higher than her painting. She realised that her art was not just hers anymore — it was her voice.