Where The Grass Isn't Green, But Yellow

By Harshita Dangwal

“Dhara! Have lunch beta, your bus will be here soon,” Iza shouted from the kitchen.“Aayi, Iza!” (“Coming, Mom!”) Dhara called back, tying her hair nervously.

That morning felt heavier than usual. The smell of wood smoke mixed with cooked rice, the chatter of neighbours outside, the sound of a distant mooing — everything was the same, yet different. It was a strange morning, one filled with pride and ache because today, Dhara was leaving.

She was the only daughter of a family that was often criticized in the village about not having a son to carry their lineage forward.“Didi, Mushkil ke waqt, beta hi kaam ata hai. Isko toh vidaa krdoge kuch saalon mein.”(“Sister, in tough times, only sons are of help. You’ll marry her off in a few years anyway.”)Almost every woman in the village taunted.

People even said Urmila had become too city-minded and that no good girl from a pahadi home should think of leaving her parents to chase city dreams or that she was spoiling her daughter by sending her away to study instead of teaching her to run a home. Urmila and Sahas (Dhara’s parents) had learned long ago to ignore them. They had seen enough struggle to know what staying behind cost.

Urmila had lived her entire life within the boundaries of Gairikhet and didn’t want the same for Dhara. “You must go, beta,” she would say. “There’s a whole world waiting beyond these hills.” Urmilla had learned the alphabet by herself, growing up - she only attended school till the tenth grade.

Dhara, on the other hand, wasn’t sure if she was ready. The thought of leaving behind the cows, the goats (her fav little kid Sakhi) and the quiet rhythm of the hills made her heart twist. But she had worked hard for this - all those evenings studying by the flickering lantern, all those times she stayed awake after dinner to revise her notes. 

The result came a week ago. 

She had cleared her exam and the majestic city of Delhi awaited her.

Dhara never had the heart to disagree, but the truth was - she was terrified. She had seen pictures of Delhi in her books and on old televisions, but she couldn’t imagine living there. Crowds, noise, smoke and strangers - it all sounded too far from the slow, breathing hills of home.

Urmila came out holding a small steel bowl.“Le, dahi-cheeni,” she said softly. “Bas ye safar safal ho jaye.”(“Here, have some curd and sugar,” she said softly. “May this journey be successful.”)

Dhara smiled. 

She didn’t believe much in gods, but she believed in her mother’s rituals -  the little ways she tried to protect her from the world. Gods were a strange concept for her. Not after the hardships she saw her parents undergo; she always believed there was no god and if there was any, he had his favourites.

As the bus engine sputtered to life, Sahas helped load her bag.

“Delhi bada sheher hai,” he said, resting his hand on her head. “Meri beti khoob tarakki kare.”(“Delhi is a big city,” he said, resting his hand on her head. “May my daughter achieve great success.”)

Dhara nodded, her throat too tight to answer and this farewell, although temporary, felt heavy - afterall, she had never been away from her home for long.

Just as the bus began to move, her mother ran up and caught her hand through the window. She pressed something small and warm into Dhara’s palm.“Plant this wherever you learn to breathe again,” she whispered.

Dhara looked down at her hand.

It was a seed — tiny, brown and unfamiliar. 

She wanted to ask what it was, but the bus had already started to climb down the hill road. She thought it was her usual pahadi sentimentality, like tying red thread on the wrist before journeys or sending jars of ghee she’d never finish.

Her mother’s figure grew smaller and smaller until all she could see were the yellow slopes of Gairikhet, glowing in the afternoon light.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Delhi had its own way of eroding sentiment. 

It hit her like a wave. 

The crowds, the blaring horns, the tall buildings - everything moved too fast. Her hostel room was small and smelled of paint, the air heavy with dust. The AQI was poor and for the initial few days, her throat and eyes burned due to the everpresent smog. She could see almost every third person coughing due to it.

Her hostel was anything but pretty.

But, she didn’t have any complaints about it either as it was the cheapest in the area and the only place her father could afford without flinching at the monthly fees.

She tried to initiate conversation with her roommates but it never lasted more than 15 seconds. They were just so different. She thought.

Dhara would lie awake at night, listening to the noise outside and imagining it as her Iza’s voice calling her for lunch. Perhaps the only safe haven where her favourites were considered, as the hostel never really gave a preference for food and she had to eat whatever was served (sometimes too dry or too clumpy). There were street hawkers shouting to sell their products, but no sound of the goats’ bells or the cow moos she was used to.

The first few weeks in the hostel felt like living underwater with everything muffled, everyone rushing, no air thick enough to hold still. She’d come back after long hours of college, her shoes dusted with city grime, her mind too full of business modules that seemed new but interesting to her.

It was late July, and the time came for internships. The rules were simple - each student must intern for three months at a renowned agency or MNC in their field of interest. Dhara stayed a little in and out of the realms of reality. On one hand, she was too engrossed in her studies to call her parents every day, and on the other hand, she didn’t really interact much with her batchmates.

Once, she was studying in the library when a pink-haired girl approached her and said, 

“Hey, you are pretty, wanna join our fashion club? We also attend Lakme Fashion Week for free, just saying.” 

Dhara was pretty; she was aware of that fact, but fashion was something out of bounds for her. She always imagined the fashion students as eccentric, with their coloured hair and crazy fades, goth-like attire. She just knew she would never fit in.

“Uhm… thanks, but I don’t think I’m into fashion that much.”“Oh, okay. Don’t be beat about it. Lemme know if you still wanna attend that show, it happens next week.” That girl laughed and walked away.

Dhara was puzzled. What had just happened?

The guys in her class were a mix of loud rich kids and quiet geniuses. The entitled ones always found a way to take up space, but Dhara never let it get to her. She had come with purpose, not for attention. Politics and gossip also weren’t her thing. All she wanted was to study hard, earn good grades and land that one internship that would make her parents proud as well as prove to the villagers that leaving home had been worth it.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

July rolled over, and company interviews started coming in. Dhara was confident about her grades but not much about her interview skills, as she never really talked to anyone.

“Nervous?” That pink-haired girl from the library swung by.

“Yeah, a little.” Dhara smiled.

“I’m Trisha, by the way. Forgot to get your name that day.”

“It’s Dhara. You have cool hair, Trisha,” Dhara exclaimed.

“Thanks, girlie! Here, let me help you ace this interview.” Trisha sat beside Dhara and took her marksheet. “Wow, so you are a nerd, huh?” Dhara felt shy at that compliment.

“Okay, so you are pretty much sorted on the academics part. The only thing you need to worry about is how you present yourself there. Be confident and just answer straight to the point. They don’t like beating around the bush, trust me,” Trisha explained. “Also, just be yourself. I don’t know you much, but your resume really does speak for you. You just need to own it all up, girl.”

“That helps, will keep it in mind, Trisha,” Dhara said.

“Good luck, girlie. If you ace this, you are coming to fashion week with me.” Trisha winked.

The peon called the next roll number in and it was Dhara’s.She took a deep breath and walked into the hall, unafraid.

Maybe Trisha’s pep talk had some magic in it because Dhara felt at ease and answered all the questions elegantly.

“You’ll be an asset to our Partnerships Department. We need people like you who have such a diverse perspective about global businesses,” the company’s director mentioned.

“Welcome to Zayshan Co., Dhara. You will be interning as a Growth Marketer in our Global Partnership Department. Although all the formalities will be sent over via email, here is a gist of your role and stipend for the three months. We look forward to working with you.” He smiled, genuinely.

“It will be my honor, sir. Thanks a lot!” Dhara was too stunned to speak.

She took the envelope and exited the hall. And suddenly, she felt something in her chest  - something real and raw. A feeling that she had been chasing for months now, all manifesting in this step of her career. She was very excited and wanted to tell her mom about it almost immediately.

“You look happy, did it go well?” Trisha smirked.

“Oh my god, I bagged the offer!” Dhara hugged Trisha out of excitement.

“Told ya, girlie. You are that girl.” Trisha embraced her back. “We need to celebrate it! I’ll make you meet my friends too.”

“Okay!” Dhara exclaimed.

On her way back to the hostel, Dhara bought some momos as a treat for herself.

“Iza, I got the internship and they are paying me 50k per month for my role!” Dhara called her mom.

“Bohot khoob, meri beti! Tu khush toh hai na?”(“Very good, my daughter! You are happy, right?”)

“Ha, Iza. Bas aapse milna hai jald hi.”(“Yes, Iza. I just can’t wait to meet you soon.”)

“Apna dhyaan rakh beta, khana toh theek se derhe hai na vo log?”(“Take care of yourself, dear. Are they feeding you properly there?”)

And so went on the long conversation between a mom and her daughter - miles apart, yet bound by a closeness that distance could never touch.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Six months went by marking a period of immense growth for Dhara.She attended her first fashion show and was very impressed by the designers’ creations.Her internship was going great, and she was also offered a full-time role post-graduation.

One evening, after two months of working tirelessly for her last leg of internship, she caught herself staring at the patch of concrete outside her workplace. It wasn’t really a balcony, just a narrow strip where pigeons fought for space and cigarette butts made their nests. And yet, the thought came quietly: maybe here.

So she took out the tiny seedling pouch from her bag and planted it in the nearest, smallest pot.No ceremony, no prayer. Just a thumb pressing a dent into a pot of cheap soil from the corner nursery.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Weeks went by. Nothing happened.

The seed sat untouched in a tin box for weeks, tucked between her semester-end exam admit card and old coins. She didn’t have the heart or energy to think about it. Life was too busy, too strange.

Then one morning, she noticed the faintest hint of green pushing through the soil. It was fragile and crooked, unsure of where the sun was. But it was alive.

She smiled for the first time in weeks and texted her mother:“Amma, it sprouted.”(“Mom, it sprouted.”)

The reply came a few minutes later.

“Then maybe you’re learning to breathe.”

The plant grew slowly. Its leaves were never truly green, more yellow - like the fields of her khet that turned gold every summer. That same sun-drenched yellow - half warmth, half ache - followed her here, quietly rooting itself in a Delhi windowsill.

Each morning, Dhara watered it before leaving. 

Each evening, she checked on it like an old friend who spoke in silence. 

It didn’t make the city feel smaller, but it softened its edges and almost made it feel like a small patch of home breathing beside her.

A year later, when she moved into her first officer’s quarters, she carried the same pot with her. The plant had grown taller now, though still crooked, still yellow at the tips — but somehow steadier.It had learned how to stand in this new air, how to drink from unfamiliar rain.

Just like her.

Sometimes, when the city noise grows loud and the walls feel too white, Dhara closes her eyes and hears her mother’s voice floating through the hills“Dhara, khana thanda ho gaya.”(“Dhara, the food’s gone cold.”)

She keeps moving forward - sometimes certain, sometimes trembling, but always with the quiet faith that no matter how far her steps take her, somewhere in those distant hills, a small cottage still holds her laughter in its walls. 

The wide yellow fields of her gaon wait like open arms, ready to wrap her in their golden hush if she ever stumbles.

And even if the world grows too vast or the roads too cold, she will never truly lose her way -  for the hills remembered her name, the wind still carried her mother’s voice and the yellow warmth of home will always find its way back to her. 

Even if everything went wrong and the world turned its back on her, Dhara knew there was a quiet calm inside her, the kind her parents had passed down without ever naming it. It lived in the patience of her father’s farmer hands, in her mother’s soft yet fierce courage to stand tall before the villagers, in the slow spring that turned their fields yellow after a long, stubborn winter and in the faint memory of the youngest goat Sakhi’s morning bleats, she found a reminder that life, much like her, was still learning how to bloom.

In those moments she felt it, the quiet power of becoming. Not perfect, not certain, but enough to keep her moving forward. 

As the night set in, Dhara opened her bedside window. The yellow flower was now in full bloom and brushed against her elbow as if wishing her a good night. The wind was gentle but cool, a sign of Delhi winters approaching. A gust of wind flowed in, caressing her hair almost as if carrying a message from back home whispering, “We see you and we are so proud!”

She took it as an affirmation and smiled. “I just hope they don’t make me open excel tomorrow,” she murmured.

The flower swayed, and for a second, she could swear it laughed with her too.

By Harshita Dangwal