Stars in One Room

Usha, Aina, Rita, Betty — Nishu, Amrita, Sulekha — their names stepped softly into the room, like the first quiet stars before night learns its language.

Vidya, Valli, Chandni, Nisha — Sonam, Punam, Laxmi, Su — Ritu, Nidhi, Nila, Nitu — each syllable a universe, each voice a light folded into the other.

And Nila Bala, her name a gentle tide, joining the constellation, carrying both strength and grace.

They did not arrive as strangers; they came as rivers that had wandered far alone, only to discover, suddenly, the sea they shared.

Laughter stirred first — a flicker in one corner, spreading, flowing, like music learning to breathe.

Hands served food. Hands received food. Stories travelled upon the plates. Warmth became language; language became memory.

At the quiet centre stood Nitu — neither above, nor ahead — but like gravity itself, holding every star in its orbit.

And Betty — gentle, watchful — moved like an unseen current, arranging moments so that joy might find its rhythm.

Then came the rose.

A pink rose passed from hand to hand, whispering Happy Women’s Day, circling laughter, circling friendship, circling stories never yet spoken.

Yes — they had invented a musical rose chair, a dance of petals and palms, a quiet festival spinning at the heart of the room.

Then came the games.

One. Two.

Three — a hand to the heart.

Four — five hidden in laughter.

Six. Seven. Eight —

Nine slipped away like a mischievous memory.

Ten — arriving like applause.

Numbers became rhythm; minds became drums; concentration danced with delight.

One by one, they spoke their names. With each name came a word — a small lantern of meaning, illuminating the soul behind the sound.

In that room I did not see a single moon.

I saw many.

Vidya, Ritu, Nitu, Sonam, Nidhi, Su, Valli, Laxmi, Nila — moons rising together in the same sky.

Talents shimmered quietly — in shy smiles, in sudden dance, in voices finding courage for the first time.

Even the wind entered softly through the door — and paused.

Perhaps it feared disturbing a gathering where strength had softened into grace, where power had chosen tenderness.

Outside, the world hurried on. Inside, time slowed.

And I understood something older than history, deeper than language:

Women are not bodies awaiting names.

They are movement. They are memory. They are creation.

They are the silent gravity that keeps the universe from fracturing.

And that night — in a small circle of laughter and light —

power was not loud.

Power was a rose, passing hand to hand; a room full of stars; women holding each other’s light.

Nila bala

00,27

08/03/2026

HA0 2AA

© 2026 Nila Bala, @Small Drops, Balananthini Balasubramaniam