Ranga's Daughter

Chapter Twelve: New Books, New Boundaries
Meenal stepped down from the government bus, clutching her worn satchel and a stack of college books wrapped in old newspaper. Her steps were quiet but purposeful, the oversized yellow dupatta pinned tightly to her modest salwar to hide the prison-issued ID tag sewn inside. The jail-issue plastic slippers slapped against the gravel of the campus entrance out of place among the fashionable sneakers and jangling anklets of other girls.
She felt like a phantom—allowed to exist, but only at the edge of things.
Ranga had walked with her to the outer gate that system allowed in that morning, as he always did now. His presence still made everyone on the prison grounds step aside. But once they crossed the outer barrier, he fell behind, letting her walk the few steps alone. She had asked him once, softly, why he did that.
“Kanna,” he’d said, adjusting the frayed towel draped over his shoulder, “those last ten steps are yours. You’re walking your own life now.”
Today, he waited near the fence with folded arms, ignoring the guards who exchanged curious glances at his steady ritual. As Meenal disappeared through the gates of the college, he muttered with a faint smile, “Go live, child.”
Inside the campus, Meenal was a curiosity.
People stared, not cruelly, but curiously. Whispers passed behind her back. No one had been told her full story, but everyone knew: she was that girl came from prison, came alone, said nothing. A few boys made crude jokes; they always did. But the first time someone tried to pull at her dupatta, a silent warning had reached them. No one knew who sent it. But the boy was called to the warden's office and emerged pale, with a transfer application the next day.
Meenal sat in the last row of the economics classroom, always early, always alert. The professor a stern woman named Mrs. D’Souza rarely addressed her directly, but one afternoon, she placed a textbook on Meenal’s desk as she passed and said quietly, “You missed this chapter in the old edition.”
Meenal had no words, only a whisper: “Thank you, ma’am.”
During lunch, while the campus came alive with samosas, laughter, and cola bottles, Meenal sat alone under the neem tree by the back building. She unwrapped her packed lunch a dry rotli and boiled moong dal from the morning ration at prison. She nibbled slowly, watching from afar.
A few girls passed her glances, some with hesitation, others with silent interest. But no one approached.
Until one did.
A short girl with thick glasses and a large satchel plopped herself down with a dramatic sigh.
“Economics is going to kill me,” she muttered, opening her own lunch box. “Why do they make us study poverty in theory when we’re already living it?”
Meenal blinked.
The girl turned and smiled, sticking out her hand. “Hi. I’m Anjali. You’re Meenal, right?”
“Yes,” Meenal replied softly.
“I sit two benches ahead of you. You always take such neat notes. Mind if I copy sometimes?”
“Sure…” Meenal hesitated, unsure.
Anjali leaned closer. “And listen don't let these people make you feel weird. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. Everyone’s got a past, some of us just hide it better.”
Meenal didn’t know whether to smile or cry. She nodded, cheeks warm.
By 4:00 p.m., she began her quiet walk back to the main road, where a government bus would arrive for return to prison. It was always a lonely moment—the transition from Meenal-the-student to Meenal-the-prisoner. She would climb into the van, hand over her ID, and be escorted back inside with a silence that settled heavier each day.
But this evening, as she walked jailer room, the wardern called out, “Hey this is for you.”
A brown packet. No name, no sender.
Inside: a new kurti, soft cotton, pale pink. Modest. Clean. Brand new.
Meenal touched the fabric with trembling fingers.
Only Ranga would know her size.
She didn’t say anything when she returned to their shared cell. She just quietly folded the kurti and placed it near her bedroll. Ranga didn’t speak either. He merely glanced once, then back at the book he was reading.
Later that night, as the prison lights dimmed and snores filled the air, Meenal whispered in the dark, “I don’t know how you do all this.”
Ranga responded without turning. “I told you, kanna. I said I’ll take care of you. And I will.”
Meenal didn’t reply. She just let the silent tears fall this time not from pain, but something almost forgotten.
Hope.