I was sitting on the edge of a rooftop.
Not some skyscraper.Just a half-constructed building behind our slum.
The air smelled like rain and brick dust.Below, I could hear aunties arguing about onion prices and children screaming over marbles.
It was chaotic.But it was mine.
My phone buzzed — again.
Trending: Kalyani Sharma leads health initiative in 13 slums.#Everyone'sDarling crosses 4 million uses in 3 days.Her sari just became a cultural reset.
I stared at the screen.Not with pride.With… stillness.
Because something had shifted.
I wasn't famous anymore.
I was followed.
Not just online.But by people with bruised hope and quiet hearts.
When I visited schools now, girls would gather like I was royalty.
Not because of glamour.But because I was proof that their silence could become sound.
A little girl named Saira tugged my hand once.
"Didi… can I also be someone?"I smiled."You already are."
A group of women from another slum sent me handmade bangles."I wore these when I got married," one note read, "but they're yours now. You married the world."
The gifts kept coming.So did the protection.
When trolls came for me online — when someone edited my slum photo to mock my past — they didn't last an hour.
Because thousands of people, many with no profile pictures and no fancy bios, showed up in the comments and said:
"You don't touch her. She stood when we couldn't."
I didn't lead a revolution.I didn't start a protest.
I just existed out loud.
And somehow…The world started to protect me like I was something sacred.
Not because I was perfect.
But because I reminded them they could be powerful without permission.