The editor from ICON India sat across from me.
Poised. Curious. Wearing an outfit more expensive than my rent.
"We're thrilled to feature you," she said, stylus in hand. "The cover's already blocked. But we need your final quote. One thing first…"
She clicked open her tablet.
"We're printing your full name.What should we call you?"
A simple question.
Except it wasn't.
For a long time, my name wasn't mine.
It was an extension of whoever claimed me.Or discarded me.A reflection of bloodlines I didn't ask for and reputations I didn't belong to.
First, I was Kalyani.No surname. Just the girl from the blue-tarp lane.
Then, for a brief season, I was Kalyani Mehra.A surname that looked shiny in gold-embossed invitations, but felt like paper in the rain.
When they threw me out, I went back to just Kalyani.No label. No weight.
But now?
Now, I wasn't less than a name.
I was bigger than one.
I looked at the editor.
Paused.Smiled.
And said:
"Print it as Kalyani Aikya."
She blinked. "I'm sorry — Aikya? I haven't heard—"
"It means union.Because I am not the daughter of a father or a family.I am the daughter of everything that tried to break me — and failed."
That was it.
No legacy passed down.No bloodline inherited.
A name born from fire.Written by choice.Worn with pride.
And when the cover finally dropped —"Kalyani Aikya: The Girl Who Belonged to Herself"— the world understood.
That this girl wasn't just someone's leftover.
She was her own creation.