Pulak Mitra
1
The light in Tripti Sethi’s room wasn’t sunlight—it was ring light. The walls weren’t pink by default; they were painted with PR-sent pastel samples from a sustainable decor brand that wanted to look “soft but aspirational.” At 17, Tripti had mastered the art of the illusion: flawless hair curled with a borrowed straightener, DIY eyelash extensions she stuck on with half a prayer, and an Instagram grid so coordinated it looked like a magazine. Her followers—75,208 and counting—believed she was living the dream. But just behind her tripod, her bed was piled with chemistry worksheets, her brother’s socks, and a half-eaten samosa. Her mother’s voice pierced the chaos from the living room, calling out instructions about the dahi delivery and the power bill. But Tripti shut the door, cranked the music to lo-fi chill, and prepared to shoot a brand collab for lemon-infused face mist. She plastered on her influencer smile, leaned into the camera, and chirped, “Hi besties, today I’m partnering with LumeLush to bring you that citrus glow…”
The shoot had taken two hours and three costume changes because her kurta clashed with the lemon props. Her mother knocked twice during filming—once to ask if she wanted chai, and again to scold her for using too much data on the WiFi. “This is not real work,” Ma muttered as she walked away, unaware that one 15-second reel paid more than a week’s tuition fees. Tripti didn’t argue; she never did. She finished her take, edited the clip, filtered her cheeks to look glass-skin-perfect, and scheduled it for upload. Then she collapsed face-down into her pillow, phone still in hand. She scrolled through her feed—everyone else seemed to be doing better, looking prettier, living louder. She paused on the post of another Delhi influencer, Reet, posing in Santorini with a quote about chasing sunshine. Tripti knew it was a green screen. But still, she felt the usual jab: envy in pastel. Behind the screen, her dad was shouting at a cricket match, and her younger brother, Nikhil, was making fart noises into a bottle. She sighed, put on her AirPods, and told herself: just a little more hustle, a few more brand collabs, and then she’d get out of this cramped house and move to a studio flat with actual quiet.
School was a blur she skimmed through—mostly attending online classes with the camera off, claiming bandwidth issues. She was barely scraping by in math, and her history project was still half-done. Her teachers complained about her “disengagement,” but none of them understood how hard it was to juggle algorithms, analytics, and algebra. The only person who kept her grounded was Zoya—her best friend since Class 6, the one who still saw her beyond the filters. Zoya didn’t care for Reels or followers; she spent her time sketching fashion designs on the backs of notebooks. But even with Zoya, Tripti had begun to feel like she was living two lives—one where she was still that slightly awkward girl who snorted when she laughed, and the other where she was “TriptiTalks” with product codes and perfectly curated stories. That evening, as she packed her vanity tray for a live skincare review, her hands trembled slightly. She chalked it up to nerves. This collab could be big—it was LumeLush’s launch event. They wanted “raw but elegant,” “fun but aspirational.” She could do that. She had to.
Tripti angled the ring light, applied lemon gloss to her lips, and tested the live button. She didn’t realize she had clicked “Go Live” instead of “Preview.” Nor did she realize that her phone was angled just slightly to the side, capturing not her face, but the bedroom door behind her—bursting open as Nikhil ran in half-naked, chased by their dog wrapped in toilet paper. Her dad’s voice echoed from the living room: “Yeh kya bakwas match hai? Koi sharam hai inko?” Her mom shouted from the kitchen, “Tripti, gas band kar diya tha kya?” And amidst all this, Tripti’s live chat exploded with laughing emojis, shocked comments, and screen recordings already underway. It took her 5 whole minutes to realize she was streaming live. Her heart dropped. She fumbled with the phone, ended the stream, and stared at her reflection on the blackened screen. Her cheeks were still glossed. Her smile was frozen. But inside, her stomach flipped—because in trying so hard to look perfect, she’d accidentally shown the truth. And the internet? The internet never forgot.
2
Tripti didn’t sleep that night—not even a wink. She lay in bed, staring at the blinking ceiling fan, while her phone vibrated every few seconds with a new notification. She’d muted the sound, but the vibrations felt like tremors inside her chest. Her hand hovered over the screen for hours. When she finally opened Instagram, the horror began to scroll endlessly. Her “Live Lemon Skin Secrets” video had been watched over 1.4 million times, reposted by parody accounts, and turned into dozens of memes. There was one where her dad’s rant about cricket had been autotuned into a remix track titled “Bakwas Match Beats.” Another had looped Nikhil’s towel run to the Benny Hill theme. The worst? A popular influencer with 300K followers had stitched the stream and said, “So much for citrus class, huh?” Tripti’s carefully built brand—weeks of soft lighting, lemon emojis, and scripted “Hi besties!”—had crumbled in five accidental minutes of real life.
Her parents were blissfully unaware the internet had declared war. Her dad scolded Nikhil for wasting toilet paper, while her mom griped about someone putting an empty milk packet back in the fridge. “Normal” continued around her, but inside Tripti’s head, it was chaos. Her DMs ranged from cruel (“omg you live like that? cringe”) to confusing (“girl this was ICONIC chaos”) to the downright weird (“Can I adopt your dog? He’s a star”). Her inbox was a bonfire of brand messages. One by one, the collabs started backing out—first a haircare brand citing “alignment concerns,” then a snack sponsor that said they were “re-evaluating campaign aesthetics.” Her only steady sponsorship—an app that paid for monthly shoutouts—paused all content. Tripti emailed them, panic barely hidden behind polite tone: “Happy to reshoot. Can clarify any confusion.” The reply came three hours later: “Let’s touch base in a few weeks.” That was influencer code for: You’re too messy now.
Zoya came over after school, holding kulfis and a grim expression. She didn’t say anything at first. She just sat next to Tripti on the floor, handed her the stick, and let her talk. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” Tripti whispered, the kulfi already melting in her hand. “I just wanted to show people something pretty. Like… something better.” Zoya finally broke her silence. “Tripti, I love you. But babe, your life was never going to stay inside that lemon filter forever.” That stung—but also hit something real. For so long, Tripti had tried to shrink herself into screen-sized perfection, slicing away the messy parts like a badly edited video. But now the mess was out, streaming in high-def, meme’d and immortalized. Zoya helped her go through the worst comments, helped her block the trolls, and even made her laugh when she mimicked one influencer saying, “I only use pink salt mist from the Himalayas.” But beneath the laughter, Tripti could feel something shifting. She had crossed a line—between being curated and being seen. And that kind of visibility came with its own kind of vulnerability.
The next morning, Tripti didn’t open Instagram. Instead, she opened her front door and sat on the steps in her mismatched pajamas, sipping real lemonade her mom had left on the table. It was tangy and slightly too salty, but it felt grounding. She watched her neighbors sweep their porches, kids chase cricket balls, and the regular uncle struggle with his scooter’s kick-start. None of them knew she was trending. None of them cared about aesthetics or viral reach. For the first time in months, Tripti felt like she was breathing without posing. Then, as she sipped the last of the lemonade, her phone buzzed—not with hate, but with a message from a quiet classmate she barely knew. “Hey. That live video? Honestly… made me feel less weird about my life. Thanks for being real.” Tripti stared at the screen, stunned. Was this what honesty could do? Could there be power in being unfiltered, after all? Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from the idea forming in her head. Maybe she could turn this mess into something. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to her than the lemon-filter girl after all.
3
Monday mornings were always a mess, but this one felt like a battlefield. Tripti stepped into school wearing her usual oversized hoodie, hoping the fabric could shield her from the stares. It didn’t. The moment she walked through the gate, it was as if someone had whispered “Live Girl’s here,” and the ripple effect spread down the corridor like a gossip tornado. Some students burst into laughter. Others just smirked. One guy from Class 11 clutched a toilet paper roll and fake-chased his friend yelling, “LumeLush chaos incoming!” Tripti’s cheeks burned. The worst part wasn’t the mockery—it was the fact that everyone had seen her in a way she never wanted to be seen. She tried to ignore the whispers, but each step through the corridor felt like walking on broken glass. Even her history teacher made a snide remark when she handed in her late assignment: “Too busy going viral to study dates?” Tripti didn’t reply. She just sat at the back of the class and kept her head down, pretending to take notes while her insides buzzed with shame and resentment.
Her so-called influencer friends didn’t help either. Misha, who once shared every one of Tripti’s posts and even copied her caption style, now hadn’t messaged her once. When Tripti texted asking if they were still going to the #GlowUpSummit together, Misha replied with a cold, “I think the vibe’s changed a bit. Hope you’re okay though.” Another girl, Pree, posted a story with the caption: “Real queens stay classy, not messy.” Everyone knew it was a subtweet. In the influencer world, silence was more brutal than insults—it was a public unfollowing of not just your page, but your persona. Brands ghosted her, DMs were dry, and she was stuck between being too viral to ignore and too risky to associate with. The internet had chewed her up, sucked out the drama, and left her behind like a stale meme. Tripti tried to do damage control by uploading a calm, scripted apology video—apologizing for the “disruption” and promising to be “more professional.” But the comments were vicious: “This feels faker than your lemon mist,” “Girl, OWN it, don’t spin it,” and even, “Why is she still talking?”
At home, things weren’t much better. Her mom was now aware that something had gone “online viral” but didn’t quite grasp the magnitude. “Just ignore these people,” she said over dinner, handing Tripti a roti like it could fix everything. “They don’t matter.” But that was the problem—they did. To Tripti, her followers were her world. Every like was validation, every comment a tiny affirmation that she mattered. And now that it was crumbling, she felt like she didn’t even exist. The only bright spot in her day was a moment she didn’t expect. Vedant, the quietest guy in her class—the one who never spoke unless called on—walked past her at lunch, paused, and said, “That video was insane… but, like… kinda comforting too. Makes me feel better about my house.” Then he just walked away, leaving her stunned. Someone related? Could that chaos have… helped someone feel less alone? It planted a seed. Maybe what happened wasn’t just a disaster. Maybe it was an accidental mirror for people hiding behind their own filters. That night, for the first time in days, Tripti didn’t open her filter app. She sat in front of her cracked mirror and looked at her face. The real one. Tired, puffy-eyed, a small zit near her nose. But human. And maybe that was enough.
A few days later, Zoya showed her a fan edit someone had made—Tripti laughing with her brother, her mom yelling in the background, the family chaos layered over soft piano music and the words: “Sometimes, life doesn’t need filters.” It had over 10K likes. Zoya grinned and said, “Babe, the universe exposed you—but maybe it was trying to remind you who you really are.” Tripti stared at the video again. It was raw, embarrassing, too real—and yet something about it made her chest ache in a good way. The laughter, the madness, the uncurated mess—was that really so shameful? Or had she just been taught to believe it was? As Zoya scrolled through more comments, Tripti made a decision. Maybe she couldn’t fix the past, but she could control the next thing she posted. Not a product. Not a filter. Just… truth. For the first time since her fall from Insta-grace, she felt a strange energy rising—not anxiety, but a quiet sort of rebellion. If the internet wanted “real,” then maybe it was time to give it to them—on her terms.
4
Tripti sat at her desk with a spiral notebook in hand, the pages filled not with brand ideas or aesthetic captions, but with real words—scribbled, scratched out, and re-written in messy loops. At the top of the page she’d written in block letters: LEMONADE TALKS. It wasn’t a brand. It wasn’t even a strategy. It was more like a dare to herself—a small, fragile promise that she would stop pretending, just for once. The concept was simple: instead of promoting products, she would talk about things influencers never showed. The mess. The yelling. The loneliness of living a double life. She’d talk about her family’s chaos, about the pressure of being “liked” online, about losing friends who only stayed as long as the likes came in. She wouldn’t style it. She wouldn’t script it. It would just be her, sitting with her glass of homemade lemonade, talking to the camera like a diary. Zoya, sitting cross-legged on Tripti’s bed, was cautiously optimistic. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “It’s brave. But it could backfire.” Tripti took a deep breath and said, “It already backfired. I might as well burn it down properly.”
She filmed the first episode that night. No ring light. No makeup. Just the grainy glow of her study lamp and her mismatched pajamas. “Hi,” she said quietly to the camera. “Not ‘Hi besties.’ Just… hi.” She paused, nervous. “This isn’t an ad. This is me. Unfiltered. Unbrushed. Unsponsored.” She held up a chipped steel glass of lemonade. “My life doesn’t taste like lemon mist. It tastes like this—sweet, sour, salty, and sometimes just plain weird.” She laughed awkwardly. And then, she started talking. About how hard it was to pretend all the time. About how influencers edited out every ugly truth. About how she used to cry at night when her views dropped. About how lonely it felt to be popular online and invisible at school. She didn’t try to be profound. She was just honest. When the recording ended, she stared at the ‘Upload’ button for ten minutes. Her hands trembled as she clicked it. For the first time, she wasn’t promoting a product. She was promoting a person—herself. The real one.
The next morning, she didn’t check her phone. She spent the day trying not to care. But by evening, Zoya called, voice breathless. “It’s happening, Tripti. It’s actually happening!” The video had crossed 30,000 views in a few hours. But the comments were different this time. They weren’t laughing. They were listening. “I felt this in my bones.” “This made me cry. Thank you for showing this side.” “No one talks about this. Please keep going.” Even people who once trolled her came back to comment: “Respect. I judged you, but this was brave.” One girl DM’d her a selfie of her messy room and wrote, “This is me. Thank you for making it okay.” For the first time, Tripti wasn’t viral because of an accident. She was trending because of something honest. She leaned back, stunned, as her screen filled with people telling their own stories, using the hashtag #LemonadeTalks. It wasn’t just about her anymore. It was turning into a conversation. One where the filters were off.
But with truth came risk. Some people didn’t like the change. A few brands unfollowed her. One even sent a warning email: “Please maintain a more positive tone for future content.” A former collab partner publicly called her “reckless.” And yet, Tripti didn’t flinch. Because for the first time, her worth wasn’t based on how smooth her skin looked or how perfect her caption was. It was based on something deeper—resonance. The second episode came a week later, this time about mental health and burnout. The third, about comparison and jealousy online. Each time, she drank from the same dented glass of lemonade. Each time, more people listened. What started as a blunder had become a brand-new kind of voice. Not polished. Not perfect. But powerful. And somewhere between the fear and freedom, Tripti realized—this wasn’t the end of her influencer journey. It was the beginning of something real.
5
Tripti hadn’t expected the local radio station to email her, and she definitely hadn’t expected their message to read: “We’d love to feature your ‘Lemonade Talks’ in our Youth Voices segment.” Her first reaction was disbelief. Was this real? Then panic. She imagined walking into a recording studio, tongue-tied, wearing the wrong clothes, saying the wrong thing. But Zoya nudged her forward, as always. “You literally went viral in pajamas. You’ve got nothing to lose.” So she agreed. Two days later, she found herself in a small studio, headphones on, mic in front of her, voice slightly shaky. The host, a kind woman in her 30s, asked her questions about authenticity, online pressure, and whether she ever felt scared telling the truth. Tripti’s answer was simple: “All the time. But being fake was scarier.” The interview aired on Sunday night. By Monday, her inbox was full of messages from students across Delhi—some anonymous—thanking her for saying the things no one else would. But with the light came shadows. The school principal called her into the office with a polite frown and said, “Tripti, we’re proud of your creativity, but do you think this… personal broadcasting… reflects well on the institution?”
She stared at him, unsure what to say. She wasn’t swearing online. She wasn’t gossiping. She was telling the truth. But even truth, she realized, could be uncomfortable. Especially when it disrupted polite silence. The school didn’t take any action, but the warning was clear: Keep it cute, not critical. That same day, her father knocked on her door with a newspaper in hand. Page 9: “The Girl Behind the Glass: When Real Life Goes Live.” Someone had written a feature on her. “Is this a good thing?” he asked quietly. “Or should we be worried?” It wasn’t disapproval in his voice—it was concern. For their privacy. For their family. Tripti realized that in speaking her truth, she’d also inadvertently opened a window into everyone else’s. She apologized. “I never meant to put us out there like that.” Her father smiled gently. “You didn’t put us out there. Life did. You just… didn’t look away.” That night, she sat alone with her camera, not filming, just thinking. Was honesty worth the discomfort? Could vulnerability be responsible, too? She didn’t have answers. Just questions. And maybe that was enough for now.
Meanwhile, something else was shifting in her orbit—Vedant. The quiet boy who had once said two sentences to her now started leaving comments on her videos. Thoughtful ones. Long ones. “Your latest talk made me rethink the way I post. I delete so much of myself before I share anything.” One day in the school library, he left a folded note on her desk. It read: “I think your voice is important. You make people feel seen.” No name. Just his handwriting, neat and careful. For the first time, Tripti didn’t feel like she was talking at people. She felt like she was talking with them. But the more she spoke, the more cracks she saw in other people’s masks. Misha posted a video crying about losing herself in “aesthetics” and how she had envy buried under all the glitter. Another popular creator made a #LemonadeChallenge reel about showing their “ugliest” side. Even people who once laughed at Tripti were now trying to keep up. It was dizzying. What had started as her breakdown had become a blueprint. And yet, Tripti couldn’t shake the feeling that some were jumping on the trend—not out of truth, but out of strategy. The same machine, now wearing a messier filter.
One night, after a particularly emotional video about comparing herself to other girls, Tripti received a DM from a girl in another city. The message simply said: “I was going to disappear today. But your video made me wait. Thank you.” Tripti burst into tears. Not sad tears. Not proud ones either. Just overwhelmed. For all the followers she’d lost, for all the brands that ghosted her, for all the ridicule she endured—this one message made everything worth it. Her phone buzzed again. Vedant had replied to her story with a quote: “Telling the truth is a revolutionary act. You’re kind of a rebel now.” She smiled, heart pounding. She replied: “What if I didn’t mean to start a rebellion?” He responded instantly: “Then that’s the most honest kind of rebellion there is.” And with that, Tripti realized she wasn’t just cleaning up the spill from her viral accident. She was stirring something new—a revolution of realness, lemonade in hand.
6
Tripti had been on camera dozens of times, but nothing felt quite like this. Sitting backstage at the Youth Lens Media Fest, she could hear the murmur of students, journalists, and digital creators filling the small auditorium of a South Delhi college campus. She adjusted her lemon-yellow kurta—Zoya’s pick for “authentic vibes, but make it aesthetic”—and tried to calm the butterflies inside her. She wasn’t just attending; she was speaking. A panel called “Authenticity in the Age of Influence” had invited her, alongside two other influencers: one an eco-fashion YouTuber with three million followers, the other a hyper-polished skincare coach whose reels all began with “Hey Lovelies!” Tripti already knew their style: curated, polished, and vaguely dismissive of mess. She wasn’t sure where she fit in. “You ready?” Zoya asked from the wings, snapping a photo that she promised wouldn’t go on Instagram. “Not even slightly,” Tripti whispered. But then the host called her name, and she stepped into the light.
The panel began smoothly. The moderator, a young journalist, asked about maintaining “balance between brand image and personal identity.” The skincare influencer smiled brightly and talked about “wellness boundaries.” The YouTuber referenced her curated “eco-honesty model.” Then the mic came to Tripti. Her voice wavered for just a second before she leaned in. “Honestly? There is no balance. There’s either performance or presence. And I chose presence, even if it cost me.” The room grew quiet. She spoke about Lemonade Talks, how it began as a mistake and grew into a mirror—for herself and others. Some heads nodded. Some eyebrows raised. But as she paused, the next question came from the audience—and it wasn’t kind. A boy in the third row, clearly prepping to go viral himself, stood up and said, “So, let’s say it out loud—you got famous for being messy, and now you’re making content out of your chaos. Isn’t that still a performance, just wearing a different costume?” A hush fell. Zoya visibly tensed in the crowd. Tripti swallowed, heart racing.
She stood. Not because it was expected, but because sitting felt too small. “That’s a fair question,” she began, her voice steady despite the heat in her cheeks. “But I think there’s a difference between acting and admitting. Performance is when you control the story to win applause. Honesty is when you risk being disliked. I didn’t script my mom yelling, or my brother climbing the fridge. That happened. I didn’t post it for views—it leaked. But instead of running from it, I chose to stay. I chose to speak from that mess, not clean it up. And yes, now people watch it. But I’m not selling a brand anymore. I’m sharing a bruise. That’s not performance. That’s healing.” The auditorium was quiet for a moment before someone in the back clapped. Then another. Then most of the room. Even the skeptical boy, cornered by his own smirk, gave a slow nod before sitting down. The panel moved on, but Tripti had said what she came to say. Not for the panel. Not even for the crowd. But for herself.
Afterward, in the corridor buzzing with selfies and snacks, Vedant found her. He wasn’t dressed for attention—same soft hoodie, same worn-out sneakers—but his eyes were glowing. “You were electric,” he said. “Even the moderator was like… blinking too much.” She laughed, a flush creeping up her neck. “Did I overdo it?” she asked. “Maybe,” he grinned. “But it was worth it.” He handed her a bottle of lemonade—actual lemonade, cold and pulpy. “Figured you deserved the real thing, not just the metaphor.” They found a quiet bench outside, away from the noise. For a moment, they just sipped in silence. “You know,” Vedant said softly, “you didn’t just start a series. You gave people permission to stop pretending.” Tripti looked up at the fading sun and said, “Maybe that’s what I needed too.” She didn’t know what came next—more talks, more trolls, maybe more truth. But she knew this: being real hadn’t ruined her. It had made her more seen than ever. And that was a power no filter could manufacture.
7
It started small—her little brother Aarav, age eight, making funny faces in the mirror and muttering, “This is the real me, okay? Deal with it.” Tripti laughed at first, flattered that he watched Lemonade Talks. He’d even made his own “video set-up” in the living room, complete with a cracked Android phone and a steel tumbler of mango juice (“Lemonade is sour,” he complained). But soon, things spiraled. One evening during dinner, Aarav declared on camera, “Mom screams at us more than she smiles. I bet people on the internet will understand.” Their mother dropped her roti midair. “Aarav! Stop recording! That’s not for others to see!” Tripti tried to de-escalate, “He’s just playing—he doesn’t understand…” But her father’s voice, quiet but firm, cut through: “And what if he does? What then, Tripti?” The room went silent. The food lay untouched. That night, the atmosphere was thick—not with anger, but with confusion. Tripti lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Had she set something dangerous in motion? Was truth still healing if it hurt the people you loved?
At school, things weren’t calmer. One of the teachers, Mrs. Narula, casually mentioned during class, “Not everything about family should be broadcasted, even in the name of ‘awareness.’” Some students snickered. Zoya rolled her eyes and whispered, “They’re intimidated. You make the rules now.” But Tripti wasn’t sure she believed that. She’d started with honesty, yes—but had she crossed into exhibition? Aarav’s innocent mimicry was a wake-up call. He didn’t know nuance. He didn’t know how to frame honesty with responsibility. He was just copying what he saw. When their mother banned phones from the dining table, Aarav cried, accusing her of “censoring his truth.” That word—censor—felt like a punch. Tripti realized the double-edged sword she’d handed him. While the world saw her as brave, vulnerable, and revolutionary, her own house was now a film set, her family unwilling actors. “This was never supposed to be a reality show,” she muttered to herself, staring at her camera one night. And for the first time, she hesitated before hitting ‘record.’
Later that week, she posted a video titled “When the Mirror Breaks”. It was shorter, quieter, more conflicted than usual. She didn’t sip lemonade or wear a smile. She looked directly into the camera and said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what truth really means—especially when it belongs to more than just me.” She spoke about Aarav, about home, about how the internet applauds ‘rawness’ without understanding the context behind it. “Sometimes,” she said, voice cracking, “truth isn’t just something you tell. It’s something you protect.” The comments flooded in. Some praised her growth. Others felt betrayed, accusing her of softening. One said, “You were better when you were fearless.” That one stung. Had she lost her edge—or found her boundaries? In the middle of the flood came Vedant’s message: “Fearless isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s the courage to pause.” And Zoya’s too: “You’re evolving. That’s what real influence looks like.” Still, Tripti couldn’t help but feel a pang. The internet was hungry. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to keep feeding it at the cost of her family’s peace.
Days later, she and Aarav sat in the balcony, the late afternoon sun melting into gold. “Did I mess things up for you?” she asked gently. Aarav sipped from his orange Frooti and said, “I just thought being honest made people like you.” Tripti looked at him, heart sinking. “It doesn’t always. But it should make you like you.” He nodded, though his eyes stayed on the sky. She realized then that Lemonade Talks didn’t just affect strangers. It shaped her brother’s idea of love, of self-worth, of attention. It shaped how he thought people earned value. And that was a responsibility she hadn’t planned for. That night, she posted nothing. No script. No story. Just silence. Because sometimes, the bravest thing you could share… was knowing when not to. And in that silence, she began writing again—not a post, not a caption, but a letter. To her family. To herself. To the girl who thought going viral would fix everything. The truth was still her compass. But now, she understood—it didn’t always have to be public to be powerful.
8
The call came on a Wednesday evening. A soft-spoken producer from IND24 said, “We’re doing a segment on youth authenticity and digital culture. Our anchor would love to speak with you, Tripti.” At first, she thought it was a prank. Her? On national news? The same girl who once filmed her mom yelling about burnt rotis? But the email followed within minutes. “Live panel. Friday. 8:30 PM.” Tripti felt her stomach twist. This wasn’t just a podcast or a classroom panel—this was lights, makeup, headlines. She told her parents. Her mother’s first reaction was wary pride: “Just… don’t say anything that will start another war on WhatsApp groups.” Zoya practically exploded with joy. “National! Freaking! Television!” And Vedant sent her a text with three lemon emojis and: “Don’t let them dilute you.” On Friday, Tripti was taken by car to the studio, nerves doing cartwheels in her stomach. A makeup artist powdered her cheeks. A producer adjusted her mic. The set gleamed under cold lights, and the host smiled with that perfectly rehearsed warmth only news anchors could summon.
She wasn’t alone on the panel. To her right: a bestselling author turned “digital detox” guru. To her left: a media consultant who spoke entirely in buzzwords. The segment was titled “#RealTalk or #RealRisk? Gen Z’s Obsession with ‘Authenticity’.” The host began with a confident voice: “Tripti Sharma, better known as the girl behind Lemonade Talks, has sparked debate across the country about what it means to be ‘real’ online. But is this honesty healthy—or hazardous?” Tripti blinked. That wasn’t what she signed up for. The detox guru chimed in: “There’s a difference between self-expression and oversharing. Young people don’t realize their digital footprint is permanent.” The consultant added, “Vulnerability is becoming a commodity. There’s pressure now to be raw—even when it’s not safe or sincere.” The anchor turned to Tripti. “You’ve told people to ‘stay messy, stay human.’ But do you feel responsible for the influence you now hold?” Tripti felt the heat rising. Every word had weight. Every second, her silence could be edited into a headline. But she steadied herself. “I feel responsible,” she said, “but not guilty. There’s a big difference.”
She continued, choosing her words like stepping stones across a fast river. “When I started Lemonade Talks, it was an accident. But people resonated with the messiness because no one else was showing it. I’m not saying everyone has to bleed online. I’m saying we shouldn’t have to hide the bruises just to be worthy of attention. Yes, honesty has consequences. So does pretending. Ask any teenager who feels invisible behind their filters.” The studio fell quiet. The consultant opened their mouth, paused, and instead said, “That’s fair.” But the detox guru wasn’t done. “But what if young people get addicted to this performance of pain?” Tripti didn’t blink. “Then we teach them how to be honest. Not just that it’s okay to be.” The segment ended with applause—not from a live audience, but from the sound crew, quietly moved. After the lights dimmed and the mic was removed, the anchor leaned over and said, “You’ll be controversial. But you’ll also be remembered.” As Tripti left the studio, a strange calm settled in. She hadn’t broken. She hadn’t faked it. She had spoken—and meant it.
Back home, her phone exploded. Her segment had been clipped and reposted by multiple pages. Some praised her. Some called her “reckless.” Some meme pages took screenshots with captions like “Messy is the new marketable.” Aarav watched with wide eyes. “You looked like a hero,” he whispered. Her parents said little, but her mother folded her into a quiet hug. Later that night, Vedant called. Not texted—called. “You were a storm,” he said. “And the anchor? He flinched when you said ‘bruises.’” Tripti laughed. “Good. I meant every syllable.” She looked at her phone camera but didn’t record anything that night. She didn’t need to. Some truths didn’t belong to the timeline. They lingered in quiet calls, in worried hugs, in the calm after facing the biggest stage of all—and still feeling like yourself. Maybe this was what influence truly meant: not viral views, not headlines, but standing firm in the messy middle… and daring to stay human there.
9
The offer landed in her inbox like a golden ticket—subject line: “Campaign Opportunity: Let’s Redefine Confidence Together!” A luxury skincare brand—Lynarié—was launching a campaign titled #ConfidentGlow, featuring influencers across India. They wanted Tripti as the “relatable face” of their Gen Z push. A curated shoot in Goa, flights paid, stylists on call. The only catch? She’d have to follow the script. Her “messy authenticity” would be rebranded into a tidy narrative: “From chaos to confidence. From clutter to clarity.” She’d film three reels, say a few things about “rising above the noise,” and pose with their new hyaluronic range. Zoya squealed. “Do you know how huge this is? Lynarié doesn’t just sponsor. They launch careers.” Her parents cautiously approved—money had always been tight. Vedant, however, was quiet when she showed him the brief. “They want the version of you that survived the storm,” he finally said. “Not the one still figuring it out.” His words sat with her like a pebble in her shoe.
She flew to Goa two weeks later, walking into a resort so pristine it looked like a filter in real life. The shoot director greeted her with, “You’re the ‘real’ girl, right? This’ll be fun.” She was styled in white linen and golden light, holding a bottle of serum against her cheek. Between takes, the director gave notes: “Could you smile like the past didn’t hurt?” “Try looking healed, not healing.” At lunch, one of the other influencers said, “I love your vibe. It’s very… poetically damaged.” Tripti laughed politely. But inside, she felt like she was walking backward. The final reel script ended with her line: “I stopped surviving. I started glowing.” She said it. Twice. Then a third time with a soft smile. But something in her rebelled. That night, alone in her hotel room, she recorded a private voice memo—not for posting, just to clear her head. “I don’t glow. I ache. I stumble. I spill juice on myself. I cry into samosas. I can’t sell a story that isn’t mine.” She deleted it after, but the feeling stayed.
On the final day, when the Lynarié team asked her to post the reel with the caption they’d prepared, Tripti hesitated. Then she asked, “Can I share something alongside it?” The manager shrugged. “If it aligns with our brand vibe, sure.” Tripti nodded and uploaded the reel—but followed it with a second post. A carousel of behind-the-scenes stills. One showed her looking tired. Another showed the crew instructing her mid-shot. The caption read: “Not everything that glows is golden. This trip taught me that sometimes the cost of shine is silence. I’m learning to speak anyway.” Comments exploded. Some called her brave. Others accused her of being ungrateful. But most resonated. “Thank you for reminding us that behind every ‘perfect’ reel is a person trying to find their footing.” The brand was, predictably, not thrilled. They asked her to tone it down in the next story. Tripti declined. “If I can’t speak honestly, it’s not my story to tell.” She returned to Delhi exhausted but lighter. She hadn’t played their game. Not completely. And that was enough.
Back in her room, Aarav hugged her tighter than usual. “Did you get famous again?” he asked. She smiled. “Not famous. Just… freer.” That night, instead of posting, she wrote in her notebook. Not for likes. Not for views. Just for her. “Maybe authenticity isn’t a brand. Maybe it’s a boundary.” She didn’t know what her next step would be. More talks? Less screens? A break from Lemonade Talks entirely? But for the first time in months, she wasn’t chasing the next thing. She was sitting with the now—messy, uncertain, honest. And it felt more real than anything that had ever gone viral. She sipped her lemonade quietly, no camera in sight. And for once, it was enough just to feel.
10
It started with a simple idea in the school’s WhatsApp group: “What if we hosted an open mic night—with no filters, no auditions, no hashtags? Just stories. Just truth.” Tripti sent it half-heartedly, expecting eye-roll emojis or the usual “lol too deep.” Instead, the head girl replied, “We’re in. Let’s call it No-Filter Night.” Within days, the school auditorium was buzzing. Teachers agreed, a student art club volunteered to paint posters, and even the drama society promised to keep it unscripted. Tripti stood at the center, not as an influencer or organiser, but as a girl asking others to share. “No phones. No filters. No judgement,” she said at the start. “Tonight, we leave our curated selves at the door.” Zoya read a poem about body image that made half the room cry. A quiet boy from Class 11 spoke about growing up with a stammer. A junior rapped about anxiety. One girl read her diary entry about losing a parent—trembling hands, raw voice, complete silence. And Tripti? She waited. She listened.
Then Vedant stepped up. Unexpected. He hadn’t even signed up. His voice cracked at first. “I always thought being quiet meant I had nothing to say. But watching someone close to me speak their truth, over and over, reminded me—silence is just another language. Tonight I’m breaking mine.” And then, without naming her, he said everything. About connection. About showing up. About how sometimes the loudest thing you can do is sit beside someone in their mess. When he finished, the room applauded—not loud, but long. Tripti found her fingers trembling. Her voice when she finally stood up was softer than usual. “Most of you know me as the girl who filmed her family drama by accident. Some followed me for laughs, some for chaos, and some—thank you—for staying through all the in-betweens. But this—this room—is the bravest thing I’ve ever been a part of.” She took a deep breath. “You don’t need a ring light or a script to be worth hearing. You just need to show up. As you. That’s the real glow.”
As the night ended, the audience lingered. No one rushed for selfies. No one pulled out their phones. It was as if everyone knew they’d shared something too sacred for timelines. Aarav ran up, pulling her sleeve. “I want to speak next year. About how I hate raisins but pretend to like them because mom gets sad.” Tripti laughed, ruffling his hair. “That’s a pretty brave truth.” Later, as she helped stack chairs and fold up posters, Zoya hugged her from behind. “You turned a lemon of a year into something… honestly beautiful.” Tripti blinked back tears. In that moment, she understood what Lemonade Talks had always been about. Not viral fame. Not fighting brands. Not making noise. But making space. Space for stories too messy to trend. Space for healing. Space for being heard—really heard. And in a world obsessed with followers, that felt like the most powerful thing of all.
Weeks later, Tripti made one final post. A plain photo of the No-Filter Night stage—empty, a single chair at the center. The caption read:
“This isn’t goodbye. But it is a pause.
If I come back, I’ll come back as a listener first.
Thanks for sitting with me through the chaos.”
She didn’t tag anyone. Didn’t use hashtags. Didn’t even promote it. But the comments flooded in—stories, gratitude, silence in digital form. Vedant sent her a message with no words, just a sunflower emoji. Zoya shared a voice note of her laughing and crying at the same time. And Aarav? He stuck a hand-written sticky note on her mirror:
“Being liked is cool. But being real is cooler.”
Tripti smiled. Took a sip of lemonade. And for once, didn’t feel the need to post about it.
***
Six months later, Tripti’s social media page looked… different. No branded tags. No aesthetic grids. Just occasional snapshots—a chipped coffee mug, her brother’s bad drawing of a dragon, a blurred photo of rain from the school bus window. She didn’t post daily. Sometimes not even weekly. But when she did, people listened. Not millions. Not always thousands. Just enough. She no longer called herself an influencer. She just called herself in-process. She had started attending workshops—not as a speaker, but as a participant. Writing circles. Podcast clubs. She even helped a local NGO run storytelling sessions with school kids who didn’t know what “viral” meant, but told stories with more heart than the internet could handle.
She saw Zoya less now—college applications had swallowed her whole—but their bond held steady in memes and late-night calls. Vedant? Still quiet. Still patient. They didn’t define what they were, but Tripti had stopped needing definitions. She was learning to love pauses, not just punchlines. Her parents had eased too. Her mother even appeared in a video once, unapologetically scolding Tripti for forgetting to soak the lentils. It got shared widely. “India’s Most Relatable Mom,” someone called her. Aarav, inspired by No-Filter Night, started a “Truth Wall” in his class, where kids pinned notes about things they were afraid to say out loud. His was simple: “I’m scared of loud noises. But I like loud hugs.”
As for Lemonade Talks—Tripti never deleted it. But she redefined it. It wasn’t a platform anymore. It was a reminder. That imperfection is not a weakness. That messiness is not a brand. That sometimes, the most powerful story you can share… is the one you tell only to yourself. On her 18th birthday, she wrote in her journal:
“Being real isn’t a rebellion. It’s a return. To self. To silence. To story.”
And somewhere between the likes she no longer chased and the lies she stopped living, Tripti found something sweeter than viral fame.
She found peace.
—
