Riya Gurung
The Voice in the Mist
The mornings in Darjeeling never really began with sunlight. They began with mist—soft, white, and slow, like a secret being whispered across the hills. It rolled over rooftops, curled around the narrow roads, and settled gently on the tea gardens where women with woven baskets began their day long before the rest of the town stirred awake.
Niyati Gurung always woke before the mist cleared.
Not because she had to. But because her voice sounded different in the early hours.
She stood by the small wooden window of their one-room house, the cold biting into her fingers as she held the rusted frame open. Somewhere in the distance, the faint whistle of the toy train echoed—soft and lonely. She closed her eyes.
And then she sang.
Not loudly. Never loudly.
Her voice moved like the mist itself—light, searching, uncertain at first, then slowly finding strength. It slipped into the hills, disappeared into the valleys, and returned to her in echoes she pretended were applause.
“Again?” her mother’s voice came from behind, tired but not unkind.
Niyati stopped mid-note. “Sorry, Ma.”
Her mother, Kamala Gurung, sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “You’ll catch a cold. And dreams don’t feed us, Niyati.”
Dreams don’t feed us.
It was a sentence that had lived in their house longer than Niyati had.
She nodded, though something inside her resisted every time. “I’ll get ready for the shop.”
The “shop” was a generous word. It was a tiny tea stall near the roadside, just past the bend where tourists often stopped to take photos of the hills. Her mother made tea. Niyati served it. Sometimes, if the tourists were kind, they smiled. Sometimes they didn’t look at her at all.
But sometimes—rarely—someone would notice.
“Do you sing?” a woman had once asked her.
Niyati had nodded.
“Then why are you here?”
Niyati hadn’t known how to answer that.
By mid-morning, the mist had lifted just enough to reveal the layered green of the tea gardens. The town buzzed quietly—vendors calling out, jeeps honking impatiently, tourists bargaining over scarves and souvenirs.
Niyati balanced a tray of steaming cups as she moved between customers.
“Careful, careful,” her mother muttered.
“I’m not a child,” Niyati replied, though she nearly slipped on the damp ground a second later.
Her mother raised an eyebrow. Niyati rolled her eyes, but a smile escaped anyway.
This was their life—small, predictable, and fragile.
And yet, inside Niyati, something felt too large for it.
It happened around noon.
The black SUV didn’t belong there.
It looked out of place against the faded buildings and narrow roads, its polished surface reflecting the hills like it had no business being among them. People noticed. They always did.
Two men stepped out first, scanning the area like they expected trouble. Then came the third—tall, confident, wearing sunglasses even though the sun barely touched the ground.
He looked… familiar.
The tourists started whispering.
“Isn’t that—?”
“No way—”
“It is him!”
Niyati frowned, trying to place the face. She had seen him somewhere. Not here. Somewhere else.
Online.
Her heart skipped.
“Arjun Malhotra,” someone said under their breath.
Arjun Malhotra—the name hit her like a sudden gust of wind.
He was everywhere. Videos, reels, songs, interviews. Millions of followers. The kind of person who turned unknown voices into overnight stars.
And he was standing right in front of her tea stall.
Niyati’s fingers tightened around the tray.
This was the kind of moment people wrote stories about.
But stories didn’t happen here.
Not in places like this.
Right?
“Three teas,” one of the men ordered.
Niyati nodded quickly, her throat suddenly dry. She turned to prepare the cups, but her hands betrayed her—shaking just enough to make the spoons clink louder than usual.
“Relax,” her mother whispered. “They’re just customers.”
Just customers.
Except one of them wasn’t.
When she turned back, tray in hand, he was looking directly at her.
Not at the stall. Not at the hills.
At her.
“Do you always look this nervous serving tea?” he asked, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Niyati swallowed. “Only when… people are watching.”
He tilted his head slightly. “People are always watching.”
Something about the way he said it made her uneasy.
She placed the cups down carefully. “Your tea.”
He didn’t touch it.
Instead, he asked, “What’s your name?”
“Niyati.”
“Niyati,” he repeated, as if testing how it sounded. “Do you sing?”
The world seemed to pause.
Her mother looked up sharply.
Niyati felt her heartbeat in her throat.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“Sing something.”
Just like that.
No warning. No stage. No audience.
Just a man with a camera already halfway out of his pocket.
“I—” she hesitated.
“Or is it just a hobby?” he added casually, already unlocking his phone.
Something inside her stirred.
That familiar resistance.
That quiet, stubborn fire.
She straightened.
“It’s not a hobby.”
“Good,” he said. “Then prove it.”
The hills had never felt so silent.
Even the wind seemed to wait.
Niyati closed her eyes.
And she sang.
This time, louder.
Not for the mist. Not for the hills.
For herself.
The first note wavered—but the second didn’t.
Her voice rose, clear and raw, carrying something deeper than skill—something honest, something unpolished, something real. It wasn’t perfect.
But it was hers.
When she finished, the silence returned.
Different this time.
He lowered his phone slowly.
There was something in his expression now—interest, sharp and calculating.
“You’re good,” he said.
Not amazed.
Not moved.
Just… good.
And somehow, that hurt more.
“What if I told you,” he continued, slipping his phone into his pocket, “that I can make you famous?”
Niyati felt the ground shift beneath her.
Famous.
The word didn’t belong in her world.
“What’s the catch?” her mother asked before she could respond.
He smiled.
“There’s always a catch.”
And just like that—
The mist began to return.
The Price of a Voice
The mist didn’t lift that day.
It lingered—thicker, heavier—like it knew something had changed.
Niyati stood behind the tea stall, staring at the empty road long after the black SUV had disappeared around the bend. The sound of its engine had faded, but the words it left behind hadn’t.
I can make you famous.
Famous.
The word felt strange in her mouth, like a language she had never learned but somehow understood.
“Don’t think about it too much,” her mother said, pouring tea into chipped cups with steady hands that had seen too many uncertain days. “People like him… they don’t come here for us.”
Niyati didn’t reply.
Because he had come.
And he had seen her.
That night, the hills were darker than usual.
The power had gone out—again—and the only light in their small house came from a flickering candle placed between them. Shadows danced on the walls, stretching and shrinking with every movement.
Niyati sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at her phone.
It wasn’t new. It barely worked half the time. But tonight, it felt like the most important thing she owned.
A message blinked on the screen.
Unknown Number:
Come to Glenary’s Café tomorrow. 11 AM. If you’re serious.
Her breath caught.
He had actually messaged.
This wasn’t a passing moment. This wasn’t a story she had imagined.
It was real.
“Who is it?” her mother asked.
Niyati hesitated. Then—quietly—“Him.”
The room fell silent.
Her mother didn’t ask which “him.” She already knew.
“And?”
“He wants me to meet him tomorrow.”
A long pause.
Then, softly, “You’re not going.”
The words landed like a door shutting.
Niyati looked up. “Ma—”
“No,” Kamala said, firmer this time. “We don’t know who he is. What he wants. These people—” she shook her head, searching for the right words, “—they take more than they give.”
Niyati felt something tighten inside her chest.
“What if he’s different?”
“He’s not.”
“How do you know?” Niyati’s voice rose, sharper than she intended. “You haven’t even met him!”
“I don’t need to,” her mother replied. “I’ve seen enough of the world to recognize danger when it knocks.”
“And what about opportunity?” Niyati shot back. “What about that?”
Her mother’s eyes softened, but her voice didn’t.
“Opportunity doesn’t come with conditions you don’t understand.”
Niyati looked away.
Because that part was true.
He had said there was a catch.
She didn’t sleep much that night.
The hills were quiet, but her mind wasn’t.
What if this was her only chance?
What if she said no… and nothing ever changed?
What if she stayed?
Would she still be standing behind that tea stall ten years from now—serving strangers, singing only to the mist?
The thought scared her more than anything else.
At 10:30 AM the next morning, Niyati stood at the edge of the road.
Her mother was inside, deliberately not looking at her.
Neither of them had spoken since dawn.
Niyati adjusted her shawl, her fingers trembling—not from the cold this time, but from the weight of the decision pressing against her ribs.
“I’ll be back,” she said finally.
No answer.
Just the faint clink of cups being arranged.
That hurt more than anger would have.
She took a step forward.
Then another.
And just like that—
She left.
Glenary’s Café sat on the ridge like it always had—warm, inviting, filled with the smell of coffee and freshly baked bread. Tourists laughed, cameras clicked, and for a moment, Niyati felt out of place in a way she never had before.
This world wasn’t hers.
Not yet.
She spotted him immediately.
Arjun Malhotra sat by the window, sunglasses off this time, scrolling through his phone as if nothing in the world required his full attention.
“Right on time,” he said without looking up.
Niyati pulled out the chair across from him, her heart pounding.
“I almost didn’t come.”
He glanced up then, studying her.
“But you did.”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said simply. “That means you want this.”
“I don’t even know what ‘this’ is,” she replied.
A faint smile.
“Smart.”
He leaned back in his chair, finally giving her his full attention.
“You have something people connect with,” he said. “It’s raw. Untrained. Real.” He paused. “And that’s exactly what sells.”
The last word lingered.
Sells.
Niyati’s stomach tightened.
“I don’t want to be… sold,” she said.
“You already are,” he replied calmly. “Every time you serve tea. Every time someone decides whether you’re worth noticing or not.” He leaned forward slightly. “The difference is—I can make sure they do notice.”
She didn’t have an answer for that.
Because a part of her knew he wasn’t entirely wrong.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
“Nothing you’re not already willing to give,” he said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” he replied. “You just don’t like it.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then he placed his phone on the table and turned it toward her.
A video.
Her.
Singing.
From yesterday.
Her breath caught.
He had recorded everything.
“Do you know how many views this can get?” he asked.
“I didn’t agree to this.”
“You sang,” he said simply. “In public.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It means you were ready,” he cut in. “You just didn’t know it yet.”
Niyati pushed the phone back toward him.
“I don’t want to go viral for the wrong reasons.”
“And what are the right reasons?” he asked.
She hesitated.
“I want people to hear me. Not… consume me.”
For the first time, something flickered in his expression.
Not amusement.
Not calculation.
Something quieter.
“Then let them hear you,” he said. “But understand this—” his voice lowered slightly, more serious now, “—once they start listening, they won’t stop watching.”
“And the catch?” she asked.
He smiled again.
“There it is.”
He tapped the table lightly.
“You work with me. Exclusively. I decide what you sing, how you present yourself, where you perform. In return…” he shrugged, “I give you everything you don’t have right now.”
Freedom.
Money.
A stage.
A future.
All wrapped in a contract she hadn’t even seen yet.
Niyati looked out the window.
The hills stretched endlessly beyond the glass—green, quiet, unchanged.
A part of her wanted to stay there.
Another part wanted to run.
And a third part—
A dangerous, restless part—
Wanted to say yes.
“What if I say no?” she asked.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Then nothing changes.”
The words landed softly.
But they carried weight.
Niyati closed her eyes.
For a moment, she could hear her own voice again—echoing through the mist, untouched, unclaimed.
Was that enough?
Or had she already outgrown that silence?
When she opened her eyes—
Her decision was waiting.
To be continued in Part 3…
If you’re liking the progression, Part 3 will take a sharp turn—her first step into the influencer world and the first crack in her identity.
sure
A Voice That Isn’t Yours
Niyati said yes.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just a quiet, almost invisible nod.
But sometimes, the smallest decisions change everything.
It didn’t happen all at once.
Fame, as Niyati quickly learned, didn’t arrive like a storm.
It crept in.
Slowly. Carefully. Quietly.
The first video went up that evening.
No big announcement. No introduction.
Just her—standing against the backdrop of the hills, hair loose, voice steady.
Simple.
Honest.
Real.
At first, nothing happened.
Ten views.
Twenty.
A hundred.
Niyati refreshed the screen again and again, her thumb hovering like it could control fate itself.
“Stop staring at it,” Arjun Malhotra said, leaning back in his chair. “That’s not how this works.”
“How does it work then?” she asked.
He smirked. “Patience. And timing.”
By morning—
Everything had changed.
50,000 views.
Comments flooding in.
“Who is she?”
“That voice…”
“Goosebumps.”
“More please.”
Niyati’s hands trembled as she scrolled.
It didn’t feel real.
It felt like watching someone else’s life through a screen.
“This is just the beginning,” Arjun said, watching her reaction carefully. “Don’t get attached to it.”
“How can I not?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Because he knew something she didn’t yet.
Within a week, she wasn’t just Niyati anymore.
She was @VoiceOfTheHills.
A name.
A brand.
A story people wanted to follow.
The second video was different.
“Wear this,” Arjun said, handing her a dress she had never imagined wearing.
It wasn’t inappropriate.
It just wasn’t her.
“I’m more comfortable in my own clothes,” she said.
“Comfort doesn’t trend,” he replied.
She hesitated.
Then took the dress.
The third video had lighting.
Angles.
Retakes.
“Again,” he said.
“I already sang it right.”
“Not for the camera.”
The words hit differently.
Not for the camera.
So who was it for?
Days blurred into each other.
Shoot.
Edit.
Post.
Repeat.
The hills were still there—but she wasn’t really seeing them anymore.
She was seeing numbers.
Views.
Likes.
Followers.
Validation, measured in digits.
Her mother noticed the change before she did.
“You don’t sing in the mornings anymore,” Kamala said one evening.
Niyati paused.
She hadn’t realized it.
“I sing all the time now,” she replied.
“That’s not the same,” her mother said quietly.
It wasn’t.
Because now—
Every note had a purpose.
Every song had a strategy.
Every emotion had a direction.
Nothing was just… hers anymore.
One night, Arjun called her into the small rented studio they had set up in town.
“We’re going live tonight,” he said.
Niyati blinked. “Live?”
“Your audience wants to connect.”
“I’m not ready.”
“You were ready the moment you said yes.”
The live session started.
Thousands joined within minutes.
Comments streamed faster than she could read.
“Sing that song!”
“Say my name!”
“Where are you from?”
“Marry me!”
It was overwhelming.
Exciting.
Terrifying.
“Smile,” Arjun whispered from behind the camera.
She smiled.
“Talk to them.”
She spoke.
“Sing.”
She sang.
And they loved it.
Every second.
Every note.
Every version of her she didn’t recognize anymore.
After it ended, Niyati sat in silence.
Her heart was still racing.
“You did great,” Arjun said.
She nodded.
But something felt… off.
“Why don’t I feel happy?” she asked.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Because you’re thinking too much.”
That night, she stood by her window again.
The mist had returned.
Soft. Familiar.
Unchanged.
She opened the window.
Took a breath.
And tried to sing.
But the voice that came out—
Wasn’t the same.
It was controlled.
Measured.
Perfect.
And completely unfamiliar.
Niyati stopped.
Her chest tightened.
When had that happened?
When had her voice stopped belonging to her?
Her phone buzzed.
A new message from Arjun.
“Big opportunity coming. Don’t mess this up.”
She looked at her reflection in the dark window.
For a moment—
She didn’t recognize the girl staring back.
And somewhere deep inside—
The hills went silent.
The Stage That Echoes Back
The call came at dawn.
Niyati didn’t answer it the first time.
Or the second.
By the third, she picked up—half asleep, half aware that something was about to change again.
“Pack your things,” Arjun Malhotra said. “We’re leaving today.”
Her heart skipped. “Where?”
“Mumbai.”
The word felt distant.
Unreal.
“Why?”
A pause.
Then—“Because you’re ready.”
She wasn’t.
But she went anyway.
The hills didn’t say goodbye.
They never did.
They just stood there—quiet, steady—as if they knew she might not come back the same.
Her mother stood at the doorway, arms folded tightly across her chest.
“You’re leaving,” Kamala said.
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
Then—“Do you trust him?”
Niyati hesitated.
“I trust… this chance.”
Her mother nodded slowly, though her eyes said something else entirely.
“Then don’t lose yourself trying to keep it.”
Mumbai was everything Darjeeling wasn’t.
Loud.
Fast.
Unforgiving.
It didn’t wait for you to catch up.
It expected you to already be running.
The studio was bigger than anything Niyati had ever seen.
Bright lights. Moving people. Voices overlapping in controlled chaos.
Someone handed her a schedule.
Another adjusted her hair.
Another checked her outfit.
She wasn’t Niyati anymore.
She was a project.
“What is this?” she asked, trying to keep up.
“Your debut performance,” Arjun replied casually. “Live audience. Streaming. Brand deals watching. No pressure.”
No pressure.
Her hands were already shaking.
Backstage, the noise felt distant.
Muted.
Like it belonged to another world.
Niyati sat in front of a mirror framed with bright bulbs, her reflection staring back at her—polished, styled, almost perfect.
Almost.
“Don’t overthink,” Arjun said, standing behind her. “Just give them what they want.”
“And what do they want?” she asked.
He met her eyes through the mirror.
“You.”
But which version?
Her name was called.
The stage lights flared.
And suddenly—
She was there.
The crowd was a sea of shadows and light.
Faces she couldn’t see.
Voices she couldn’t separate.
Phones raised like tiny stars, capturing every second.
Waiting.
Expecting.
The music began.
Not her choice.
Not her style.
But familiar enough.
Safe.
Marketable.
Niyati took a breath.
And sang.
Her voice was flawless.
Controlled.
Every note placed exactly where it needed to be.
The audience responded instantly—cheers rising, energy building, applause swelling like a wave.
It should have felt incredible.
It should have felt like everything she had ever wanted.
But it didn’t.
Because somewhere between the first note and the last—
She realized something.
They weren’t listening to her.
They were listening to what she had become.
The song ended.
The applause didn’t.
It roared.
Louder.
Stronger.
Demanding more.
“Encore!” someone shouted.
“Another one!”
“Sing the viral song!”
Niyati stood there, frozen in the spotlight.
Her chest rising and falling too fast.
Her ears ringing with noise that didn’t feel like love.
From the side of the stage, Arjun gestured.
Go on.
And in that moment—
Something inside her broke.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
But deeply.
Because she knew—
If she sang again…
It wouldn’t be for herself.
The crowd grew restless.
The lights burned hotter.
The silence stretched.
And then—
Niyati made a choice.
“I want to sing something else,” she said into the mic.
The crowd quieted slightly.
Arjun’s expression changed.
Sharp.
Warning.
“This is a song…” she hesitated, her voice softer now, “from where I come from.”
No backing track.
No plan.
No approval.
Just her.
She closed her eyes.
And began.
The first note wasn’t perfect.
It wasn’t polished.
It wasn’t what they expected.
But it was real.
The sound cut through the noise.
Through the expectations.
Through everything she had been told to be.
For a moment—
The crowd didn’t react.
Didn’t cheer.
Didn’t move.
And then—
Something shifted.
Not louder.
Not bigger.
But deeper.
A silence that listened.
When she finished—
There was no explosion of applause.
No instant roar.
Just a pause.
A breath.
A feeling.
And then—
Clapping.
Slow.
Steady.
Real.
Niyati opened her eyes.
And for the first time since she had left the hills—
She felt like herself again.
Backstage, the air was different.
Tense.
Heavy.
“That wasn’t the plan,” Arjun said, his voice calm—but too calm.
“I know.”
“You don’t go off-script like that.”
“I needed to.”
He stepped closer.
“You don’t need anything anymore,” he said quietly. “You follow.”
Niyati met his gaze.
And for the first time—
She didn’t look away.
“I’m not just your project,” she said.
“No,” he replied. “You’re my investment.”
The word hit harder than anything else.
And suddenly—
Everything was clear.
The fame.
The control.
The cost.
It had never been about her voice.
It had been about ownership.
That night, as the city roared outside—
Niyati stood alone by the window.
And somewhere, far beyond the noise—
She imagined the hills.
Still quiet.
Still waiting.
The question was—
Was she ready to return?
The Contract
The contract arrived the next morning.
Clean. Precise. Heavy with words that didn’t sound dangerous—but felt like they were.
Niyati sat across from Arjun Malhotra, flipping through pages she barely understood.
“Standard,” he said. “Nothing unusual.”
“Exclusive rights?” she read aloud.
“Temporary.”
“Creative control?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“That’s how this works.”
For the first time—
She didn’t feel small.
She felt trapped.
“I need time,” she said.
“You don’t have it.”
And just like that—
The real cost revealed itself.
The Silence Between Calls
She called home.
Once.
Twice.
Ten times.
No answer.
When Kamala finally picked up—
The silence between them said more than words.
“You sound different,” her mother said.
“I’m just tired.”
“No,” she replied softly. “You sound far.”
Niyati looked around the luxury apartment.
And realized—
She had never felt further from herself.
The Viral Lie
It started as a rumor.
Then a post.
Then a story.
“She’s a discovered talent from nowhere.”
“Arjun built her.”
“She owes everything to him.”
Niyati stared at the screen.
Her story—
Rewritten.
Edited.
Packaged.
“I never said this,” she whispered.
“You didn’t need to,” Arjun replied. “People believe what we show them.”
And suddenly—
Her truth didn’t belong to her anymore.
Breaking the Frame
The breaking point didn’t come with noise.
It came quietly.
Niyati stood in front of the mirror.
Removed the makeup.
Turned off the lights.
Looked at herself—
Without the filters.
And asked—
Who are you?
The answer came slowly.
But clearly.
She picked up the contract.
And tore it.
For the first time—
She chose herself.
The Return to the Hills
The hills hadn’t changed.
Darjeeling welcomed her the same way it always had—
With mist.
With silence.
With truth.
Her mother didn’t ask questions.
She just held her.
And this time—
Niyati sang again.
Not for the world.
Not for the camera.
Just for the hills.
A Different Kind of Voice
She didn’t disappear.
She just… changed.
No big stage.
No contracts.
No control.
Just a small channel.
Real songs.
Real stories.
People still listened.
Not millions.
Not viral.
But enough.
And this time—
They weren’t watching her.
They were hearing her.
Niyati stood by the window once more.
The mist rolled in.
Soft. Familiar.
She smiled.
Because finally—
Her voice belonged to her again.
***
