The Morning That Set Her Path - Delhi

Vrishti Agarwal

She was fifteen — the age when life teetered delicately between dreams and duty. For one particular girl, that balance had always been about control, focus, and understanding the world before acting. Calm, precise, and quietly commanding, she moved through her day with a thoughtfulness few could match. Yet beneath her serene exterior, her mind was a storm of ideas, questions, and aspirations.

Her room reflected her personality: every book, notebook, and pen in perfect alignment. The desk by the window was covered with medical notes, textbooks, and her tablet streaming tutorials. Vrishti Agarwal was not just disciplined; she was a thinker, a learner, a strategist in her own right.

While the city outside stirred to life, she was already immersed in her studies. Anatomy charts, medical case studies, and forensic journals lay spread before her. She paused, highlighting a complex paragraph, and whispered to herself, “I know she will force me.”

Her mother, Air Marshal Radhika Agarwal, entered silently, hands behind her back, her uniform immaculate. The commanding presence softened only slightly as she observed her daughter.

“Vrishti, it’s time to talk,” her mother began gently. “Dehradun. Army School. Top of the country. Discipline, teamwork, endurance — all things your studies alone cannot teach. You will need this training if you want to lead, not just follow.”

Vrishti looked up, her calm eyes steady, though a faint furrow touched her brows. “Ma… but even in the army, air force, and navy, there are doctors, forensic specialists, and researchers. Why do I have to… leave my studies and my path? Why not let me focus on what I love?”

Her mother’s gaze softened, yet remained firm. “Because discipline shapes the mind as much as your textbooks. You may be a brilliant student, but leadership, focus, resilience — these are lessons the classroom alone cannot give. And I am asking this as your mother, not as an Air Marshal.”

Vrishti’s fingers brushed her stethoscope on the desk, a silent reminder of her dreams. She took a deep breath, the morning sun spilling warmth across the floor. “I… I understand, Ma. I may not agree, but I respect your decision. I will go… and do my best.”

Her mother smiled, proud. “That’s all I ask. Remember, your intelligence is your weapon, and discipline is your shield. Together, they will take you farther than you imagine.”

Vrishti packed her bag meticulously, arranging her books, notes, and stethoscope with care. Every action was deliberate, every choice considered. Leaving her home, her routine, her dreams of becoming a doctor — it stung, but she had learned early that respecting authority and duty did not mean surrendering her identity.

Stepping onto the balcony, Vrishti inhaled the crisp morning air. The horizon was painted with streaks of gold and pink. She closed her eyes for a moment, centering herself, letting calm determination take over.

Dehradun awaited her. Army School. A challenge she had not chosen, yet one she was prepared to face.

Vrishti Agarwal, disciplined, brilliant, and quietly courageous, would walk this path with respect for her mother’s wishes — but her mind remained sharp, her dreams intact, and her spirit unbroken.

.

.

The Rooftop Alert

Kridha Agarwal
The Kolkata evening was warm, the air heavy with the smell of wet earth and spices from the streets below. On the quiet rooftop of her family’s apartment, Kridha Agarwal sat cross-legged, eyes closed, focusing on her breath. Sunlight faded to twilight as she moved smoothly through yoga poses, each movement deliberate, controlled, a dance of calm and concentration.

At Fifteen, she had learned to channel her mind through practice. Yoga grounded her, helped her focus on her CA studies later, and kept her centered in a family that lived in constant motion. Her father, Admiral Rajan Agarwal, often said she had the mind of a scholar and the heart of a protector — and the calm in her practice reflected both.

A sudden clatter from the stairwell broke her meditation. Kridha opened her eyes slowly, tension knitting her brow as Commander Arjun Mehra, her father’s trusted operative, stepped onto the rooftop. His expression was grim, urgency radiating from every step.

“Kridha-ji,” he called softly but firmly. “Sir ne bola mujhe seedha aake batane ko. Dekho.”

Kridha rose gracefully, her yoga mat rolled beneath her arm. “Kya ho gaya, Arjun? Tum itne tense kyun ho?”

He handed her a phone. On the screen, her father’s stern face appeared — Admiral Rajan Kapoor, calm but with worry etched deep.

“Kridha,” her father’s voice came through, steady yet urgent. “Tum safe nahi ho Kolkata mein. Kuch log, purane dushman… woh tumhara peecha kar rahe hain. Maine tumhara admission Dehradun ke Army School mein complete kar diya hai. Wahan tum basic self-defence, awareness aur survival skills seekhogi. Jaldi packing shuru karo.”

Kridha froze, yoga stance forgotten. Her calm composure faltered. “Yeh kya baat ho gayi? Mujhe kahin jana nahi hai. CA ke exams, studies… sab ka plan hai! Army school? Seriously? Mujhe in sab ka lena dena nahi hai.”

Commander Mehra’s voice was gentle but firm. “Madam, sir ne sab options dekhe. Yeh sirf army nahi hai. aapko apni safety ke liye basic skills seekhne ki zarurat hai. Wahan aap disciplined environment mein training karogi, aur khud ko protect karna seekhogi. Sir ne admission finalize kar diya hai. Wahi best hai.”

Kridha sank down onto her yoga mat, letting the cool tiles press against her palms. She closed her eyes for a long moment, breathing in and out slowly, trying to make sense of it. Fear, frustration, and a strange reluctant determination swirled together.

“Lo batao,” she muttered finally, voice tight. “Agar ek dushman ke liye meri zindagi barbaad karni padegi, tho ab kya he kahe lekin mera CA ka sapna main chhodne wali nahi hoon. Wahan jaake bhi main time nikal ke padhai karungi. Samjho? Yeh sab mere liye simple fun nahi hai, ye mera life hai.”

Commander Mehra nodded. “Sir ko yeh baat bata doonga. aapne samjha, bas thoda time chahiye. aap strong ho, Kridha-ji. Wahan se aap aur bhi zyada strong lautogi.”

Kridha rolled up her yoga mat, her mind a storm beneath her calm exterior. The city lights flickered below, a reminder of everything she loved and might have to leave behind. She tightened her ponytail, squared her shoulders, and whispered to herself:

“Dehradun… chalo. Agar wahan seekh kar main apni life aur dreams dono ko bachaa sakti hoon, to main jaungi. Lekin main haar nahi maanungi.”

Her first step into a world she hadn’t chosen had begun — not for discipline, not for orders, but for survival and strength. And deep inside, a spark of determination lit up, ready to grow.
.

.

The Call that Changed Everything

Aadhya Rathore

She was fifteen — the age of restless dreams, when life should have been about friends, fun, and creativity. But for one particular girl, that restlessness was more like a storm. Bold, fiery, and impossible to ignore, she moved through her small world with a chaotic energy that made others follow her instinctively — whether they liked it or not. Her room reflected her personality.

Clothes were tossed over a chair, books lay half-open, and her editing laptop glowed faintly with unfinished clips. Creativity thrilled her, but discipline? She had none. She could scroll through reels for hours, lost in stories and edits, yet panic at the sight of unfinished homework. She was a born leader in her own right, yet reckless; fiercely loyal, yet quick to anger; a girl who could dream endlessly, but freeze under pressure. Mumbai nights wrapped around her as the ceiling fan hummed lazily.
She sprawled on her bed, headphones dangling, scrolling aimlessly through her phone. And then it came. Her phone buzzed.
The screen flashed a name Danger Zone – that froze her blood cold: Danger Zone – Dharam Singh Rathore. Not just her father.
The Chief of RAW. A man whose voice alone could command nations. And the one person who demanded discipline above everything else. Instantly, the girl who had been lying lazily on her bed shot upright. Her messy hair fell across her shoulders as she brushed it back and fumbled to accept the video call. Her heart pounded. The screen filled with a stern face — Dharam Singh, uniform crisp, eyes sharper than knives. Behind him, blurred shadows of a war room flickered — maps, radios, soldiers moving briskly. Even from miles away, his presence consumed the room.

Dharam Singh: “Aadhya. Results aaye?” 

Her throat tightened. She bit her lip nervously, her ego suddenly shrinking before the weight of his voice. 

Aadhya (softly): “Ji… 81%.” 

Silence. And then thunder. 

Dharam Singh (angrily): “81%? Tum meri beti ho, RAW Chief ki beti! Aur yeh tumhare number hain? Din bhar editing, masti, doston aur phone! Discipline naam ki cheez tumhari zindagi se gayab ho gayi hai. Room ka haal dekh lo — ekdum mess! Tumhe zara bhi fikr hai desh ki? Main mission pe hoon, aur tumhe bas reels aur laptop ki padi hai?” 

Her heart raced. She wanted to protest, to shout that numbers didn’t define her, that she had other dreams. But his voice drowned her courage. 

Aadhya (hesitant): “Papa… main try kar rahi thi… school normal hai, wahan ke sab students bhi—” '

Dharam Singh (cutting her off): “Bas! Mumbai ke civilian school mein tumhari schooling khatam. Main tumhara admission Dehradun ke sabse top military school mein karwa raha hoon. Wahi tumhe discipline seekhni hai. Wahi tum samjhogi zindagi ka asli matlab.” 

The words pierced her like bullets. Her face drained of color. She wasn’t made for drills, salutes, and 5 a.m. alarms. She was a storyteller, a creator. A girl who dreamed of the film industry — editing, crafting visuals, weaving stories. A girl who loved deeply, loyal to a fault, yet afraid of leaving her friends and the only world she’d ever known. 

Aadhya (pleading): “Kya? Papa… please! Mujhe apna school, apne doston ko chhodna padega? Mujhe civil service join nahi karni! Mujhe editing pasand hai… main soldier ban’ne ke liye bani hi nahi hoon.” 

But his voice was cold, final. 

Dharam Singh: “Maine keh diya. Tum ja rahi ho. Fifteen saal ki ho gayi ho, aur ab tak apni marzi chal rahi thi. Ab high school meri marzi se hoga. Discipline hi tumhari asli teacher hogi. Kal se packing shuru karo. Tum Dehradun jaa rahi ho. Final.” 

The call ended. The war room vanished. 

Only the girl’s reflection remained on the black screen — defiant, fiery, yet with tears pressed behind her eyes. She refused to let them fall. Her gaze swept across her messy Mumbai room, the laughter, bunked classes, unfinished edits — a civilian world about to be replaced by uniforms, drills, salutes, and endless commands. 

She clenched her fists, whispering through gritted teeth:
"Papa samajhte hain ki unka decision hi meri zindagi hai… par unhe pata nahi, Aadhya Rathore kisi ke rules se bandhi nahi rehti." 

Dehradun awaited. A journey she never asked for… but one that would change everything.

.

.

Headquater - Delhi

Bela Sehgal
The commissioner’s office smelled of stale coffee and paper inked with too many signatures. Bela Sehgal stood ramrod-straight, hands clasped behind her back — every inch the commanding officer she had always been. Her posture, precise and unflinching, made even the most seasoned staff uneasy. Eyes like a polished blade scanned the room. She had run covert operations, commanded elite units, and faced dangers most people only read about. But children? That was a first.

Commissioner Iyer slid a monitor toward her. On the screen were three new admissions. He tapped each name as he spoke.

“Yeh teen — Aadhya Rathore, Vrishti Agarwal, Kridha Agarwal. Aur inke parents — Dharam Singh, RAW Chief; Air Marshal Radhika Agarwal; Admiral Rajan Agarwal.”

Bela let the names sink in. She had worked alongside these people. She knew their competence, their silence, their sacrifices. A flicker of respect tightened behind her calm.

Chopra, the operations officer, spoke more gravely now. “Yeh log ek bahut important mission pe ja rahe hain. Agar kuch unke saath hua, desh ko nuksaan ho sakta hai. In teen bachon ki safety hamari zimmedari hai.”

He consulted his notes, his voice even but deliberate. “Sources indicate the girls are being observed. Because of who their parents are, even the smallest detail they carry could be exploited. Wrong hands, big problem.”

Bela’s gaze sharpened as Chopra went on. “Kridha was tailed. Aadhya’s phone was hacked — she countered it herself. Vrishti narrowly escaped an attempt to corner her.”

The air grew heavy. Three children. Three different threats. One invisible mission.

Iyer leaned forward. “On paper, they will appear as ordinary cadets. No special files. No red marks. Teachers, students — even the girls themselves — should suspect nothing. They’ve lived civilian lives. They understand discipline differently; they don’t know drills, formations, or tradecraft. You’ll have to build all that into their daily routine, invisible to the eye.”

Bela was already charting possibilities in her mind: a fiery rebel, a quiet scholar, a compassionate soul — each a different challenge, each a different vulnerability.

“Training must be firm but never frightening,” she said at last, her voice level, deliberate. “We’ll fold awareness, self-defence, basic tradecraft, cyber hygiene, and teamwork into normal school activities. No scare tactics. No military shadow. Above all — trust. If they sense secrecy connected to their parents’ mission, they’ll resist or panic. Trust is the fragile thread we cannot afford to break.”

Iyer’s expression softened, just slightly. “Resources will be at your disposal. Parents will be informed through secure channels. But remember this, Bela — no one else must know. Not the academy, not the staff, not even the girls. To everyone else, you are simply another officer on rotation. But in reality, you are specially assigned to them. Their safety rests on your judgement — and your silence.”

The weight settled across her shoulders like a familiar harness. She had carried missions for the country before. Now she would carry three young lives.

“I leave tonight,” she said, her voice low, hard as steel. “They’ll be safe. I won’t fail.”

She turned and walked out of the office. Outside, the city throbbed with its usual noise, oblivious. Inside, three unsuspecting girls were about to step into a life where drills hid beneath laughter, where games concealed lessons, and where every move was guarded by one of the nation’s most feared and respected operatives — a protector no one must ever know was theirs.

.

.

.

That’s it for today’s chapter! ✨
If you enjoyed reading, don’t forget to vote, share, and leave your thoughts in the comments — your support means the world and keeps the story alive.

Thank you for being part of this journey. 💙

— Author, Akshika Thakkar

.

.

.

Disclaimer & Copyright Notice

This story is an original work written by The Auteur’s Insight, Akshika Thakkar, on 4th October 2025. All content, ideas, and creative elements belong solely to the author and must not be misused, reproduced, or distributed without proper permission.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, actual places, events, or organizations is purely coincidental.

The author is a student exploring creativity and writing. Any errors or unintended references are unintentional and carry no offence.

The core story and ideas are the intellectual property of the author. However, any images used are sourced from open platforms such as Google, and the author does not claim copyright over them.

© 2025 The Auteur’s Insight — Akshika Thakkar. All Rights Reserved.