In the forgotten alleys of Chanderpuri slum, where dreams are often buried before they are born, 17-year-old Priyanjali has been quietly lighting a fire that refuses to die out. Her life began in a home where the sound of violence was louder than love, and the silence of pain stretched longer than hope. But even in the darkness, a small voice inside her whispered: “There must be more to life than this.”
For as long as she can remember, education was the one thing Priyanjali longed for. Not because someone told her it was important, but because she knew—deep in her heart—that it was her only way out. Out of fear. Out of poverty. Out of a future already written for her.
But when the time came to go to school, her father slammed the door shut. “Girls don’t need education,” he said. “They belong in the kitchen, not in classrooms.” It could have ended there. Many stories like hers do.
But her mother, bruised in body but not in spirit, said no.
She stood up, for once not with trembling hands but with a voice firm with fire. She begged, argued, endured fresh abuse from her husband and in-laws. The community mocked her. They called her foolish for wasting money and effort on a girl. But she didn’t stop. And in the end, she won—not acceptance, but admission.
That first day of school, Priyanjali held her mother’s hand a little tighter. It was more than just a walk to class—it was a march toward freedom. She knew it, even then.
But freedom doesn’t come easy.
Every lesson at school had to compete with the noise of home—the screaming matches, the slamming doors, the sight of her mother’s tears. She tried to study but worry clung to her books. How could she focus on algebra when her heart was thinking about whether her mother was safe? Some nights, she studied by candlelight. Some days, she went to school on an empty stomach. But she never stopped.
Then, she discovered Asha—and everything began to change.
At the Asha centre, she found more than just help with homework. She found mentors who didn’t just teach her English or Science—they taught her that she mattered. That her dreams mattered. That education wasn’t a privilege for the rich, but a right—her right.
Asha became her lifeline.
With the help of Asha Ambassadors and volunteers, she caught up on the subjects she had struggled with. They stayed back after hours, not because they had to, but because they believed in her. Slowly, she began to believe too. Her confidence grew with every test passed, every chapter understood. For the first time, she saw her name next to good marks—and it felt like reclaiming a part of herself she thought she had lost.
Today, Priyanjali is preparing for the Common University Entrance Test. College used to feel like a fantasy, a dream meant for someone else’s daughter. Now, it feels possible. It feels real.
She studies for hours at the Asha centre, where the walls echo not with anger but with encouragement. Every time she opens a textbook, she’s not just memorizing facts—she’s pushing back against every voice that told her she couldn’t. Every answer she writes is a message to the world: “I am not powerless.”
Education, for Priyanjali, is not just about degrees.
It is her rebellion.
It is her healing.
It is her promise to herself that the cycle of pain ends with her.
