Little Poornima and the Sound of Guns

The halls of St. Mary’s General Hospital smelled of Dettol and hope.

Poornima Singh walked through the pediatric ward with her stethoscope around her neck and two tiny chocolate bars in her pocket. Children ran to her with broken teeth and giggles, pulling at her coat like she was one of them.

And in many ways… she was.

This was her escape. Her second life.

Her first life had been born in blood.

---

Years ago — Lucknow, age 7

Poornima sat on the marble floor of her father's haveli, a teddy bear in her arms, watching men in black suits load crates of guns into jeeps. Her mother had died two years ago. Since then, no one spoke softly in that house anymore.

The house echoed with barking orders, phone calls about "targets", and the dull metallic sound of weapons being cleaned.

Her father, Zain Singh, would walk past her without a glance. No nod. No smile. Not even acknowledgment.

> “Papa… can I come with you?” she once asked, her voice hopeful.

He stopped at the doorway, looked down, then scoffed.

> “You're afraid of a damn balloon pop.

You don’t belong in my world.”

That was the last sentence he spoke to her for years.

---

Poornima’s room had no toys except the bear her mother had given her.

Every day she sat by the window, hugging it tightly as gunshots echoed from the backyard — where men trained like beasts. She would press her palms to her ears and cry quietly.

She hated the sound of guns.

Not just because it was loud — but because every gunshot reminded her: she was not wanted.

---

Age 10

She had wandered into the garden, clutching a bowl of food for a wounded street puppy she found.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang!

Training had started again.

The puppy bolted. Poornima screamed, fell, and covered her ears, sobbing.

Her father stood nearby, watching coldly.

> “You’re weak. Useless.”

“You’ll never survive with that heart.”

---

Age 13

Her life changed the day she volunteered at a local clinic near the slums — secretly, against her father's orders.

She saw a little boy bleeding from a knife wound. The doctor shouted for help. Everyone froze.

Everyone except her.

She pressed gauze to the wound, held his hand, and told him a joke. The boy laughed through the pain. And something inside her clicked.

For the first time… she felt useful.

Not in her father’s way — in her own.

From that day on, she knew what she wanted to be.

Not a criminal. Not a Singh heir.

A nurse.

---

But Zain Singh never asked where she disappeared every evening. He didn’t care when she aced her exams, or when she got into nursing school at 17. When she left home with just a duffle bag and a fake ID, he didn’t stop her.

Because to him, she was already dead.

---

Now – St. Mary’s Hospital

Poornima bent down to help a girl with a fractured arm. The little one winced, and Poornima gave her a piece of chocolate.

> “You’re the bravest girl I’ve seen all day,” she whispered.

But as she tied the bandage, a loud bang rang from the construction site outside.

Poornima froze, her breath caught in her throat.

The sound still triggered the same panic — a bullet in her memory.

The girl noticed.

> “Didi… are you scared?” she asked.

Poornima smiled faintly through trembling lips.

> “A little. But being brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared.

It means you help anyway.”

---

Later that night, she stood by the window of her room, watching the city lights blink like distant stars. She held her bear — old, stitched, loved.

She whispered to it like she had as a child:

> “I’m still scared.

But I’m still here.”