On my fifteenth birthday, my best friend, Aditi, gave me a box wrapped in shiny paper. She was way too excited for somebody who was giving me a gift. Suspicious. "Shoes?" I asked, opening the lid. "Why shoes?"

Aditi grinned. "Because I want you to explore beautiful places and see the world!

I snorted, half-laughing, half-choking on the laddoo I was gnawing. "Explore the world? I haven't even explored the main market in town, Aditi."

She just smiled knowingly, the kind of smile that makes you think your friend knows something about your destiny that you don't. I rolled my eyes but thanked her anyway. Deep down, her words clung to me like sticky toffee.

A week later, during tuition, my friends - Aditi, Ravi, and Neha - were abuzz with excitement. They were planning a trip to Chanderi, a small town famous for its ancient forts, handwoven saris, and, according to Ravi, "the best samosas you'll ever eat in your life."

"Come on, Meera, you have to join us!" Aditi insisted.

I felt a flicker of excitement. A trip with friends? It sounded exciting. But as soon as I stepped into my house that evening, the reality of our situation hit me in the face like a ton of bricks.

Our household budget was tighter than my old pair of leggings. My father worked as a tailor, and my mother sold homemade pickles to make ends meet. Even spending 200 rupees on something non-essential felt like asking for a miracle.

The next few days were torture. My friends wouldn't stop talking about the trip. "We'll visit Raja Rani Mahal, the fort, and the lake!" Neha gushed. "And the bazaar," Ravi added, already drooling at the thought of food.

I attempted to play aloof. "I'm focusing on my studies," I told my teacher, Mr. Sharma, when he inquired why I wasn't going. Truth? That fee of 200 rupees for the trip was for me Mount Everest.

And when more had been said about it, the more my mind had strayed to seeing myself wandering up and down the streets of Chanderi in the new shoes which Aditi had got for me.

One evening, I mustered the courage to ask my mother: "Ma, can I go to Chanderi with my friends? It's only 200 rupees."

She looked up from kneading dough and sighed. "Ask your brother, Arjun. If he agrees, then fine."

Arjun, my elder brother, was the self-appointed decision-maker of the family. When I asked him, he smirked. "What will you even do in Chanderi? Wait for New Year. We'll all go somewhere together then."

His tone was so dismissive, I felt like a deflated balloon. I muttered, "Trips aren't for people like us anyway," and went to bed.

It was the day of the trip. I got up early, not because I was going, but because I could not sleep knowing my friends would leave without me.

And then, out of the blue, Arjun walked into my room with a crumpled 500-rupee note. "Here," he said gruffly. "Go. Enjoy yourself."

For a second, I thought I was dreaming. "Are you serious?"

Don't make me regret it," he said and walked away like a Bollywood hero who just saved the day.

I sprang into action. But there was a problem: I had nothing decent to wear. My wardrobe was a tragic comedy of faded frocks and patched-up leggings. I called Aditi, hoping she'd have something to lend.

"Sorry, Meera," she said. "Everything I have is already packed.

I ended up wearing my old blue frock, mismatched leggings, and my cousin's jacket, which was slightly reeking of turmeric. My mom pushed a small container of kheer into my hand. That's her version of saying, "Enjoy yourself, but don't blow it all on the grub."

---

The bus ride to Chanderi was a chaotic affair. Ravi wouldn't stop singing off-key Bollywood songs, Neha was trying to capture candid selfies, and Aditi kept poking me, whispering, "Aren't you glad you came?"

And finally, when we reached Chanderi, it was like stepping into another world. Narrow cobbled lanes, ancient sandstone buildings, and vibrant bazaars greeted us. I felt like a character in one of those old historical dramas.

Our first stop was Raja Rani Mahal. "This place is haunted," Ravi declared dramatically as we entered the palace.

"Haunted by your bad jokes, maybe," Neha shot back.

Inside, the palace was breathtaking. Sunlight streamed through the intricately carved jharokhas, creating patterns on the marble floors. Aditi nudged me. "See? Aren't you glad I gave you those shoes?"

I chuckled. "They're already dusty, thanks to you."

Then we had a trip to the Chanderi Fort. Steep stairs were no joke and worse in the winter sun. Ravi, of course, was playing to the gallery, pretending to pass out halfway up. "Go on without me! Tell my story to the world!"

"Your story?" Neha retorted. "What story? That you ate 15 samosas last week?"

By the time we got to the top, all of us were out of breath. But the view was worth it. The whole town stretched out below us, a patchwork of rooftops and trees and winding streets. For the first time in a long time, I felt free.

The bazaar was our last stop. Ravi immediately dragged us to a stall selling hot samosas. "The best in Chanderi," he proclaimed, stuffing one into his mouth.

Most of my time was spent just soaking it all in: the colorful saris, the chatter of shopkeepers, and the aroma of spices - overwhelming in the best possible way.

By the time we boarded the bus back home, my shoes were scuffed, and my jacket was smeared with kheer (thanks to Ravi's clumsiness), and my heart was full.

When we reached home, Arjun was waiting for me. "How was it?" he asked casually.

"It was amazing," I said, grinning. "Thank you."

He shrugged, but I caught the hint of a smile.

That night, while cleaning my shoes, I kept thinking about what Aditi had said. Maybe she was right. Sometimes, it takes just one pair of shoes and a little bit of courage to take you to new destinations.

And who knows? Perhaps one day I'll see the world.

For now, though, Chanderi was more than enough.