So that you can get cheap fish in one day on weekends. Or run a piece of broiler chicken. Except for a few days, at least pulses and rice will be signed.
They also used to let me eat thin rice as a double rule. But what if I carelessly broke an imported expensive cup or a Chinese ceramic dinner plate. Then the good medium would go hand in hand with the over-enthusiastic arrangement. I couldn't explain to them that my hands were used to flying kites. Not in the dishes.
Mom came to see me one day and said,
"Is that in your hand? Scars? Do they understand?"
I did not answer.
.
At one time the language of protest became dumb in the crisis of justice.
I returned to the slum holding Ammar.
My growing body then left the frock and rushed to cover the shame in the shirt. When the veil was removed carelessly, Amma would shout,
"Fix the chest veil, Reshma."
I used to wrap my head in a sheet of modesty. By that time, however, I have learned to be ashes in the fire of the greedy eyes of men. But does hunger understand character anymore?
I want stomach food even if the honor is lost.
One garment job is arranged in a garment factory. Before the light of dawn, my face was covered with tears. I used to catch the bus with a box of food in one hand. I would have increased the rent even if I did not get a seat. Even then, the hands of unwanted men would leave the most disgusting marks on sensitive parts of the body. I used to lock my face to save my self-esteem.
One day the life of honor will come and stand at the door.
But where?
The life struggle of the poor where no one is willing to pay the price. Asking for respect is ridiculous there.
Yet with unyielding willpower, I have endured everything in the provision of double food. But one day, in the midst of a relentless cyclone, we had to lose the last resource.
Returning home in the evening. It was a little late that day to finish the work. As soon as I got on the bus, I saw some greedy eyes, but I thought with courage. There are many more. What are you afraid of?
The bus started to become empty.
The bus stopped at everyone's destination, only I did not return to my destination.
The driver turned the car from the path of my house and drove the bus at high speed on an unknown road.
I have said only one thing over and over again, with my hands and feet numb with fear and anxiety.
"Leave me, brother, go home."
They didn't listen.
Cruel laughter erupted in joy.
When he ate like a hungry animal, he really enjoyed the delicious female meat.
He tore the veil and pushed it on his face.
And shouted, "
"I'll make more noise, Myra Falamu knows."
In the morning when I was going out with my head covered.
Mother prayed and blew and said,
"May Allah save me from my evil eye."
I cried out in agony and cried out to the Creator a thousand times and said,
What is my crime? What crime is this unbearable punishment?
One by one the four arms and legs are tightly occupied.
I lost the strength to move and fell like a dead body.
However, I still have to see the sea.
A swarm of fireflies remains to be seen in the dense forest.
Sunrise in the green hills is yet to be seen.
They are smiling after completing their work.
Someone grabbed my tutti by force. The bones of my voice are being torn by the pressure of my muscular hand. I did the last longing of life. Don't listen.
Today, Amma's hand did not eat dal chachhari.
Before getting on the bus, I said on the phone that I would knock on the door before the rice grew cold.
Surely my mother has been growing rice for so long.
Dad waited anxiously for me at the crossroads.
The last oxygen released from the lungs merged into their perverted joyous celebration.
One of them may return home and caress his baby girl with this hand.
Someone may touch the feet of the elderly mother with this hand.
He will say to his wife in an indifferent voice, "Eyes have less salt in the curry".
None of them will know what brutal pain these hands have inflicted on me a while ago.
They threw my body like foul-smelling waste under a dark bridge.
Maybe tomorrow morning someone will find me. The pages of the newspaper will be full of news. Newspaper sales will quadruple in one day.
Also,
The so-called blue-and-white virtual world of social media will float in a provocative status called "Justice for Reshma".
Then no one will call me Reshma. My identity then was just a rape.
The rapists have no name.
Similarly, rapists are not punished.
And after a while, everyone is innate
By the way everything will be forgotten.
Behind the masks of good people, the whole country will be filled with countless rapes.
No one else will be embarrassed by such an incident in this country of injustice. Women will give birth to one son after another. Out of the darkness of the womb, in the course of time, one will become a powerful man instead of a human being.
Then one day they will insert an iron rod or a stick into that uterus.
Just don't stop my moaning.
He would just cry and cry for justice, saying,
I had a Maya "Reshma", her face as soft as silk.
.
"Reshma"
Written by: Noor HelenI am Reshma. Seeing my silky soft face in the closet, Grandma said,
"This is a silk knot.
From that day I am Reshma.
With age, some grace is added to the face along with tenderness.
Mom used to say,
.
"You are one of the treasures of my seven kings. Wherever I put you."
In that one Manik's family, instead of happiness and comfort, there was scarcity. At the age of nine, I was housed in an elite flat in Barosho Square.
