Eunuch's letter to his mother after his death:
Mother
I was nine or ten years old when my father dragged me to the ground and made me homeless. I kept screaming and shouting at you, but you stared at me in a daze. The only flow was your tears which were not ready to be shed even in the face of father's wrath. Your every tear was proof that you were very upset with this act of your father, but you were also forced to submit to everything that your father said.
When my father got out of control due to the taunts of the neighbors, the sarcasm of the relatives and the stinging eyes of the people, he would then tear my skin with his black leather slippers. I would run to the call room, which had become my only refuge in the whole house, with the image of a slipper on my body. When the day of the beating fell into the night, you would hide from your father and come with your feet down. She would hit me on the chest, pat me on the wounds with her handkerchief. My head would sit on my lap with me for hours. Your own sobs would stop when I was silenced. Nothing could be heard in this call room except the echo of sighs and sobs. We both spoke in tears.
There were countless questions in my tears. After all, why is the (guest) special gift of my father's hatred on me? After all, as soon as the guests come to the house, I am locked in the cramped and dark room of the store with all the extra belongings of the house and why I am not allowed to be released till the mercy of Allah leaves our house. Why does this mercy become a nuisance to me every time? But in answer to my every question, you would quietly look at me with love and say nothing. Sometimes you would kiss my mother and sometimes you would kiss my hands and testify that I love my king's son very much. Asking a question, I would get tired and fall asleep, wondering what was wrong with me that I did not deserve my father's love like my other siblings.
Yes, before I fell asleep in your lap, I used to pray that this night would never end, but it would be morning and then you would put on the cloak of the woman who loved me out of fear of my father and society.
The day my father kicked me out of the house, my only guilt was that I painted my lips with the redness on your dressing table, put your red dupatta on my head, put the bracelets on your wrists on your wrists, your tick tick. Was happy to wear shoes..
It was too late to see that my father started raining shoes on me again. I apologized but I was not heard and dragged me to the ground and shouted "Zankha Zankha" and kept me away from my family forever.
My father's last words to me were that he died for us from today. As soon as I heard this sentence, the grip of my hands which was holding my father's legs tightly would weaken. My grunting tongue would be silent, my
tears would stop because I knew Dad would never back down from what he said. And you, mother, do not dare to go against any decision of father
After that Dad would leave me here forever where a guru lived. Amjad was replaced by my name Alisha. I was trained to dance and sing. I would have been watched, but whenever I had the chance, I would have run madly towards my house in your love, but my father's last words would have stopped me from crossing the threshold. When I saw you taking hot bread out of the door, my appetite would be quenched and then you would make snacks with your own hands and put them in the mouths of my brothers and sisters. Lives To satisfy this longing, I would often soak.
Then my guru named this job my profession. I ran away from the guru many times, looking for a job from door to door but I could not get anything but disappointment. Every time he found refuge at the Guru's door.
Our existence is considered abusive in society. If we have to curse someone, we say go to your house and be born like me. However, red blood also runs in our veins. He is the One who created us. His heart beats like ours. So what are we punished for? What is our crime? Maybe our guilt is that our blood is red and society is white.
My mother died wanting to live her whole life. People with white blood sometimes shoot at our bodies under the guise of religion and sometimes for refusing to prostitute themselves. The same thing happened to me, I was shot too. When I woke up, the doctor was slowly whispering in my ear, trying to show me a ray of hope that if you dare, you can return to life.