The little ant was carrying a huge crumb, wobbling as if it had forgotten how to walk. It tripped over a pebble and tumbled - oops, down it went!
"Where are you??" Shonali bent down, peering closely at the ant's struggle, momentarily lost in its tiny world. But a sharp whack on her back snapped her out of it, pulling her harshly into the present. Her nine-year-old hands were back to scrubbing dishes in the sink.
"Oh, you? girl! Why are you always so distracted? Focus on the task at hand. Hurry up! You still have to clean the floor, and finish the errands."
Her mother, Gauri, scolded her sharply, balancing her six-month-old son in her arm as she spoke.
This was Shonali's life, growing up in a small village where girls were deemed liabilities. From the moment she was born, she became a source of worry - her existence defined by the looming expectations of dowry, from birth to marriage. The image of her as a burden never left her family.
We just saw Shonali's mother: a bad mother. A cruel mother. The kind of mother who doesn't see her daughter's tender hands or her innocent eyes.
We judged. Judgment is the secret ally of society. The crowd of judgments has no place for "why." The denial of that question creates more women like her. Deep down, society enjoys the drama so much that it ignores the "why."
When you live in a constant storm of struggle, trapped in a hostile environment that blames you for birthing a girl child, your world becomes unbearably small - the walls close in, echoing with accusations, resentment, and disregard. You are not a working woman, not admired, not respected. The days blur into a haze of pain and quiet despair, and the nights, far from offering solace, press heavilywith unspoken anguish and unrelenting loneliness.
In this suffocating reality, you yearn desperately for relief, for someone or something to bear the crushing weight of your suffering. And often, without realizing it - or sometimes with the painful knowledge that you can't help yourself - you turn on the one who should have been your sanctuary: your daughter. Her tiny hands, her wide, innocent eyes, her fragile smile - they dissolve in the haze of your torment. In your fractured reality, she becomes the reason for it all, the undeserving scapegoat for your unvented sorrow and frustration.
Women like Shonali's mother don't struggle to reclaim their worth - not because they don't want to, but because they don't know they're worthy. She is not just a reflection of countless untold stories of women crushed under the weight of blame; she is also a symbol of what happens when society systematically erodes a person's sense of self. Some women are lost forever - not because they lack strength, but because they were never shown their own power. They drift, not even knowing they deserve to stand tall, leaving behind not just their own brokenness, but the ripple of it in those they touch.
Shonali picked up a cotton bag and left for the market, the scorching sun the least of her concerns. While purchasing her groceries, her attention was drawn to a woman standing in the shop.
The woman didn't look like anyone Shonali had ever seen. She wasn't like her mother or any of the women in their village. It was as if she had stepped out of a different world. Her attire, resembling men's clothing, was unusual and bold, catching everyone's eye. She stood confidently; her presence almost foreign in the small shop filled with the mundane rhythms of village life.
Shonali couldn't stopstaring. Sensing her curiosity, the woman turned and gave Shonali a warm smile. Embarrassed, Shonali quickly looked away, fumbling with her words as she pointed to the items she wanted.
Her hesitation annoyed the shopkeeper, who finally scolded her, "Shonali beta, at least tell me properly what do you want and the quantity!"
"One kg rice and one kg bajra flour," Shonali said fearfully, her voice barely audible.
The woman intervened; her voice firm yet gentle. "Do not scold the child like that,"
she said, addressing the shopkeeper.
Shonali watched as the woman crouched to her level, her kind eyes meeting Shonali's. She held out a chocolate, a gesture that felt foreign in Shonali's world. Shonali hesitated, shaking her head shyly at first, but eventually, she accepted it.
As the woman placed the chocolate in Shonali's small hand, something caught her eye. Her expression shifted subtly as she noticed faint marks on Shonali's forearm. Concern clouded her face as she gently slid Shonali's sleeve up, revealing more marks.
Before she could say anything, a man approached the shop. "Ma'am, we're ready to leave," he said.
The woman nodded but didn't move immediately. Instead, she asked the shopkeeper for a pen and a piece of paper. Scribbling her number quickly, she handed it to Shonali. "Call me if you ever have any problem," she said softly, her tone inviting trust.
Shonali hesitated, pulling her hand back and refusing to take the paper. She shook her head, her eyes wide with apprehension.
The woman turned to the man. "Shiva, just wait for a while in the van," she instructed.
Outside the shop, the woman sat down on a chair and motioned for Shonali to join her. Shonali hesitated but eventually followed, perching on the edge of the chair next to her.
"I will tell you something, child. Listen carefully, okay?" the woman said,her voice both firm and warm.
Little Shonali looked up at her, nodding slightly, though her wide eyes showed a mix of curiosity and confusion.
"Speak up. Stand for yourself. Unless you say something, the world won't hear you. Do you understand?"
Shonali didn't fully grasp the meaning of the words, but the woman's tone carried a weight that made her nod again, as if by instinct.
"Smile," the woman added gently, her expression softening.
Hesitant but encouraged, Shonali gave a small, shy smile.
In the days that followed, Shonali held on to one word from that moment: smile. She would stand in front of the mirror, whisper the word softly to herself, and then smile. It became her little ritual, a flicker of light in her otherwise dim world.
The chocolate wrapper, too, found a special hiding spot under her bed. It wasn't just a piece of paper - it was her first costly chocolate and a symbol of kindness she had never experienced before.
One morning, for a brief, fleeting moment, Shonali forgot her harsh reality. Her world dissolved as she became captivated by a bright green parrot perched on a tree. When it suddenly flew away, she chased after it, her small feet running with unbridled excitement.
In her rush, she reached the window near where her baby brother was sleeping. A jar, placed precariously on the windowsill, fell and grazed his arm.
Her mother's rage was swift and unforgiving. Gauri stormed in, her fury uncontrollable, and beat Shonali so harshly that it left a mark - not just on her body, but deep within her spirit. It was a punishment unlike anything she had ever endured before.
Nine-year-old Shonali, broken and terrified, made a decision: she ran away from home.
In her childlike desperation, she entered a world unknown to her. She had only been on a trainonce before, a memory from a family trip, but her suffering brought that experience to the forefront of her mind with startling clarity. With no plan, no direction, she ran and ran, her small legs carrying her to the train station.
In her hurry, she clutched the number the kind woman had given her.
She climbed onto the train and walked through the crowd, unsure where to sit. The chaos around her was overwhelming - people chatting loudly, women sharing food, men calling out for seats, and arguments breaking out over who would sit where. A tea boy shouted at the top of his lungs, trying to be heard above the noise.
Amid the madness, a man with his wife and two boys was arguing with a traveller over a seat. The traveller shoved his baggage aside in frustration, and it scattered, falling at Shonali's feet. The man, seeming least concerned with his belongings, continued to argue as the fight raged on.
In the mess, something caught her eye - a megaphone, but it wasn't a real one; it was a toy. She recognized it, remembering how politicians used them for speeches. She picked it up, fiddling with it absentmindedly, and without thinking, spoke into it.
"Hello."
To her surprise, the sound boomed out loud and clear. In that brief moment, all the travellers froze. Heads turned in her direction, all eyes on the girl who had unwittingly commanded the attention of the crowd.
Her heart stopped. In a panic, she abruptly handed the toy back to the man, who was now silenced by the unexpected outburst. Shonali quickly walked away, finding an empty seat and sitting down. The experience had been terrifying. But as the moment passed, she realized something. She smiled, a quiet understanding settling in.
Days passed, and when her mother realized Shonali was goneand would never come back, she cried and smiled at the same time.
"Where are you??" Shonali bent down, peering closely at the ant's struggle, momentarily lost in its tiny world. But a sharp whack on her back snapped her out of it, pulling her harshly into the present. Her nine-year-old hands were back to scrubbing dishes in the sink.
"Oh, you? girl! Why are you always so distracted? Focus on the task at hand. Hurry up! You still have to clean the floor, and finish the errands."
Her mother, Gauri, scolded her sharply, balancing her six-month-old son in her arm as she spoke.
This was Shonali's life, growing up in a small village where girls were deemed liabilities. From the moment she was born, she became a source of worry - her existence defined by the looming expectations of dowry, from birth to marriage. The image of her as a burden never left her family.
We just saw Shonali's mother: a bad mother. A cruel mother. The kind of mother who doesn't see her daughter's tender hands or her innocent eyes.
We judged. Judgment is the secret ally of society. The crowd of judgments has no place for "why." The denial of that question creates more women like her. Deep down, society enjoys the drama so much that it ignores the "why."
When you live in a constant storm of struggle, trapped in a hostile environment that blames you for birthing a girl child, your world becomes unbearably small - the walls close in, echoing with accusations, resentment, and disregard. You are not a working woman, not admired, not respected. The days blur into a haze of pain and quiet despair, and the nights, far from offering solace, press heavilywith unspoken anguish and unrelenting loneliness.
In this suffocating reality, you yearn desperately for relief, for someone or something to bear the crushing weight of your suffering. And often, without realizing it - or sometimes with the painful knowledge that you can't help yourself - you turn on the one who should have been your sanctuary: your daughter. Her tiny hands, her wide, innocent eyes, her fragile smile - they dissolve in the haze of your torment. In your fractured reality, she becomes the reason for it all, the undeserving scapegoat for your unvented sorrow and frustration.
Women like Shonali's mother don't struggle to reclaim their worth - not because they don't want to, but because they don't know they're worthy. She is not just a reflection of countless untold stories of women crushed under the weight of blame; she is also a symbol of what happens when society systematically erodes a person's sense of self. Some women are lost forever - not because they lack strength, but because they were never shown their own power. They drift, not even knowing they deserve to stand tall, leaving behind not just their own brokenness, but the ripple of it in those they touch.
Shonali picked up a cotton bag and left for the market, the scorching sun the least of her concerns. While purchasing her groceries, her attention was drawn to a woman standing in the shop.
The woman didn't look like anyone Shonali had ever seen. She wasn't like her mother or any of the women in their village. It was as if she had stepped out of a different world. Her attire, resembling men's clothing, was unusual and bold, catching everyone's eye. She stood confidently; her presence almost foreign in the small shop filled with the mundane rhythms of village life.
Shonali couldn't stopstaring. Sensing her curiosity, the woman turned and gave Shonali a warm smile. Embarrassed, Shonali quickly looked away, fumbling with her words as she pointed to the items she wanted.
Her hesitation annoyed the shopkeeper, who finally scolded her, "Shonali beta, at least tell me properly what do you want and the quantity!"
"One kg rice and one kg bajra flour," Shonali said fearfully, her voice barely audible.
The woman intervened; her voice firm yet gentle. "Do not scold the child like that,"
she said, addressing the shopkeeper.
Shonali watched as the woman crouched to her level, her kind eyes meeting Shonali's. She held out a chocolate, a gesture that felt foreign in Shonali's world. Shonali hesitated, shaking her head shyly at first, but eventually, she accepted it.
As the woman placed the chocolate in Shonali's small hand, something caught her eye. Her expression shifted subtly as she noticed faint marks on Shonali's forearm. Concern clouded her face as she gently slid Shonali's sleeve up, revealing more marks.
Before she could say anything, a man approached the shop. "Ma'am, we're ready to leave," he said.
The woman nodded but didn't move immediately. Instead, she asked the shopkeeper for a pen and a piece of paper. Scribbling her number quickly, she handed it to Shonali. "Call me if you ever have any problem," she said softly, her tone inviting trust.
Shonali hesitated, pulling her hand back and refusing to take the paper. She shook her head, her eyes wide with apprehension.
The woman turned to the man. "Shiva, just wait for a while in the van," she instructed.
Outside the shop, the woman sat down on a chair and motioned for Shonali to join her. Shonali hesitated but eventually followed, perching on the edge of the chair next to her.
"I will tell you something, child. Listen carefully, okay?" the woman said,her voice both firm and warm.
Little Shonali looked up at her, nodding slightly, though her wide eyes showed a mix of curiosity and confusion.
"Speak up. Stand for yourself. Unless you say something, the world won't hear you. Do you understand?"
Shonali didn't fully grasp the meaning of the words, but the woman's tone carried a weight that made her nod again, as if by instinct.
"Smile," the woman added gently, her expression softening.
Hesitant but encouraged, Shonali gave a small, shy smile.
In the days that followed, Shonali held on to one word from that moment: smile. She would stand in front of the mirror, whisper the word softly to herself, and then smile. It became her little ritual, a flicker of light in her otherwise dim world.
The chocolate wrapper, too, found a special hiding spot under her bed. It wasn't just a piece of paper - it was her first costly chocolate and a symbol of kindness she had never experienced before.
One morning, for a brief, fleeting moment, Shonali forgot her harsh reality. Her world dissolved as she became captivated by a bright green parrot perched on a tree. When it suddenly flew away, she chased after it, her small feet running with unbridled excitement.
In her rush, she reached the window near where her baby brother was sleeping. A jar, placed precariously on the windowsill, fell and grazed his arm.
Her mother's rage was swift and unforgiving. Gauri stormed in, her fury uncontrollable, and beat Shonali so harshly that it left a mark - not just on her body, but deep within her spirit. It was a punishment unlike anything she had ever endured before.
Nine-year-old Shonali, broken and terrified, made a decision: she ran away from home.
In her childlike desperation, she entered a world unknown to her. She had only been on a trainonce before, a memory from a family trip, but her suffering brought that experience to the forefront of her mind with startling clarity. With no plan, no direction, she ran and ran, her small legs carrying her to the train station.
In her hurry, she clutched the number the kind woman had given her.
She climbed onto the train and walked through the crowd, unsure where to sit. The chaos around her was overwhelming - people chatting loudly, women sharing food, men calling out for seats, and arguments breaking out over who would sit where. A tea boy shouted at the top of his lungs, trying to be heard above the noise.
Amid the madness, a man with his wife and two boys was arguing with a traveller over a seat. The traveller shoved his baggage aside in frustration, and it scattered, falling at Shonali's feet. The man, seeming least concerned with his belongings, continued to argue as the fight raged on.
In the mess, something caught her eye - a megaphone, but it wasn't a real one; it was a toy. She recognized it, remembering how politicians used them for speeches. She picked it up, fiddling with it absentmindedly, and without thinking, spoke into it.
"Hello."
To her surprise, the sound boomed out loud and clear. In that brief moment, all the travellers froze. Heads turned in her direction, all eyes on the girl who had unwittingly commanded the attention of the crowd.
Her heart stopped. In a panic, she abruptly handed the toy back to the man, who was now silenced by the unexpected outburst. Shonali quickly walked away, finding an empty seat and sitting down. The experience had been terrifying. But as the moment passed, she realized something. She smiled, a quiet understanding settling in.
Days passed, and when her mother realized Shonali was goneand would never come back, she cried and smiled at the same time.
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