It was the summer of 1986. I was playing with my friends in the park while the sun slowly disappeared, taking the light away from our view. One by one, my friends left with their parents as evening turned into night. But me? My mother had left me on the doorstep of her relatives long before that, and as for my father, I never learned who he really was.
The relatives I lived with had a very small, almost pretty house. Still, it never felt like a home, not a place where I belonged. They did not have much money, and neither did I. When I was young, I did not even know my real age back then, but I knew the one rigid rule of that house. I was not allowed to return without earning forty rupees.
They said children shouldn't work. Maybe that sounded kind on paper. But kindness doesn't buy you forty rupees before nightfall.
I had no way to work, so I started asking strangers for money. Most of them gave it to me without even asking why I needed it. To them I was just a beggar. There I was, a girl in worn out clothes, asking for coins from passersby, from devotees, from almost everyone I saw. Sometimes God felt kind to me, and I would finish my daily task quickly, even with a little extra in my hands. Other times, he felt cruel.
I did not understand it back then, but the ones who punished me, especially my uncle, were often the ones who paid the most. As a child, I thought maybe his punishment was just another way of helping me earn money faster. Still, a question stayed with me long after I entered womanhood. Why did he punish me even on the days I had already completed my quota? It took me years to understand that it was never kindness. All they ever wanted was my body. I never learned how he died, or if he is even alive.
My relatives were like hungry wolves, and I always feared them. They would call me back whenever they needed money, or at least that is what I believed. I was not wrong. Like any other day, I returned to that house. My aunt was nowhere to be seen, and three of my uncle's friends were there. My uncle took me to the punishment room. My cousins were sitting in a corner, weeping quietly.
I remember that day only in fragments. I was punished alongside my sister by my uncle and his three friends. After that, everything fades. The next thing I remember is waking up in a closed cell with several other girls around my age, or at least that is what I guessed. They were all crying. I tried to stand up using the wall, but a sharp pain struck me below my waist. I have only cried a few times in my life, and that moment was one of them.
I cried. My body trembled. I had never experienced such a terrifying sensation, and honestly, what those monsters did to me could have killed someone my age. God felt cruel when I was young, but I do not hold it against him. It was never in his hands. He was called a creator, not the controller of the universe.
I do not remember how long I stayed in that cell, but one day a man came in and punished one of the girls. While everyone else cried, I sat there frozen with fear. The pain below my waist had not faded, and I prayed. I prayed to God through my sobs, just once, asking him to save me.
That man, after punishing the girl, left the room. I do not remember what happened after that. I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, I found myself in a bright and beautiful room. The bed was covered in red roses, their petals spread carefully across the sheets. Everything looked strangely beautiful. The room itself was large, far bigger than any place I had known before.
Then I noticed the clothes I was wearing were not mine. It was a long red dress, the kind I had seen my aunt wear whenever she wanted to go somewhere special. She always looked beautiful in those dresses, and somehow, so did I. For a moment, I believed God had listened to my prayer, that I had finally been freed from all the suffering of this world.
I was wrong. My life only changed for the worse. God did not save me. It was never in his power to save anyone. All he could do was watch.