It feels as though not a day has passed since I first bled. Now I’m sitting here, dressed in heavy red fabrics, with trimmings of gold and silver prickling my skin, and heavy gold jewelry that hung from my form. The crowd bustling with cheers and applause as the elders pronounce us as husband and wife.
*
Sitting in that quiet bathroom, my world came crashing down. A pain like no other, throbbing in my abdomen as I stare for what felt like hours at the blood pooling down my thighs. My legs jerking up to avoid letting the impurity ruin the floors.
Most girls my age get excited when their monthlies arrive; that transition to womanhood no one prepares you for. Every milestone—from a girl’s first bra to the first time she bled. For them, it was a blessing, a sign of maturity, but not for me.
For me, it was a countdown, a ticking bomb towards a fate that was unavoidable. A destiny sealed by elders who had written out the future of girls long before they had the chance to oppose. To speak up let alone against was a right that girls didn’t deserve.
*
Living in the slums of Jharkhand, India, life was never practical. Every day, baba woke up at dawn to set out into the fields, mama would sell bangles on the streets to make a living, I sit with her at the stall, sticking to her side. I watch the streets crowded as people rush to and from work. Boys and girls clad in clean uniforms walking through these roads to get to school; school was only for the elite, those who could afford it. Not for dirty people.
A man approaches the stall, tall, heavy, greasy black hair and a dirty shalwar, and teeth stained with tobacco. Mama stands up, greeting him and showing him the bangles, though his gaze remains on me.
“How much?” He demands.
“Kangans 50 rupee and Chudiyan 20- “
“No, how much?” The man spoke in an agitated tone as he gestures towards me, eyeing me like a piece of meat. Mama turns to look at me; others around beginning to look at us.
“She’s not yet matured.” Mama said. The man’s gaze moving down to my chest, if you could call it that.
“She seems it.” He grumbles back. Mama replies in a quiet, cautious tone.
“She hasn’t- bled yet…” The man steps back, looking disgusted.
“Don’t utter such nasty things in public! Do you not have any shame?! Are you a prostitute?!”
Glances turn into outright stares as people stop in their tracks. Mama stands up, packing our things, and dragging me out of there. Her nails digging into my skin while pulling my scarf around my face and neck.
We get back home; she let go of me and sighed.
“Shanti…next time you’re staying here, I don’t need the elders thinking stuff about us. If your dad hears about this, he’ll lose it.” Mama whispers, before sending me off to my room, a dull pain radiating in my abdomen.
Sitting in the bathroom, I stuffed rags against me, desperate to stem the flow. Though deep down, I know it wasn’t going to work.
In a struggle against my own body, stuffing myself with the cloths resulted in blood splattering everywhere, on my hands, the floors, my legs, the blood staining an already dirty land, and an even dirtier girl.
In the heart of India’s slums, there is a piercing irony: of all the hardships and filth one meets, it is menses that is branded ‘unclean.’ It’s a strange world where the only blood shed without violence is the one we are taught to find disgusting.
*
The night slowly engulfed the skies; villagers retreating into their homes, and the animals fell into their slumber, leaving the roads quiet. Baba returns, tired from working in the fields. I go to greet him, hand him a glass of water, and take his shoes off.
“Namaste baba.” I whisper.
“Namaste beta.” He replies, his voice laced with exhaustion.
Mama set the mats as we all sat down to eat. Mama and baba speaking to each other while I sit there, listening.
“How much money did you make today?” Mama asks.
“50 rupees.” He replies.
“Bas? That’s not enough…”
“I know Gangu, but what can I do? I tried picking up more shifts…”
Mama stays quiet, thinking.
“Shanti, go to bed…” She spoke sternly, I stand up, taking my dishes and putting them away before going to my room.
My heart bashes against my chest as I sit by the door, listening quietly to what mama and baba were saying, as much as I beg the Gods that they weren’t talking about what I thought they were talking about, I knew they weren’t in my favor. My time has come.
“A man spoke to me today, about Shanti…” Mama whispers.
“No Gangu…she’s too young…” Baba replies stiffly.
“Pravin, she’s bled. The man is going to pay well…our Shanti will go off to a better home with some dignity.”
“What dignity Gangu? Hm? We live in a shack for crying out loud! The moment she was born our dignity was lost!”
“Don’t say that! We have to make a decision here! Our daughter might have a chance to have a better life! And we’d be well off!”
“How the hell would we afford a wedding huh?!”
“I’ll sell my mother’s gold! We’ll buy a used dress! At least consider it Pravin, Shanti has no life here! No man is going to want a girl from the slums! We need the money! We can’t eat!”
“How much did this man offer?”
“He said we set the price, whatever it is, he will pay it. Our Shanti is grown up now, it’s time for her to be married, she can’t stay with us forever Pravin.”
Baba stays quiet.
“Have you talked to Shanti about this?” He asks.
“We don’t need too; she knows what’s best for her”
“…”
“Make arrangements.”
*
Before I knew it, I was hiding under a veil, holding the rough hand of a man as we both sat there, the crowd bustling with cheers. Mama and baba poured their last cent into this day, in hopes of sending me off with some dignity. The man I was married to paid a dowry of 10,000 rupees, mama cried, baba’s face stone cold. The crowd of aunties and uncles, none of whom I recognized, danced to outdated Bollywood music. The air was thick and humid in the tiny room, as bodies continued to squeeze themselves into the venue, though it was more like a living room.
I had been told since I could speak that this day would come. The Gods above made me for this, to get married, and bear children. And I wasn’t supposed to take it happily; that’s not a privilege I deserve.
*
We both walk into the bedroom, the man stood over me as I sat there, head hung low. “Don’t look at him, girls are supposed to be shy, not defiant.”
I turned my gaze towards a small crack in the ceiling, the paint slowly chipping away
“Don’t cry, just take it.”
“It’ll be over soon…”
*
That night, I learnt the name of the man I was married off to, Arho Veer— meaning “the brave giver of blessings”
“The brave giver of blessings.” The irony tasted like ash. That night was no blessing; it was the moment the man named “Giver” began to take. He took the rights to my name, and now, my child.
*
I quickly became accustomed to Arho’s life, routine, and family. He was the sole provider for his mama-Jaan, Anvitha; his father was no longer around. With his three sisters married off, the house held only me, him, his mother, and Sanveer—a servant boy a few years younger than I was.
The new home was no different from my old one: run-down, with chipping paint and creaky floorboards. Every day followed a rigid rhythm. I was expected to wake early, tend to the chickens, cook breakfast, and lose myself in never-ending chores. It was a cycle I was bound to. Despite the exhaustion that claimed me every night, I still had to perform for my husband. My duty wasn’t to say no—so I learned to leave my body behind, drifting somewhere near the creaky ceiling while the woman below did what was expected of her.
The days turned into weeks; time no longer felt real. Each day my belly swelled, a ticking clock marking the months since I was sold. Now I sit here; the sun slowly peeking out from the horizon as I sit on the ground outside, scrubbing an old rag with a brush, trying to force the stains out. Doves sing melancholic hymns as the village slowly rose. The soft sounds of sandals hitting the dirt roads snapped me out of whatever trance I was in as Sanveer rushed next to me.
“Didi you shouldn’t be doing this, let me do it” the young boy tried to take the brush out of my hand, I pulled away, reassuring him.
“it’s okay Sanveer, I got it, you go back to bed, why are you up so early?”
“I wasn’t tired, too hot last night ne? You should be resting; you have baby.” The curious boy gestured towards my belly; the shalwar kameez tight around the growing bump.
“I’m okay really. Did you eat anything yet? You’re a growing boy ya know. Theres eggs on the stove, I made extras for you.”
His eyes lit up, running back into the house, so much ambition for a boy whose world ended at the edge of these slums. Something about this boy is special, a man born with the right to a better life, school, was stuck here serving in the slums. He moved with a quiet subservience that should have belonged to a daughter, not a boy with his spark.
*
Arho ate and left for work; mama-Jaan set out to work with the vendors, leaving me, Sanveer, and the small soul inside me, alone in the house. I sigh in relief as I take the opportunity to sit down and let my mind rest for a moment, closing my eyes and letting myself feel the chair against my back.
The house felt eerily quiet; perhaps it was the absence of Sanveer’s eager footsteps, or no more overbearing stares from Mama-Jaan. Whatever it was, I wanted it to stay gone, for the universe to give me just a little while longer to breathe.
My moments rest is quickly interrupted by the familiar clattering footsteps once again.
“Didi, can you help me with something?!” Sanveer yelled, running into the kitchen. I open my eyes, watching as the boy sat next to me at the table, sweat beading on his forehead after working out under the blazing sun for so long. The boy’s eyes held a look of determination and awe as he handed me something.
“What is this?” I take the item; it was an old, worn down five-rupees. The paper soft under my fingertips as I held the delicate bill. On it, just barley legible, was a kavita, a poem, written in messy Hindi.
“Can you read this to me, Didi?”
“Where did you get this?”
“Found it on the street, what does it say Didi?”
“Sanveer, can you not read it?”
“No, read it to me.”
I fell silent. This boy couldn’t read it… I looked down at the poem, reading the text aloud.
“Graying skies and silvered leaves
Through all that is amiss,
It is only you whom I see—
My beloved
-07/19/1988”
Sanveer looks at me, confused.
“What does it mean didi?”
“It’s a love poem dear, one that never seems to have gotten delivered…”
“What a poem? What that mean?”
“You don’t know what a poem is? Don’t they teach you in school?”
“I don’t go to school.”
My heart ached at the confession. Arho was no poor man, he had the income to send this boy to school. The selfish “giver” of a man I married.
“Sanveer…do me a favor, get me a pen and paper from Arho’s office” The boy looks confused but ultimately compiles, quickly retrieving the items I ask for.
“Sit, can you sign your name?”
Sanveer looks at me, then at the paper, an uncomfortable look on his face. I sigh.
“Figures…” Taking the pen and paper, I sign Sanveer’s name in clean Hindi, turning the page back to him.
“This is your name, repeat after me.” Pointing to each character with the pen, I sound out each syllable, slowly, letting him repeat. His eyes light up. I hand the pen to him and let him write his name out. The excitement on his face sparked something that night.
The two of us sat there, I taught Sanveer basic Hindi, not great, but enough so the boy could sound words out and sign his name, and boy was he a quick learner.
Night engulfed the skies once again. Time flew by so fast I had not realized yet that Arho and mama-Jaan were going to return within a matter of minutes. I stood up, panicking as I realize there was no dinner prepared.
“Sanveer! The food! There’s no food! Mama-jaan gets back soon!” I franticly move through the kitchen, grabbing pots and spices, trying to conjure some sort of dish up, knowing deep down it was all in vain, Arho was going to walk through that door any minute. Sanveer stands up, rushing to try and help, but he could only do so much.
I snap out of my rushed daze as I hear those heavy footsteps entering through the front door. Turning to face him, standing menacingly.
“Sanveer, go to your room”
The first blow didn’t come with a shout. It came with the sound of the wind being knocked out of me. As I fell, my cheek hitting the grit of the floor, desperately wrapping my arms around my abdomen, shielding it from the merciless beating, I looked toward the living room.
There sat Mama-jaan. The light from a single lamp caught the steam rising from her cup. She lifted the chai to her lips, the porcelain clinking softly against her teeth. She didn’t look up. She didn’t flinch. She just blew on the tea, her expression as still as a stone monument, while the room behind her filled with the sound of my undoing.
*
The mattress dips under my weight as I sit there, in shock, body sore. My left eye pulsating and warm.
Sanveer was sitting next to me, snot dripping down his nose and mouth, tears staining the boy’s pure face as he presses a wet washcloth against my face, wiping the blood away, his hands shaking violently, shaking how no child’s hands should ever shake. Gently, I take the rag from his grasp, though I didn’t look at him, I couldn’t.
“Didi I’m so sorry…it’s all my fault Veer-sab did that to you-”
“Shh…don’t-don’t do that. Don’t s-say that.” I whisper, trying to sound reassuring, but the stuttering and shaking my voice held betrayed me.
I look around the room; it wasn’t one I was familiar with. Though the walls were still worn with chipping paint, the floorboards holding the same pained creeks, something about this room felt…warm, comforting. Maybe this is what it feels like to be in a room where no betrayal took place.
In the corner of the barren room lied a red and blue plastic action figure of a robot, scratched and missing a leg. It was the only thing in this room that brought color to this stale room, yet the warmth it held, the innocence, this boy didn’t deserve this. No child deserves this.
I look around more, my eyes landing on a dusty mirror that stood against the wall at the foot of the bed, catching a glimpse of my state for the first time. My left eye swollen, dark purple splotches littering my face. My teeth stained red with blood as the inside of my lips burned with teeth imprints. Looking at myself, the shock slowly begins to subside, replaced with pulsing pain. The more I look, the more acknowledging every mark, the more the pain becomes pronounced. I quickly look away, not bearing the sight of my ruined face, Sanveer held a glass of water to my mouth, the cold liquid mixed with metallic hints, soothed the sores in my mouth.
My hand instinctively moves to my stomach, holding my belly as if protecting it from the cruelty of this world. Though I was still due in a few months, my frail form was already showing greatly.
“Arho-sab left with Mama-jaan, staying at someone else’s house for some time, you don’t have to worry about him now…”
“Did he say anything to you, Sanveer? Don’t lie, okay?”
“He did nothing, he couldn’t find me, I’m a good hider.”
“Really, where did you hide?”
Sanveer sat up, crawling towards the mirror, pushing it aside, he reveals a hole, enough for the boy to sit in comfortably, decorated with cushions for comfort, a small battery-operated light stuck to the roof with tape, a plastic toy fan, and a few comics cut out from the back of old cereal boxes.
“Wow Sanveer, you really have a whole system here.” I say in awe, the pain dulling.
“I come here to hide when Arho-sab gets mad, he can never find me.” He laughs.
I slowly crawl towards the hide out, sitting next to Sanveer and admiring his work. I pick up the small fan.
“Where do you find stuff like this?”
“Uncle Ji, he sells this stuff in the village, I got that for 2 rupees.”
“Two? Wow, that’s a good price. Is that where you spend your pay?”
“Ya, look didi, look at what else I got!” Sanveer shows me his action figures, cheap plastic that was broken and well loved. I hold the toy, letting myself feel the cool plastic against my fingertips.
Handing the toy back to him, I look inside the hide out more. Seeing the pile of comic cutouts, I pick one up, the cardboard worn out, and the comic creased.
“You like comics Sanveer?”
“I like the pictures.”
Sanveer reaches towards the cushion, lifting it up and pulling out a small brown leather journal, opening it and revealing different sketches of characters I had never seen before.
“Wow…Sanveer, you drew these yourself?” I touch the paper, brushing my fingertips over the dried ink.
“I wanna draw, make my own comics. This is my character, S-Man.” He flips through the book more, showing me various ink sketches of his character.
“S-Man? Like superman?”
“No. Sanveer Man” he laughs.
“Where’d you learn to draw like this?”
“I watch the schoolboys drawing, they sit under the bridge after school. I copy them.”
“You really are a fast learner, eh?”
“No one’s ever told me that.”
“It’s the truth.”
*
As more weeks pass, my body grew weaker as the soul inside took my energy bit by bit, my clothes no longer fitting around the swollen belly. Though my state didn’t excuse me from my duties, In the slums, even labor was a debt I was expected to pay without complaint—a privilege I’d never been granted anyway.
The due date was soon to arrive, sweat beading on my forehead as I timed contractions. Mama-Jaan and a few of her sisters towering over me, poking and prodding at my body as I lay there, trembling, my breathing growing shakier and shallower as each wave of pain passed.
The night was filled with screams, tears, and gasping breaths as the baby was delivered. With my last ounce of strength left, I lift my head, desperate to catch a glimpse of my child, only to be met with disappointed stares as the elders look down at the baby girl in their arms.
Before I even get to touch my baby, my vision goes black, my head spinning as all my piled-up exhaustion finally hit, falling into a deep slumber and finally, letting me rest.
I fall in and out of a blurry trance, standing somewhere between life and death, I find myself hovering near the foot of the bed against the wall, staring at myself laying on the damp mattress. The room lit only by a candle on the side table. The light from the small flame cast a glow over my sleeping face, strands of hair sticking to my damp forehead. I take in every tired crease on my face, the stress lines marking my face.
I move past myself and turn towards the baby girl lying in the cot next to me. Her features so soft and delicate as she slept. The sight of a soul that has yet to be harmed by this world calms the heart no doubt. A calm feeling brushes over me, before quickly being replaced by fear.
I know the fate of my daughter; I saw her life before it even began—a narrow destiny measured by the distance between these walls and the walls of a future husband. She’ll never get to buy cheap toys from vendors, never get to chase chickens. Her life was already written out for her by a cruel pen called fate, and I’ll have to watch, not being able to save her from her destiny. She’ll meet the same cruel fate…
“I have to run…”
I slowly open my eyes, my body sore from the strenuous task of giving birth, my face clammy as the humid air sets on my skin. Slowly turning to my side, I see my baby, just me and her in this dark room. Though I was exhausted, my mind was filled with determination to get out of this house before Arho got a chance to steal my daughter’s life.
I crawl out of bed and towards the cot, adrenalin pumping through my veins, temporarily numbing the pain I was in as I hold my daughter; her eyes shut as she sleeps peacefully. I limped towards the closet, one arm cradling my child and the other pressing against my back, trying to massage the pain. I open the closet and pull out a small bag, packing a few clothes and diapers. I grab the largest scarf I can find and use it to wrap my baby around my chest. I grab another scarf and wrap it around myself, hiding my face.
Quietly, I walk towards the door, leaving the room and heading down the hall towards Sanveer’s room. The once creaky floorboards—the ones I had scrubbed until my knees bled—stayed silent in my favor, as if the house itself were holding its breath for us.
I push Sanveer’s door open, the young boy sitting in bed, sketching in his journal. His eyes fill with concern when he sees me, putting the pen down and standing up.
“Didi! What are you do-”
“Quiet!” I say in a hushed tone.
“Do you want to become an artist? Make ‘Sanveer-Man’ real?”
He nodded.
“Then come with me, quietly.”
Sanveer grabs his journal and his broken action figure and follows quietly, not questioning his Didi.
Slowly and steadily, we make it to the front door, not bothering to look back at the house of horrors; we slip out.
I don’t know where the three of us will go, but I know this much. My daughter will buy all the cheap toys she wishes from vendors. My daughter will get to chase chickens; my daughter will go to school. Sanveer will become a famous artist and direct his own show. The dreams these kids have will no longer be cut short by the harsh reality of slum life.
As the three kids run off into the night, back in that house, Mama-jaan sits quietly in the dimly lit living room, sipping her chai, letting the warm liquid swish in her mouth.
Clutching the delicate bill as the candle blows out.
Nimrah Mahmood is a 16 year old writer from Stoney Creek, Ontario. She is a grade 11 student at Bishop Ryan Catholic Secondary School. She, along with a few students, run a writing club called “The BR Writer’s Circle”–a club for students to share their work and have a safe space to write. She loves exploring genres like contemporary fiction, coming-of-age, and horror. Essentially, she writes about issues that have been turned a blind eye by the world. She strives to get her work out there, for girls her age to see her work share their voice as well. Outside of writing she enjoys playing instruments like the clarinet and piano, and making origami creations!
Mountain Jay Books 