Good fortune never comes to poor girls!
Maria Khushk
Aliya and Shahida were thick as thieves’ best friends. Not only were they inseparable pals, but they were next-door neighbors too, with a bond that ran deeper than most. Aliya had to drop out of school after fifth grade because her father just couldn’t make ends meet anymore. Shahida had never even stepped inside school; her family was flat broke, her mother was chronically sick, and there were little ones to look after. Still, Aliya would come home from school and patiently teach Shahida everything she’d learned that day, and the two of them would spend hours playing together like nothing else mattered.
Shahida’s father was at his wits’ end, barely scraping together enough to put food on the table. In desperation, he decided the only way forward was to marry off his daughters as soon as possible. The eldest was Shahida’s older sister, so she was first in line. Shahida would be next. But things had gone from bad to worse: the cupboards were bare, and not a single decent marriage proposal had come knocking. With her dupatta pulled over her head and a broom in her hand, Shahida sat lost in thought; could life really deal someone such a raw deal? No food in the house, no money for medicine when someone fell ill, and on top of it all, no prospect of a good match. Tears started rolling down her cheeks before she could stop them. She continued, and a poor girl is nothing but oppressed; she has no right to live, no right to work or earn. In a poor household, even the men of the family don’t see her as anything more than a doormat, literally, ‘the shoe under their feet’. Just then, Aliya showed up with a plate of steaming biryani. “Hey Shahida, what’s wrong? You look like the weight of the world is on your shoulders,” she asked, worried written all over on Shahida’s face. Shahida quickly glanced over Aliya’s shoulder toward the street, then behind herself, wiping her tears away in a hurry. “Where do I even start? Things are in a real mess; Amma’s bedridden, and we don’t have a single penny for her medicine. Baba’s dead set on getting us all married off quick, but let’s be real: good rishtas don’t exactly fall into the laps of poor girls like us. I’m just crying over how hard life has hit us.”
“Come on, have some biryani. My khala’s place had a baby boy born, big celebration, so I grabbed a plate and thought of you right away.”
“No, I’ll give it to Amma. The poor woman’s sick as a dog, and there’s literally nothing to eat in the house anyway.”
“Fair enough, do whatever feels right.”
A few days later, a marriage proposal finally came for Shahida. There weren’t any big formalities or fuss, the groom’s parents lived in the village, while he had a steady government job in the city. He planned to take his wife to live with him there. Shahida thought, now the real test of her life was about to begin, working around the clock on household chores, and a million other things she had to get her head around, it all felt like too much to handle. In a panic, she rushed over to Aliya’s place to spill everything. The two of them sat outside on the doorstep for ages, chatting away about it all. Then Shahida fell quiet for a long stretch, lost in her thoughts. Just then, a voice shouted from Shahida’s house: “Shahida! Kahan maar gaye?”
After the wedding she moved into a modest little house that, to her, felt absolutely huge like a palace. It had two spacious rooms, both practically hers, a proper kitchen, and a massive open yard in front and behind the house. The groom’s parents arranged the wedding and then headed back to their village, leaving Shahida alone with her new husband.
Life was surprisingly quiet; there wasn’t much to do beyond cooking meals and washing a few dishes. No endless chores, no chaos. One evening, as they sat sipping their evening tea, Asad turned to Shahida and asked, “Which flower do you like the most?”
“Me… me…” Shahida trailed off, lost in thought.
“Yeah, you! Which flower do you like the most?” Asad asked, smiling curiously.
“I’ve never really thought about it… and nobody’s ever asked me about it at all, but I absolutely love the fragrance of motiya.”
“Go on, tell me more about yourself,” he encouraged gently.
“When I was little,” she said, her eyes lighting up, “there was a swing tied to a big tree near our place. I’d sit on it and swing back and forth with the breeze. It felt like flying.”
That very day, Asad headed out, bought everything he needed, and started setting it all up in the yard. While he was busy outside, Shahida was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Once he’d finished, he came inside, took Shahida by the hand, and led her out. There, hanging between two tall neem trees, was a proper swing. Then she spotted the plants, rows of fragrant motiya. Tears welled up in her eyes. In that moment, she felt a kind of happiness she’d never known before, not once in her whole life.
Three years flew by, and they had two little girls: Shazia and Shabnam. Shahida threw herself into raising them, her days revolving around the kids. Still, she often longed to visit Aliya and check on her ailing mother. One day, she took the children and went back to her parents’ house. Her mother’s condition wasn’t good at all. She met Aliya, poured her heart out, and said, “I’m truly happy in my life now, the sadness has lifted a lot. But these repeated pregnancies mean the injection sites still ache sometimes.” By then, she was pregnant again, and she was planning to enroll her eldest, Shazia, in school. Aliya shared her own news: “My wedding’s happening in a few months to a distant relative who owns his own auto-rickshaw and drives it too.” Shahida was over the moon for her friend.
When Shahida returned home, tragedy struck: her mother passed away. Around the same time, she gave birth, this time to a baby boy. The whole family was ecstatic. The following year, Aliya got married too. She’d ride around town in the auto with her husband, feeling just as blessed and content as Shahida. In two years of her marriage, Aliya had two daughters as well, but her husband kept hoping for a son.
After a very long time, Aliya brought her girls over to Shahida’s house for the very first time. Shahida was thrilled beyond words to see her old friend. Asad came home loaded with all sorts of tasty treats for Aliya. Aliya proudly showed off the gift her husband Imran had brought Shahida: beautiful silver anklets, thick two-finger ones. The two friends sat on the swing, talking for hours, catching up on everything. Shazia was now eight years old and helped Shahida with chores around the house.
“Doesn’t Shazia go to school?” Aliya asked.
“No… another baby’s on the way, and I’m not keeping well, so Shazia looks after the little ones.”
“But you should still get her educated, school is so important,” Aliya pressed gently.
“I know, and it breaks my heart, but I just couldn’t manage the kids back then.”
At that moment, Shazia was holding her little sister, the seventh member of the household with the eighth due any day now.
“How are you going to cope with so many children?” Aliya asked, concerned.
Shahida looked fondly at Shazia and smiled. “I always tell her that Shazia is like a second mother to us all. She takes care of her siblings, and she takes care of me too.”
“You’ve become so frail yourself, having baby after baby,” Aliya said softly.
“Some things you can’t change… but please, do get Shazia into school. Education is everything in life,” Aliya urged.
“I’m in the same city as you now, what’s a little distance? If you ever need anything, just call me. I’ll be there in a heartbeat,” Aliya had promised Shahida.
A few months later, Aliya got to thinking; she hadn’t seen Shahida in ages and really missed her. Her husband wouldn’t give her any money for the trip, but she managed somehow and headed over anyway. When she arrived, Shazia was sitting outside with all the little ones, keeping an eye on them. Aliya’s daughters ran straight over to join in the fun and play with the kids. Shazia had the newborn cradled in her arms. Aliya felt a rush of joy seeing the baby, but a pang of sadness hit her too. She rang the doorbell. Asad opened the door, caught sight of Aliya, and immediately dropped his gaze to the floor. Aliya stepped inside the room, and froze. There was an unknown young woman sitting there, dressed in bright red shalwar kameez, her hands decorated with fresh henna. Aliya took a step back, tears springing to her eyes. She couldn’t make sense of anything.
“I… I had to get married again, for the sake of the children,” Asad finally mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.
“But where’s Shahida?” Aliya asked, her heart pounding.
Asad couldn’t get another word out, he just stood there speechless. From behind them, the noisy chatter and laughter of the children drifted in.
“Where is Shahida?” Aliya demanded again, her voice cracking.
“She had passed away during childbirth.”
Aliya stumbled backward, tears streaming down her face, and rushed out of the house. She grabbed her children, and without a word, started walking briskly, almost running, toward home, her mind racing the whole way. All Shahida had in life were a few fleeting moments of happiness. And the love she felt for that man was so deep, and how can someone forget their love so quickly and get married again? Men have no feelings at all, they just see a woman as a machine for producing children.
A few days later, Aliya gave birth to another daughter. Her husband packed up and walked out, because he wanted his inheritance, someone to drive the auto-rickshaw and help him out. Aliya was left with absolutely nothing to eat in the house. Whatever stale rotis she could find, she’d soak them in water to soften and force herself to eat. She was utterly desperate, trapped with no way out. Finding a job was next to impossible, who hires someone who only studied up to fifth grade? Things had been manageable before; her husband used to earn and bring money home. But now, with no one to rely on, she had no choice but to start doing domestic work in other people’s houses. As she scrubbed floors and washed dishes, her thoughts kept drifting to Shahida’s children. At least they still had a father who earned and fed them. Shazia might stay home looking after her siblings, but Aliya’s situation was far worse. Her newborn daughter, Muni, was terribly ill from the start. One day, clutching her sick baby and the other girls, Aliya went to where her husband parked his auto. He pulled out fifty rupees from his pocket and tossed it at her like she was some beggar. She had come to claim for her rights. That’s when she learned the truth: he’d married again, for the sake of a son, and moved out of the city. The little she earned from housework barely put food on the table. Her newborn stayed sick. When he finally returned to the city, Aliya went to him again and again, demanding the children’s rights.
“I’ve come for the kids’ share,” she’d say. “Give me money for food and medicine, it’s your duty.”
“Daughters don’t have any claim on me. Do whatever you want, I don’t care,” he’d snap back.
But Aliya refused to give up. She kept going after him. Aliya’s repeated visits had really started getting on her husband Imran’s nerves. That day, when Aliya came again, holding her newborn Muni in her arms and gripping her other daughter’s hand, she was standing in front of Imran’s auto-rickshaw, arguing as if she were just another passenger haggling over the fare. In a fit of rage, Imran stormed over and kicked Aliya hard – very hard. Both of them fell to the ground, and Muni’s head struck a stone. Her breathing stopped right then and there, as if she had been waiting all along to die. That day, Shahida’s words echoed in Aliya’s mind: “Good fortune never comes to poor girls.”
Read: Where waiting ends – A Short Story
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Maria Khushk is a freelance writer based in Hyderabad Sindh. She is author of a book titled ‘‘The Cage of Innocence’. She also contributes articles and stories to Sindh Courier.
