Shiddat

Me??...I am right here in the corner of this suffocating, pitch-black room. I am watching the faint, cold blue light of a smartphone screen illuminate the edges of her face. I have tracked this girl since the day of her birth. Even now, I cannot decide if she is a creature of good or bad character. Her birth into this world brought a fleeting wave of pure happiness to those around her. But her youth? It has delivered only an unavoidable, heavy sorrow-a grief so constant that she has somehow learned to mistake its bitter taste for something sweet.I watch her every breath, utterly perplexed by her existence, yet I cannot look away. I am talkative-loquacious-only within the locked chambers of my mind as I witness her life play out like a tragedy. Is she the villain ruining her own movie? Or is she a hidden philanthropist, harboring a quiet, desperate love for a humanity that never loved her back?

Right now, she is twenty-three. She sits entirely still on the edge of her mattress, drowning in an unseen sea of failures, isolation, and unemployment. She feels like an absolute misfit in this blinding, fast-paced Gen Z generation. She holds a smartphone with endless features terrify her. On the desk sits a dead laptop, left completely untouched because she genuinely believes her own self-proclaimed dumbness will somehow break it further.

Lately, she has tried to lose herself in online novels, seeking a digital doorway to escape her reality. But her mind is too fractured to hold onto the words. By the time she crawls through one-fifth or two-fifths of a chapter, the meanings blur together. Frustrated and confused, she closes the screen, leaving another universe half-read because she convinces herself she is too stupid to understand it.And then, there is the mirror. At twenty-three, her hand reaches up, her fingers sliding over a completely bald, smooth scalp. There is no hair to hide behind. In the harsh glare of society-and beneath the heavy, disappointed silences of her own family-this baldness brands her as ugly. I look at her in the dark and wonder: can a girl who is deemed ugly, silent, and techless truly be good ?

To understand why she sits in such absolute stillness, I must pull you backward into the dark. Her world began to shatter when she was only eight years old, a childhood instantly cut short by the sudden, cold deaths of closest to her. That was the exact year she unknowingly became an elder sister, and the invisible, crushing weight of responsibility was laid upon on her small back.

A women named usha can easily answer your all the questions.Usha's story belongs to the dust of Daulatpur village, born into a chaotic, suffocating family of nine. Her mother, Angoori Devi, was a gentle, innocent woman broken by the world. Her father, Devkinand, was an honest, straightforward man whose goodness could not shield them from poverty.Usha grew up sandwiched between four boisterous older brothers-Omprakash, Brijgopal, Radharaman, and Purushottam-and two older sisters, Shakuntala and Bati.bati was died within four years of her birth. In that packed, noisy mud house ,too much delievery pain makes usha's mother physically fragile, her spirit slowly ground down by the mental torture inflicted by her own mother-in-law. When poverty forced Usha's eldest sister to be married off early to a local driver, the household collapsed inward. Suddenly, all the hidden family miseries and brutal domestic duties fell squarely onto Usha. She was forced to drop out of school in the fifth standard. In a single afternoon, her childhood was traded for a broom and a kitchen fire. But why we are talking about usha is she the twenty three year old girl or someone else ??

From that day on, Usha moved through the world like a mute machine. She did not complain. She simply worked. She managed the cooking, cleaned the floors, and tended to two heavy, demanding buffaloes. During the peak of the farming seasons, her body became an instrument of labor, working the fields under the blistering, skin-searing heat of summer afternoons and the bone-chilling, frozen nights of northern winters. There was no water source in the village. Every single day, Usha had to trek miles to a distant well. I watched her walk that dusty path, balancing two heavy, wet clay pots perfectly on her head, while pinning a third tightly under her arm until the rough earthenware bruised the tender skin beneath her shoulder.she woke up long before dawn, creeping out into the pitch-black fields to relieve herself alongside her little sisters, Oma and Saroj. They walked in tight, terrified formations, their hearts racing because of the village warning that still echoes through those rural lanes today: alone girls invite danger.

Once back, Usha would immediately run to the distant well, desperate to beat the agonizingly long queue of women. Oma walked beside her strictly for safety and togetherness, her small hands unable to lighten the physical weight of the heavy water pots. Usha's days had no pause, no breath of air. She mixed feed for the cattle, cleared cow dung, and helped her father and her brother Radharaman milk the buffaloes. She cooked a rushed lunch for Oma and Saroj so they could continue their education up to the twelfth class-a luxury Usha had been denied.She fried breakfast for Omprakash, who spent his days roaming the village alleys aimlessly. She packed food for Purushottam, the first boy in the family to taste college life. She prepared the baskets for Brijgopal, who bought vegetables from the market to sell door-to-door. Only after carrying a heavy lunch container out to Radharaman in the burning sun would she finally sit in the dirt, eat her own cold food, and work the soil alongside him until the sun set and it was time to cook dinner all over again.

She sacrificed her education, her sleep, and every shred of her childhood. But for what? You might ask if it can truly be called a sacrifice when it is done for family. But a sacrifice is a choice. For Usha's family, her bleeding hands were merely her "duty." She was a girl; this was her purpose. They believed it was their birthright to use her up until there was nothing left. At seventeen, Usha was given away in marriage to a family of Zamindars, tied to a man named Mukesh. He was a man who loved the freedom of driving but was deeply resented by his traditional Zamindar father. Within two brief years of the wedding, Usha's father passed away, stripping her of her only protector. Isolated in a strange house, she became the target of relentless mental torture by her sister-in-law. And then, there was Mukesh. A man widely praised by the village as an ideal, honorable gentleman. Yet, across the years of their fractured marriage, he raised his hand and struck Usha exactly three times.it wasn't the sound of the slaps that broke the house. It was the terrifying, absolute silence that followed the strike. Usha never screamed. She never cried out. She simply stood up, wiped her face, and went straight back to the kitchen stove to serve her family in total numbness.

Then came the year 2003.Usha gave birth to a daughter . Usha was an unloved woman whose own life had been completely starved of sweetness, care, or a gentle touch. Today marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of that hollow marriage. Has Usha proven to be a good mother? I watch her from the shadows, and my soul goes cold. How can a woman who was never given a single ounce of love know how to pass her dreams down to her daughter? Which brings us back to this room. Back to the twenty-three-year-old girl sitting motionless in the dark, her fingers tracing the edge of her phone, completely disconnected from the world outside.

Why did I tell you all of this? Because a daughter is a Xerox of her mother yes usha is mother of our girl -a perfect, more devastating tragic copy printed in the ink of old trauma.But tell me... is it really needed to tell u about her mother ??did u already find out who was usha ??