Domestic violence is an exaggeration

When I mentioned the recent article on Dawn.com ‘These women stayed in abusive marriages because Pakistan failed them’ and quoted HRCP for saying 90% women face some form of domestic violence, I was told it doesn't happen this much because:

1. nobody in this room beats their wife: This makes sense to all those who feel they are being held responsible for something they did not do. Violence against women should not be mentioned to keep the fragile egos of such people intact.
2. they've never seen it happen: Of course if you have never seen a woman getting a public beating, it means it cannot even happen in the privacy of her room. It simply means crazy feminists are making up things because they are PMSing.
3. I have never seen it happen and I cannot believe what I have not seen: I should only believe what I see. I can only talk about domestic violence if I see 10 women being beaten on the road daily. 
4. I am not a domestic violence victim myself: If I have not experienced it, other women have not experienced it either. I have to be a domestic violence victim myself or at least my mother has to be one for me to actually believe there is such a thing as widespread domestic violence.
5. women abuse women more than men: Men cannot be as aggressive as women, so of course it is the women who are beating the shit out of other women and the innocent men are getting blamed just because feminists are misandrists.
6. yelling is not abuse because the woman yells back too: If a woman can yell back she is not a victim and should not be considered abused. The only victims are those who can take it quietly.
7. even men cannot lodge an FIR in this country so it’s not a gender issue: It is not just the women who cannot access justice, men cannot access justice either and so it means women are not facing domestic violence.
8. 90% men in this country cannot be abusive: It is impossible to comprehend that such a large male population can be aggressive. If my friends don't beat their wives, domestic violence is a myth.
9. it’s not an urban issue: It may happen a bit in the rural areas, but urban women like my wife and my sisters are very empowered and do not face this issue.
10. it’s not an Urdu speaking issue: Punjabis and Siraikis have a culture to beat their womenfolk, whereas Pathans sell their daughters and can kill them whenever they feel their women have dishonoured them. 
11. there are 20 women in their acquaintance and only one has ever told of abuse: If a majority of women are not talking about being abused, it is not happening. Stop being a feminazi. 
12. it is an exaggeration by HRCP: HRCP is anti-Pakistan and so it highlights all the negative things about this country. 
13. HRCP is headed by Asma Jahangir who is an abusive woman: If Asma Jahangir can use abusive language, other women can too and it means they are all lying about domestic violence happening at such a massive scale.
14. children are abused more: Talk about other issues.
15. men are also abused: Make a hashtag #ViolenceAgainstHumans.
16. our wives abuse us: Women abuse as well, so it makes things equal.
17. shouting or yelling is normal discussion not abuse: This is how we talk now because women no longer have patience the way they are supposed to have. 
18. women are empowered in cities: Rural women are insignificant and can be ignored, it is the urban women who matter.
19. women are not as powerless as feminists want us to believe: Everything the feminists tell us is a lie, women are not considered The Second Sex.
20. women beat back men too: Some women beat back men and so women are not victims.
21. they heard a neighbour crying when his two wives were beating him: Algebra is wonderful. If the same number of men are being abused by women, it means nobody is a victim.
22. Dawn.com is not credible: Talking about domestic violence means one likes lies and sensationalism. 
23. women have a habit to exaggerate: Women are inferior mentally and physically and like to seek attention which is why domestic violence has been created by feminists to remain relevant.

Violence against women is a reality that is often shrugged off even in well-educated circles. Mostly people want one to cite statistics and numbers to prove that it happens as much as ‘feminists’ say it happens. And when the numbers are quoted, most people dismiss them by saying they are fuzzed or unrealistic. If that doesn’t shut the feminists up, there are always a million other topics that are more worthy of attention and discussion compared to the silly, stupid, abusive women who have nothing better to do but complain.

Aasia died despite a burka

She had always lived her life cautiously. The caution began when as a child, her parents did not have enough money to buy her a good brand of watercolours. She persevered with the cheaper one. The colours were still pretty and bright, what if the quality was not the same. And anyway they say it’s not about the tools, but the skills.

Life went on and SLRs turned to DSLRs and those too were out of her range. She lived on. Wanting more out of a picture than what the other person desired. And the picture kept on getting blurred for lack of money. Pictures were blurred, life was dull in cheap paint, and without going to an expensive school, earning good money was out of question.

"Isn't life unfair," she asked Laila, her elder sister. Her friend recently bought a high end professional camera and she had to make do with a point and shoot.
Laila only smiled. Being the older one, she was more accustomed to accepting defeat when it came to affordability of things and life. Pads were expensive and old cloth, even if it caused infection was far cheaper, she thought.

"Why don't you sell some of your work and buy a better camera Naina?" she asked her little sister. Naina was 20 now, not little by any standards. She had bloomed into a beautiful woman, and so many who came from the marriage market to judge Laila as a potential mate for their sons, preferred Naina.

"Baji, but it is still not fair that Nilofer can buy whatever she wants and whenever she likes. Abba could have worked harder," Naina said licking off the final speck of chocolate from the wrapper. "I know Nilo's father is in the same office as Abba, but they have a bigger house and so many people who help her mother in the house. She doesn't have to do the cooking and cleaning like Amma does. And Nilo never has to help with anything in the house, it is always the maids, chef, and drivers."

Laila smiled her patient smile. She knew the works of Nilofer's father. If he had a chance, he may even sell his daughter to the highest bidder and throw in his wife as a bonus. Did he not pimp his wife out to the boss to get an extension before his retirement?

In this little world of theirs, life was such. The black hearted lived a better life. It was fate, maybe karma, or perhaps just god.

"Abba is too old to work now Naina, maybe when you find a very good job, you can buy all the things you have ever wanted," she told the younger one.

Jobs in the market were hard to find. As a good looking woman, she often received offers of a different kind when her resume reached the desk of a Seth looking for some receptionist or secretary. May they rot in hell, she thought to herself before turning back to her book.

Naina has to be ignored a bit. She will learn, as I did, she thought to herself as she moved on to the next chapter. But Naina had other thoughts. She snuggled up to Laila and whispered if she knows the boy who lived in house number 38.

"His eyes follow me and it is very scary," she whispered to Laila, who almost jumped out of her skin.

"You did not talk to him, did you? Did he ask for your phone number? Don't accept his request on Facebook if he sends one. And don't ever send a picture to him on WhatsApp," the agitated sister said.

These men are lechers; he couldn't have a chance with me so now he is trying for my little sister. She thought of teaching such men a lesson.

In her mind she had punished the man several times. From complaining to his mother to chopping his genitals off. None of this will work though. She thought miserably. Naina needs to be protected, and she will have to do that. Their mother was too inspired by the resident alima of their neighbourhood to do much. At the most she will stop Naina from going to the university and make her do all the housework as punishment for giving the opportunity to men.

Laila did try complaining to her mother about the man from house number 38, and it did not work out well. She recalled the conversation.

"Amma, aunty Farhat's son stares at me a lot." And that was the end of her.

"Junaid is such a nice boy. He can never do that. Maybe if you wore a burqa, such things won't happen with you. Farhat's daughter never has a problem even though she goes in public buses to the university. Only girls who do not wear a burka face this problem. Had Zarina maasi (maid) ever complained of harassment?" the pious mother asked. Zarina was the only maid they had ever been able to afford. A beautiful woman of 40 years with pale eyes and dark-black curls. She used to wear a black burka and came from the nearby katchi abadi.

Laila could not help but think of the often black and blue Zarina. Once she came with a purple eye shedding tears of blood. The maid always said it was her fate. “It is the destiny of the woman to be a subordinate. That is how god ordained it. If this did not happen, we will all go to hell; have you not heard the prophet (pbuh) saw mostly women in hell? For, it is in our nature to be sinful,” Zarina maasi declared, perhaps even happily that her beatings were a way to avoid hell.

What was her story, Laila wondered, forgetting all about her own stories of poverty and abuse. She remembered Zulekha, Zarina’s daughter, who often came with the mother and played with her. She stayed until it was time for the duo to go home.

Zulekha and Laila were the same age. Laila went to school, whereas Zulekha went to a madrasa. She was not even allowed to visit them once she was nine years old, and it all ended abruptly.

“Are you mad? Why will I add him on Facebook or send a picture on WhatsApp? He did ask for my phone number but I ran away,” Naina looked at her elder sister. She was much smarter than Laila, who was an introvert and hardly shared much. Naina knew Laila was harassed by aunty Farhat’s son, even though she never shared with her.

“I know he is not a nice man Laila, he bothers every other girl in the neighbourhood. Remember Aasia? She committed suicide because of him. Junaid told her he will marry her, but he never did. He was only playing with her. Aunty Farhat only wanted a burka clad daughter-in-law and Aasia did start wearing a burka to please her,” Naina disclosed to her ever quiet older sister, whose eyes began shimmering at the tragedy.

“Do you really think Naina that a burka will help us be safe from these eyes?” Laila asked thoughtfully.

“No, not ever, or Aasia would be still alive,” Naina said.

“But was she not already tainted?” Laila inquired.

“No Laila aapi, nobody gets tainted without someone tainting them, burka or no burka,” Naina said forcefully before storming out of the room in anger.

Naina had seen Zarina maasi the other day in the market. A shopkeeper was gesturing with his crotch at the burka-clad-old Zarina when she passed by his shop.

“How does wearing a burka change any of that,” she had thought.


Zulekha's story: http://andaleeb-rizvi.blogspot.com/2012/09/zulekha-wore-burka.html

Cycle of Domestic Violence never stops!

This week was not depressive when it started, but one after another SOS call from women or their relatives about domestic abuse, physical violence and battery are getting to me now. The first one was from interior Sindh. Although the lady is safe now, she faced not only perpetual threat of rape from her father-in-law, but constant abuse and pressure from her in-laws to give in to their illegal demands.

She was emotionally, physically and financially used by not only her husband but in-laws as well. Moreover, despite having relatives in the Sindh Police Department, the woman was not helped because the policemen in her family fear their own daughters will be targeted and threatened. This is not the first such case, countless cases of abuse and violence are scattered across the globe, where women are at times left to fend for themselves. Which brings me to the next message I received from someone who I used to consider a friend until this particular incident.

A lady in Jeddah was not only being abused, but also being held hostage in the bathroom by her husband.

The person who sent me the message asked if I could give any resources that the lady can use to find help. Since it was an SOS call, I asked my friend Ayesha Sultana, who gave the following information:

The number was forwarded to the guy, who was the only person the victim called for help.

The guy reported that the victim is too paralyzed with fear to even call police. Therefore it was suggested that he can give the victim's number so people from the helpline can contact her themselves and do the necessary. However, the guy refused to do so, stating it is a family matter, and needs to be handled differently. 

Another reason he gave for not giving the victim's number, who was too traumatized to call police or the domestic abuse helpline herself was that the husband is the sole breadwinner of old parents.

Earlier, I had not thought of blogging this exchange. But I think I was wrong. People who protect or help abusers in anyway need to be exposed and publicly held accountable for not doing what is right. We do not know how the lady in Jeddah is, if she received any help or is still being held hostage by her abusive husband. As for the last exchange I had with Ali Zaidi, it went as follows:

It seems violence against women will not stop any time soon. Today, I received another message from a distraught brother, whose sister is being abused physically and verbally in Bahrain. The husbands in all three cases are highly qualified individuals, who are pursuing successful careers in engineering and finance.

Sammich joke suckerpunch!

Here we go again. As if it wasn’t enough to deal with rape threats and rape apologia, the women who dared to question the divine rights of moozlim menz, now have to deal with their ad hominem and strawman arguments. Sprinkled with stupid sammich jokes, these mentally depraved men are hollering out to their partners in crime.

By the way, occasionally, their fake accounts with some stolen pictures of an adolescent girl might appear out of nowhere to lend support too. Trying to legitimize their claims by making it look like, ohhh… look whiminz are supporting us. Doesn’t work! Even if you bring in some doormat, that swoons at your lack of intelligence, and considers you a macho genius, it’s thin ice you are walking on.

Statistical data in Pakistan is highly unreliable. Women here often do not report rape due to the biased hudood laws, social stigma and family pressure. Luckily, US has a slightly better system when it comes to supporting women, therefore, more women ‘report’ rape, although the numbers might still not be accurate. Moreover, looking at the reactions to a mere blog, the way the literate men are shouting women down, calling names, recounting rape jokes, no wonder a lot of women are afraid to even mention getting raped.

Death threat? An interesting fact here is that none of the lousy, intellectually decapitated individuals attack other men. It clearly reveals their psychology, where they are incapable, or perhaps totally clueless as to having any intellectual debate with fellow specimens of their own sex. Their sole power lies in giving rape threats and in some cases death threats, as well as character assassination. Also, even if they argue with a man, they cannot argue with him on the same level. The man has to be ‘otherized’ to be dealt with. He cannot be argued with on the same level as menz. He has to be referred to as a woman in order to make him eligible for their intelligent diatribes.

More proof of the mental calibre and friction between the very few brain cells that have somehow survived. Enjoy the enlightening posts, very beautifully said and delivered I say.

There were also references to bestiality by the moozlem men, cause, hey, they didn’t learn how to have a civilized conversation with a woman who works for animal rescue. How educated of them, and decent... and er.. Moozlem. Why give trouble to your brain cells? Just give threats and mission accomplished.

Powerpuff Girls, not damsels in distress

This picture was taken before one of the older men asked me to stand right next to the crowd for clearer images

Imagine passing through a huge crowd of men without getting harassed. I squeezed past through hundreds of men today at the Ashura procession, which I attended after 10 years. Not a single problem. Nobody tried to grab my breasts, nobody touched my thigh, nobody pushed me intentionally, neither was I ogled at in a lecherous manner, I heard no cat calls accompanying those stares. I wish men can behave in this manner every day in Pakistan.

On a regular given day in the biggest metropolitan of Pakistan, I cannot go on the streets without being apprehensive of what I will face today, and before people start commenting about hijab, niqab etc. Been there, done that, makes no difference at all.

During my university days I used to wear a huge dopatta, making sure my whole body was just a wisp of cloth and nothing else. Still fingers were poked at me in G17, W30, Shiraz Coach, Khan Coach etc. Cat calls were made while I crossed the road. Men flashed their d**** at the girls standing on bus stops. And before the elitist jump up to say, those must be the uneducated, poor people, who have had no exposure, sorry to disappoint you. On the streets, a lot of these educated and uneducated are the same. Savages, for lack of a better word! There was hardly a day which passed without a single incidence of sexual harassment. Er, despite the huge dopatta. Result? I stopped denying myself the right to move about freely and comfortably because some men cannot control their hormones.

Being a shia I never used a niqab, except while traveling in the desert. However, the recent influence of the theocratic Iranian regime, some shia women have started covering their faces in Pakistan too. (I protest – this was one of the things I appreciated in Shiaism) A lady who received a gift of a niqab from Iran experimented with the idea and decided to come back from her teaching job at 3pm in the niqab. Not to be forgotten here is her black full-length abaya. While she was walking home from the bus stop, a man on a motorcycle stopped ahead of her, and invited her to sit behind him. She entered the shop nearby to avoid her assailant. Result? No more niqab, at least during day time.

At this stage, we might have to deal with the argument that it is still better in Pakistan, and on one complaint all the guys, who earlier were sitting chewing paan and enjoying a lady’s discomfort, stand up and become the caretakers of the woman’s honor. Hogwash! It doesn't happen as often as it might have happened during your mother’s days. How I know this? Because I still use public transport.

Although I have no problems if some women do ask men for help, in my opinion we need to be trained in self defence, and realize that ‘men’ cannot be relied on all the time to come to our aid. The whole damsel in distress idea is not only clichéd, but out of fashion now. You show vulnerability, there will be 10 more lechers to take care of.

PS Just to set the record straight, same sex harassment is also increasing in public transport. It is not very common among women yet, or I haven’t heard of more than 3 or 4 cases, but among the men it already should be a cause of concern.

Zulekha wore a Burka

"Burka" - The lie that shrouding oneself in layers of clothes will not make people stare at you and wonder and guess about your natural 'assets'. (oil on canvas) 

Walking briskly on the dusty road Zulekha passed the man who sold sweets to children on a pushcart every day. Moving fast she wanted to be away from the scorching eyes, even though she was covered head to toe in a black burka.

“Why are you in such a rush little woman? No time to speak to your poor Chacha?” asked Mohammad Ali. Zulekha was as old as his youngest daughter Mariam. He had two wives and 12 children. Mariam was born to him by his second wife who herself was only 23 years old at the time.

Ignoring the call she continued making her way towards home. This was now a daily routine. She would get out of the Madressa attached with the Green Mosque and hurry towards home. The Madressa, a place where they taught everyone how to read the holy Quran, was a fascinating place for all girls her age. For this was where all the guys went and learnt how to be men. Or at least this is what her envious friends thought, who could not be far from the truth.

Being the only girl allowed to go there by her family, and that too alone, was an amazing feat for her friends, who could not even step a foot outside their homes let alone go and study among boys their age. Chuckling, she thought, only I know the price I have to pay for this freedom.

It was a very hot day, the temperature reaching 45 degrees Celsius, and the black burka a constant cause of pain and misery. She had to be home faster or she would die. Extreme heat mixed with the unsettled dust in the unpaved street was suffocating. The Niqab covering her face got wet as she gasped for breath and she could feel beads of perspiration running down her spine and on her forehead. The symbol of virtue was clinging to her sultry body, turning heads.

It is embarrassing how they all preach about the safety and security provided by this piece of garment. They say the other girls who refuse to comply with the tradition have no shame and concern for their virtue, but little do they know about mine. As the mind was indulging in self loathing, she opened the wooden door of her house and entered the confines of her home. At least now I can get rid of the filth, she thought as she moved straight to her bedroom.

She noticed her mother’s keen eyes as they searched her for some signs of agitation. It was not new though, any girl who went out was looked at in this manner as soon as she returned. Signs of some newfound knowledge were frowned upon in this society.

“Zulekha, you are early today, did you get a beating by Molvi Sahab?” asked her mother Zarina from across the courtyard.

“No, it is just that I had a headache. I left early.” She lied. Yesterday she had said that Molvi Sahab’s son came to see him, so she left earlier than usual. I am wise beyond my years. I am 14 and I can lie just like my father. Thoughts rushed through her head again as she folded the despicable garment. It was a gift from her brother when she was hardly 13.

“Do not take a shower today, there is no water and electricity is out as well. We have to save as much as we can so your brother and father can take a shower when they are home,” said Zarina.

“But I just came back home and I have to wear this black thing which makes the weather three times more scorching than it already is,” she complained. I have to take a shower, I cannot continue with the filth inside and around my body any more. How can God be so unfair? A question she dare not ask anybody popped up in her head.

“I told you how things are done in this house, you have to accept it since you are a woman,” replied her mother, bringing her back to reality and the hateful thought of having to comply with everything, just because.

She sat in the corner, on the floor, hugging her knees to her small chest, thinking of the privileges her father and brother got, despite that they beat mother every other day. Life is unfair Zulekha, better get used to it, she remembered a tiny sobbing voice in her head. As the voice reverberated in her head, she started crying, her whole body was shaking and trembling, and when she could not take it anymore, she started wailing loudly.

“What is wrong my child? It is only a shower; you can take it as soon as we have electricity. But if I let you have it right now, and your father or brother come back the same time. Both of us will be in trouble. I don’t want them to hit you for every tiny thing. Stop crying my child. Oh I wish to god I was born to somebody else,” cried Zarina, hugging her daughter.

Power failures were a norm here, and the heat was suffocating everybody, she understood her daughter’s pain. Was she not the same age when they forced her to wear this black monstrosity? She remembered how she was taken out of school when she was only 9 years old and was sent to a Madressa for learning the Quran. She was stopped from going there too as soon as she started menstruating. She inhaled the hot air circulating in the courtyard and looked at Zulekha beseechingly, “This is just the beginning, and you have to face many hardships still. Life is never easy for a woman. It is the will of god, so when we bear children, we do not feel the pain too much. Just think if we had an easy life like men, how will we bear children?”

She had a weird logic, her mother. Zulekha hid her face between her mother’s breasts and felt a strange calm take over her. Her whole body was hurting today and she could feel some wetness between her legs. She started crying louder and louder, till her mother shook her and asked in an angry voice what was wrong. “Nothing,” she lied again.

Getting up and leaving the loving circle of her mother’s arms, Zulekha drifted towards the bathroom. She had to clean or she would go mad. This was not the time to worry about a beating; she had to take the risk. After the shower, I would pray to God for electricity, and to make everything fine. She thought innocently.

As she walked in the candle lit darkness of the bathroom, her adolescent body quivering with anticipation of what she may find. She peered down and saw a little blood oozing out of her little thing that she still did not know a name for. Tired and exhausted, she washed every inch of her body with soap and water, dried herself up and donned her clothes before stepping out.

Is all this my fault? Do I have something in my behavior which prompts the old Molvi to do the things he does? She asked herself again and again. But she had no answers, and she was too scared to ask anybody else. It was wrong her instincts told her. I should runaway from all this, there is no escape otherwise.

But running away was too much work, was it not? Where will I live? Also, if I leave this house the guys who just follow me with their eyes for now, will follow my footsteps. Shrugging all these worries aside for now, she went to ask her mother if she can bring Mariam over.

_______________________________

“Mashallah! Your daughter is very pretty and intelligent. She finished reading the Quran now. But I suggest you keep sending her so she can practice,” said Molvi Sahab to Zulekha’s father Gul Tabraiz. She looked at her father as if willing him to refuse the suggestion and to take her home as soon as possible. But Gul Tabraiz was a simple religious man. He had taken huge pains to get his daughter in to the Madarsa for learning the Quran, and any praise from the Molvi Sahab will make him stand tall among his peers.

“As you wish Molvi Sahab, as you wish,” he sealed his daughter’s fate with the simple sentence. Zulekha felt she is falling into an abyss of darkness from which she will never get out, while Molvi sahib with his kohl eyes smacked his lips in anticipation. The day for him could not have ended in a better way.

Dejected and disappointed she walked home with her father, who was chattering away in his happiness. “You made me so proud,” he said, “Now I can look in Mohammad Ali’s eyes and tell him my daughter is educated. May be it will make him send Mariam to learn the Quran too?” he speculated.

Panicked and frightened Zulekha did not know what to say. If Mariam goes to the Madarsa, she will find out my dirty secret, she thought. Things could not get worse than someone finding out.

Mariam was her best friend, but even she did not know the dirty secret between Molvi Sahab and Zulekha. Though little did she know what Mariam suffered at her own father’s hands. Life in this small neighbourhood of crisscrossed narrow lanes was not good, at least not for the girls. Their life started within the four walls of their fathers’ homes and ended in the walls of the biggest bidder at the marriage market. Anybody who tried to break away from this norm was dispensable. Like Palwashay, who fell in love with the ice-cream man and was taken to the ancestral village, never to be seen again.

For Zulekha it was a nightmare with the Molvi’s slimy hands on her body and the growing dread that someone would find out about it any day. It had been going on for a year now and she had started feeling sick every day she woke up. With these thoughts in mind she hurried out to the courtyard so she would throw up in the open sewer that ran along the west wall. Zarina who was in the kitchen came running to her aid. Putting her arm on her back she gave her daughter support, only as a mother can when a child is in need. She forgot everything else, even the scarce ‘chappati’ on the stove.

Her mind was a riot of thoughts one after another. Zulekha had never been sick, but since she started going to the Madarsa she had been eating less and less, but gaining more and more weight. “O’ my Allah! Keep my daughter safe,” she prayed.

Drained and exhausted, Zulekha walked to her bedroom on her mother’s arm. Her face held no feelings or colour. She could not look in Zarina’s eyes, but kept staring at the rafters in the ceiling where the bird had her tiny nest. How free the birds were, she thought, when Zarina jerked her back to reality by asking sharply if everything was all right. With a vacant expression Zulekha looked at her mother’s worried face and said, “Yes. What could possibly be wrong? I am just sick; I guess it is because of the ‘chaat’ I ate with Mariam.”

Not satisfied with the answer, Zarina started checking her daughter’s body with someone who had considerable experience as a midwife. Men in their society did not allow women to go to the hospital mostly, so the women learnt basic skills in helping each other in delivering babies.

As she continued her search she felt as if a noose was being tightened around her neck every passing second. From the back to the sides and then to the stomach, she went further down as a last hope that her daughter may be safe and she would not lose her, but God was not merciful. Not only was Zulekha not a virgin any more, she was pregnant for at least 5 months.

“Who?” asked Zarina.
“Molvi sahib,” Zulekha replied.
“When?”
“Every day.”
Shaking with rage and anger Zarina said, “Even in the Madarsa?”
“Even in the mosque,” she said.
“Oh my daughter, what will I do now, how will I save you from these men?” wailed Zarina, hugging her daughter to her chest with tears streaming down her weathered cheeks that were getting absorbed in her dirty ‘kameez’. Zulekha had no tears; she sat like a stone trying to comprehend the situation, when the smell of the burning ‘chapati’ shook the mother and daughter out of their thoughts. Leaving her, Zarina went to the kitchen to prepare food for the male members of her meagre household. Her mind raced to find a solution out of the current predicament but she could not think of anything to do. Neither did she have a family of her own whom she could ask for help. Even if she did, they would certainly not help her and instead kill Zulekha she realized. Nobody will point a finger at the Molvi, people would rather kill a girl than a religious man. Girls were dispensable at times like these. Especially if they were of no use to a man any more.

Note: This story has been inspired by a lot of real life incidents related by friends and acquaintances.