Story of a million girls

 Time is the biggest healer but it's not in the case of Malini. As the passage of time the intensity of clutches were increasing incredibly. She had everything but was made dependent on someone else. If people don't let their son marry before  they are independent then why this is not a case with girls? Why girls are married before they could hardly complete thier studies?

Malini was an ambitious girl with aims of challenging the sky-high limits. She was a loving child of her parents. She always scored good marks in her exams and even topped in boards. She not only had ambition to be independent girl but also wanted to achieve her dreams. Whenever she saw a poor child, she always wanted to help him/her but one day she asked herself that if she'll give them a small amount of money will it really help them? The answer she got from her insight was no, not at all. That day she decided to be a part of bureaucracy and give every child a source of quality education and all citizens a healthy living. She wanted to become an IAS officer and so focussed on it all. She didn't belonged to a very rich family. She wanted to support her family and give a luxurious life to his parents. 

She had nauseating relatives, very orthodox in nature. They didn't liked her studying. As she turned 20, her parents fixed her marriage. She was never ready for it but was unable to do it. Many times the thought of suicide came into her mind but she was not hopeless. 

After getting married she did not liked the way her in-laws treated her, was feeling as if being caged and her mental health retarded gradually. She had to murder her dreams and ambitions and adapt herself to the environment she was in. 

Time never healed her, it evaporated the dreamy ambitious girl within her and reduced her to the limits of household. 

This is not only the story of Malini but several other girls who strangle their dreams everyday and be a woman of no worth just a status of 'HOUSEWIFE'.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

THE LAST LESSON

Mrs. Martha settled into her wagon once again, the same journey she had made every day for thirty years—same route, same rhythm, same steadfast purpose. The fire in her heart burned as fiercely as it had on her very first morning in the classroom, though time had etched its weight upon her. Her knees, once tireless, now ached with a dull persistence; some mornings demanded a visit to the doctor instead of the blackboard. And where she once stood for hours without thought, she now scanned the room for a chair after thirty minutes, her breath shallow but her resolve unbroken. The planet had not changed. The children had not changed. Only her body whispered reminders of the years passing—yet still, she went.   Mrs. Martha never bowed to mediocrity. The world had offered her easier paths—gleaming offices, salaries that would have draped her in comfort, the quiet dignity of a life unburdened by chalk-dust and rusted blackboards. She could have taken them all. She chose this instead...
Read more

BRUISES BENEATH THE ROOF

We inhabit a world that measures itself by the clamor of its streets, yet the soft, aching sighs within its homes dissolve into shadows. It is not always the blow of a crime that wounds most deeply, but the quiet varnish of normalization that lets it linger like a stain on the soul. This is the age of women-she is at once the steady flame of the hearth and the fearless wind that builds empires. She can be the hand that earns the bread and the heart that kneads it, the unbound spirit who charts her own sky, and the sheltering mother who folds her children beneath her wings. She is everywhere; she can become anything. She owns a home, steers a business, and holds a family together, yet is still kept in the quiet shadows of the very place that gave her life. Those who once championed her independence now seek permission from others before allowing her to follow it. She is expected to be beautiful, a drop of diligence dissolved in the liquid of grace-an alchemy of charm and labor. She pa...
Read more

Pain is Personal

The abyss of this eternally enough night, Where the world swallowed an impenetrable void. Neither the sign of sun nor the spark of moon’s light Just the air humming in whispered dread and sinister glow of corpse-light . What I scream in silence, May not be heard with deaf ears but Heard and echoes in empty Cathedrals Like a hymn of shattered glass, Sung in language of wounds  whispered in a tongue of fire and thorns.  Is this chisel-stroke, unwanted sculptor Carved with stains deeper than blood, Was all liturgy of my own venom Or it wears your voice and shadow.? By whose design it pierces my ribcage, Making my mind a borrowed ghost Learning to haunt in safest of places, What once was proudly mine, Now stands in shameful harvest.?
Read more