The sun blazed mercilessly over the small village of Kaligarh, its parched fields stretching endlessly under a pale, cloudless sky. The villagers moved about sluggishly, avoiding the heat. In a quiet corner of the village, surrounded by neem trees and overlooked by an ancient temple, stood the house of Meena and Rajesh.
Inside the house, the air was heavy with silence. Meena, a petite woman with sharp, kohl-lined eyes, sat on the edge of her wooden cot, her hands trembling slightly as they rested on her swollen belly. She was in her eighth month of pregnancy, her third in as many years. The midwife, old Lakshmi, sat nearby, muttering blessings under her breath as she sorted herbs into small piles.
“You must eat well, child,” Lakshmi said, her voice carrying a practiced gentleness. “A strong baby needs a strong mother.”
Meena nodded but said nothing. Her mind swirled with conflicting emotions—hope, dread, and a numbing resignation. Her first two pregnancies had ended in tragedy, though not in the way nature intended. Both times, Rajesh had insisted on visiting the clinic in the nearby town of Bansipur for an “ultrasound check.” Both times, the doctor’s announcement—“It’s a girl”—had sealed the fate of the unborn.
Later that evening, as the village prepared for nightfall, Meena’s husband, Rajesh, returned home. He was a burly man with a booming voice and a face that bore the hard lines of labor and tradition. The moment he entered, the atmosphere in the room seemed to shift.
“Did Lakshmi come by?” he asked, his tone brusque.
“Yes,” Meena replied softly.
“And? Everything’s fine?”
“Yes,” she lied. Lakshmi had advised against another “test,” warning that Meena’s frail body might not endure a fourth attempt at motherhood. But Rajesh’s word was law in their household, and his obsession with a male heir was unshakable.
“We’ll go to Bansipur tomorrow,” Rajesh declared. “I’ve already made the arrangements.”
Meena’s heart sank. “But the doctor said it’s dangerous to travel now,” she ventured hesitantly.
Rajesh shot her a sharp look. “Enough of your excuses, Meena. This time, we’ll get it right.”
The next morning, the journey to Bansipur began. Meena sat in the back of the rickety bullock cart, clutching her stomach protectively as the uneven road jolted her body. The town, with its noisy streets and bustling markets, felt like a world apart from the quiet simplicity of Kaligarh.
The clinic was a dingy, dimly lit place, its walls adorned with faded posters extolling the virtues of family planning. The doctor, a graying man with tired eyes, barely glanced at Meena as he prepared the equipment.
Rajesh hovered impatiently, his arms crossed. “Well? Let’s get on with it.”
The ultrasound machine beeped and whirred as the doctor studied the screen. After a long pause, he turned to Rajesh, his expression unreadable.
“It’s a girl,” he said finally.
The words hit Meena like a thunderclap. She felt her breath catch, her vision blur. Rajesh’s face darkened, his jaw tightening.
“We’ll take care of it,” he said coldly.
That night, as they made their way back to Kaligarh, Meena lay awake, staring at the stars through the open cart’s canopy. Her thoughts raced. The life growing inside her, so small and fragile, had no voice. But Meena did. She had remained silent for too long, shackled by fear and obedience.
Something broke inside her that night—a resolve she hadn’t known she possessed.
The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight bathed the village in gold, Meena approached the temple. She carried with her a small bundle—a carefully packed bag of clothes, some money she had secretly saved, and a letter. Inside the temple, she placed the letter on the altar, beneath the watchful gaze of the deity.
“Forgive me,” she whispered. “But I cannot stay.”
The letter was addressed to Rajesh. It was brief but firm:
“I will not let you harm our child. I am leaving, and I will not return. Do not look for us. May you one day understand the value of a life.”
By the time the villagers stirred, Meena was gone. She had boarded a bus bound for a women’s shelter in the city, a place she had heard of from Lakshmi. It was a place that promised safety, dignity, and hope—a place where her child could be born without fear.
Months later, in a modest room at the shelter, Meena cradled her newborn daughter in her arms. The baby’s tiny fingers curled around her mother’s, her cries filling the room with a sound Meena had longed to hear.
For the first time in years, Meena smiled—a smile unburdened by fear or sorrow. Her journey was far from over, but she had taken the first step. She had given her daughter the chance to live.
And in doing so, she had reclaimed her own life as well.
