Author’s pov-

In this century, in this so-called modern life where cities shine with progress and people boast about equality, there still exist villages buried in the shadows of time. One such place is a small, forgotten village named Devipur. The name itself means “the land of the goddess,” yet there is nothing divine about it—especially for girls. Behind its mud walls and narrow lanes lies a cruel truth: in the year, when the world claims to have reached the stars, Devipur still treats daughters as nothing but burdens. Whispers of sorrow echo in every household; the birth of a girl is not celebrated with joy but mourned like a curse. It is as if time has stopped here, refusing to move forward, trapping the people—and especially the women—in chains they cannot break.

Inside a small, dimly lit house, the silence was heavy, broken only by the crackling of a dying lantern flame. A little girl, no older than five or six, clung to the frail saree of an old woman, half-hiding behind her as though the folds could shield her from the storm brewing in her father’s eyes.

“But… Papa—” her tiny, trembling voice dared to rise, filled with innocence yet laced with fear.

Before the words could escape her lips completely, her father’s sharp glare cut through the room like a knife. His voice thundered, firm and merciless—

“Chup hojaa, Saanjh!”

(Shut up,Saanjh)

The little girl froze, her wide eyes glistening with unshed tears, as if even her breath had been stolen away by his command. The old lady’s wrinkled hand tried to tighten protectively around her, but even she did not have the courage to speak. A heavy silence followed, thick with unspoken pain and secrets no child was meant to understand.

The old woman, her voice trembling yet steady with maternal authority, finally spoke up.“Pratap… aaram se. Beti hai tumhari yeh,” she reminded him softly, her wrinkled hand still resting protectively on the child’s shoulder.(Pratap…Gently…she is your daughter)

For a moment, silence hung in the air, but then his eyes darkened, sharp as blades as he glared at her. A scoff escaped his lips, bitter and venomous.

“Huh… beti?” he sneered, his voice dripping with scorn.

(Huh…Daughter?)

Turning his face toward the old woman, he hissed, “Maa, apna muh kholiyega mat… warna iske saamne bahut kuch keh dunga… jo yeh she bhi nahi paayegi.”

(Mother don’t open your mouth or I will say so much infront of her…which she won’t tolerate)

His finger pointed accusingly toward the little girl hiding in the folds of the old lady’s saree, his words like daggers meant to cut deeper than any slap.

The child’s eyes widened, confused, frightened, as though her tender heart could already sense there were truths in this house far too heavy for her small shoulders to carry.

Tears streamed down the little girl’s cheeks as her tiny chest shook with soft sobs and uneven sniffles. The weight of her father’s words was too heavy for her fragile heart. Suddenly, from the kitchen, a gentle voice floated into the room—warm, soothing, almost like a balm to her wounded spirit.

“Saanjh beta… idhar aa jaa.”

(Saanjh child…Come here)

It was her mother.

Without wasting a second, Saanjh broke free from her hiding place and rushed inside. The smoky air of the mud stove clung to the small kitchen, where her mother sat on the ground, rolling dough with one hand and carefully tending the fire with the other. The scent of half-cooked rotis mingled with the sharpness of burning wood, but for Saanjh, this was the safest corner of the world.

The moment her eyes fell on her mother, she collapsed into her arms, clinging tightly as if her life depended on it. Her sobs grew louder, her tiny fists grasping at her mother’s saree. The woman dropped everything, her hands trembling as she wrapped her daughter in a desperate embrace, pressing the little head against her chest.“Bas, meri gudia… chup ho jaa,” (Enough ,my Doll…stop now)she whispered, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. Yet behind that soothing tone was a pain she could not voice, a helplessness she had long buried deep inside.

Saanjh’s mother and grandmother had become her only shields in that suffocating house. Whenever her father’s anger flared and his harsh words lashed out like a whip, the little girl would instinctively run to the only two people who dared to stand between her and his wrath. Sometimes she would bury herself behind her grandmother’s fragile frame, clutching at the folds of her saree as though those trembling hands could hold back the storm. Other times, her mother would rush forward, snatching her into her arms and absorbing the sharpness of his scolding in silence, her voice quivering yet firm enough to shield her daughter.

It had almost become a routine—every shout, every glare, every cruel word, answered only by the same desperate act of protection. Yet beneath it all lingered a truth no one spoke of: they were not just protecting Saanjh from a father’s temper… they were protecting her from something far darker, something that threatened her very existence in that house.

Saanjh buried her tiny face into her mother’s neck, her sobs shaking her fragile body. Her little arms clung tighter, as though she feared her mother might slip away too. Between the hiccups and shuddering breaths, her trembling voice broke the silence.

“Maa(Mother)… papa (Father)always shouts at me… why?” she asked, her words muffled against her mother’s skin. “Doesn’t he love me? Did I do something wrong… that he is always angry with me?”

Her mother froze, her entire body stiffening as though the child’s innocent questions had pierced straight through her chest. Her heart clenched painfully, the ache almost unbearable. She closed her eyes for a moment, swallowing the lump in her throat, because what answer could she possibly give? How could she tell her little girl that the cruelty she endured was not her fault… but the curse of being born a daughter in a house and a village where daughters were considered sins?

The mother’s hands trembled as she stroked Saanjh’s hair, forcing her voice to stay steady even as her eyes burned with unshed tears. “Nahi, meri gudia… tu toh mere jahan ki sabse pyaari cheez hai. Tu ne kuch galat nahi kiya. Tera kasoor sirf itna hai…”(No My Doll…You’re the beautifulest thing in my world.You don’t do anything wrong.Yiur fault is that……)she stopped herself, biting back the truth that threatened to spill. Instead, she kissed her daughter’s temple, whispering, “Papa samajh jayenge ek din… bas chup ho jaa.”(Father will understand one day…Enough stop now)

But in her heart, she knew—perhaps that day would never come.

This was not just Saanjh’s story—it was the story of every household in Devipur. Here, no family truly welcomed the birth of a daughter. From the moment a baby girl let out her first cry, she was marked as a burden, an unwanted weight upon her parents’ shoulders. Fathers hardened their hearts, mothers swallowed their pain, and grandmothers clung to fading hope that times might change.

Beyond the dusty lanes of Devipur, the world had already reached the moon, touched the stars, and was moving toward a future of endless possibilities. But inside this village, time stood still. Here, daughters were not dreams, but curses. While the rest of the world celebrated progress, Devipur clung stubbornly to its shadows, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to take even a single step forward for the sake of its girls.

One scorching afternoon, little Saanjh was playing in the courtyard, her laughter echoing softly as she drew lines in the dust with a broken stick. Her innocence shone brighter than the harsh sun above, but her joy was short-lived.

Pratap returned home earlier than usual, his heavy footsteps thudding against the ground. The moment his eyes fell upon Saanjh, carefree and playing outside, his expression hardened. A storm brewed in his chest, his anger flaring for reasons the child could never understand.

Without a word, he strode toward her, his rough hand seizing her delicate arm. “Kitni baar kaha hai tujhe… bahar mat khela kar!” he snarled, dragging her across the courtyard. The little girl whimpered, her tiny feet stumbling to keep up, but his grip only tightened.

(How many times I told…don’t play outside)

He shoved her into the dark, suffocating storage room—an abandoned place reeking of dust, old sacks, and forgotten tools. Before she could plead, the heavy door slammed shut, the bolt sliding into place with a finality that sent chills through her.

Inside, the darkness swallowed her whole. Saanjh pressed her back against the wall, hugging her knees, her small body trembling. She sniffled, calling out faintly for her mother, for her grandmother—but no one came. Her sobs echoed against the empty walls, unheard and unanswered.

Hours passed. The sun dipped, shadows lengthened, and still no one knew where the little girl had vanished. Her mother, busy with chores, thought Saanjh was still playing in the courtyard. Her grandmother, resting in her room, assumed the same. Night had fallen by the time her grandmother realized something was terribly wrong.

Only then did the dreadful truth begin to creep in—Saanjh had not been playing all this while. She had been locked away, alone, in the darkness her father had chosen for her.

At last, after hours of searching, her grandmother’s trembling hands found the heavy latch of the storage room. With desperate force, she pushed it open, and the door creaked on its rusty hinges.

There, in the suffocating darkness, lay little Saanjh—her tiny body curled on the cold floor, her breaths shallow, her eyes half-closed. She was barely conscious, her lips quivering, her skin pale as if the shadows themselves had drained her strength.

“Saanjh…!” the old woman’s voice cracked, panic flooding her chest. She dropped to her knees, gathering the child into her arms. The girl’s frail body felt weightless, frighteningly fragile, as if she might shatter with the slightest touch.

Tears streamed down the grandmother’s wrinkled cheeks as she rocked her granddaughter gently, whispering prayers under her breath. “Meri bachchi… uth jaa, aankhen khol… Amma yahan hai.”

(My child…wake up,Open your eyes…Amma (Grandmother) is here)

But Saanjh did not answer. She only whimpered weakly, clinging faintly to her grandmother’s saree, as though begging for protection that should never have been denied to her.

And in that moment, the old woman’s heart ached with a truth she already knew—if she and the child’s mother did not keep shielding her, this little girl’s life would be crushed under the merciless hands of her own father, just like the countless daughters of Devipur before her.

The old woman staggered out of the storage room, cradling Saanjh’s limp body against her chest. Her breath came in sharp gasps, half from age and half from the fear of what she had just witnessed. The child’s head rested weakly on her shoulder, her small hands dangling lifelessly.

Without wasting a second, she rushed into the kitchen where her daughter-in-law was still kneeling by the mud stove, unaware of the storm that had passed through her house.

“Shanta!” the grandmother cried, her voice trembling.

Saanjh’s mother looked up, startled, the rolling pin slipping from her hand. The sight before her stole the breath from her lungs—her daughter, pale and barely conscious, clutched tightly in her mother-in-law’s arms.

“Maa… yeh—yeh kya hua meri beti ko?” she whispered in shock, her hands trembling as she reached for her child.

(Mother in law…what happened to my daughter?)

The old woman’s eyes burned with fury and sorrow. “Tera pati… us Pratap ne kiya yeh sab,” she spat, her voice breaking. “Usne is masoom ko andhere mein, us band kamre mein tala lagake chhod diya. Do ghante se zyada… do ghante!”(Your Husband…That Pratap did this all)(He Lock this innocent in that Dark room and leave…Its been abovetwo hours,Above from two hours…two hours)

Shanta’s face drained of all color. Her knees wobbled beneath her as she took Saanjh into her arms, clutching her daughter close. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, mixing with the soot on her face. She pressed frantic kisses onto Saanjh’s forehead, whispering, “Meri bachchi… meri jaan…”

(My Girl…my life)

The grandmother’s chest heaved as she continued, her voice lowering but heavy with warning. “Samajh ja, Shanta… yeh sirf daant ya gussa nahi hai. Yeh nafrat hai… aur nafrat ki aag ek din is bacchi ko kha jaayegi agar humne isse bachaya nahi toh.”

(Understand it,Shanta…This is not Only scold or Anger,this is hatred…and one day the fire of hatred will swallow this girl alive if we don’t save her).The kitchen fell silent except for Saanjh’s faint whimpers, her tiny hands clutching at her mother’s saree, too weak to speak but strong enough to beg for the love she deserved.

Shanta’s voice broke as she held Saanjh tighter against her chest, rocking her as though she could shield her from the cruelty of the world. Her tears fell into her daughter’s tangled hair, her entire body trembling.

“So… so what should we do, Amma?” she whispered hoarsely, her words choking in her throat. “Tell me, what should we do to save my daughter? Because you know your son better than anyone else… and you know as well as I do—he won’t ever stop hating her.”

The old woman lowered herself slowly onto the floor, her wrinkled hands trembling as she wiped the sweat from her brow. Her eyes, weary from years of pain and silence, glistened as she looked at her granddaughter, who whimpered faintly in her mother’s arms.

A heavy silence stretched between the two women, filled only by the crackle of the dying firewood in the stove. Then, with a voice that carried both resolve and despair, the grandmother spoke, “We must hide her from his hatred… as long as we can. Shield her, protect her… keep her in the shadows if we must. Because if Pratap’s anger wins, Shanta…” she paused, her throat tightening, “then this child will not survive in this house.”

Her words hung in the air like a curse, sealing a fate that neither of them could undo.

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-By Rainbow(S.Akhtar)