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  • She is a talkative woman, around 28 or 29, with three young children. Her husband is a drug addict who beats her every single day, without fail.

    Sometimes because the food isn’t ready on time, or the children are making too much noise; he has a reason for it every time. She bears it all, but not silently.

    She abuses him loudly. For every slap and kick he delivers, she delivers a venomous word laced with all the hatred, deprivation and pain that she feels.

    Her days are spent in cleaning the houses that she cannot even dream of living in; cleaning the dust from family photos of happy smiling faces; mopping the floors until they reflect her dirty, haggard face and listening to the ladies of the house cursing her for being too lazy.

    Her evenings are spent in making her own forlorn family presentable and making sure there is food.

    Her nights are spent fighting the demons in her husband’s soul.

    When sleep does come at last, it is the dreamless sleep of the dead...only...she is not dead.

    She wakes up to face another day.


    This is the story of the woman who works in my house. It is also the story of every poor woman in Pakistan, or for that matter, all over the world, perhaps.
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