A Dalit Mother’s Accounts
I’ve met many mothers in my travels around Nepal. I’ve heard the tales of their lives and struggles. I feel that not all these stories are the same. I’ve written this story as a monologue, based on what a few mothers have shared with me:
“A buffalo can never be washed into a cow, a Dalit can never be purified into a Brahmin.” On my middle finger is a thimble but the unpalatable words of Bistini Bajai from the Big House do not stop pricking. The flame on the iron lamp is stuttering, like my life. The kerosene is about to run out. In the hearth, smoke sputters from the evening’s damp firewood. My eyes burn. They cannot find their way at night. I’m staring at the tip of the needle and sewing a blouse. My eyes burn, itch. After a day of working the machine, my back is aching terribly. For some reason, my hands are cramped. My shoulder blades are about to drop off. Early next morning, I will have to give Bistini Bajai her blouse. It has to fit perfectly.
I’ve met many mothers in my travels around Nepal. I’ve heard the tales of their lives and struggles. I feel that not all these stories are the same. I’ve written this story as a monologue, based on what a few mothers have shared with me:
“A buffalo can never be washed into a cow, a Dalit can never be purified into a Brahmin.” On my middle finger is a thimble but the unpalatable words of Bistini Bajai from the Big House do not stop pricking. The flame on the iron lamp is stuttering, like my life. The kerosene is about to run out. In the hearth, smoke sputters from the evening’s damp firewood. My eyes burn. They cannot find their way at night. I’m staring at the tip of the needle and sewing a blouse. My eyes burn, itch. After a day of working the machine, my back is aching terribly. For some reason, my hands are cramped. My shoulder blades are about to drop off. Early next morning, I will have to give Bistini Bajai her blouse. It has to fit perfectly.
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