In violence, poverty is the worst form. It is a cage prepared by society, perfectly designed, decorated and made as a castle. Illusion is born out of comfort and acceptance and thought slavishly agrees to it. It’s a never ending track, like the rails, running parallel with life.
She was the first born of eight children. The last one was a girl child too. Her parents worked for the government from 9 to 5. Sundays were holidays, and few bank holidays gave them a break from the monotonous life. As a child she used to walk miles to get to school in time. The routine of waking up, getting ready for school was occasionally hindered by the job of getting the other siblings ready too. Unfortunately the first child of a big family inevitably becomes the proxy parent at a very young age. It’s a terrible crime, but that’s how it was when the human reproduction was at its peak, for no reason at all.
The government monthly salary of her parents would evaporate halfway through the month and the rest of the days would be tight and dry. Debt is a habit, but for the family it became a necessity. As a teen, with the ego and self respect, she was hesitant to do the borrowing. But that was job thrust upon her and she had to do it for survival; for the family. It would start from the rice shop and continued endlessly through the dusty street. As a soldier, she knew the importance of discipline, duty and drill. The second born boy would take her job, once he becomes a teen.
Poverty strengthens one. It offers determination and grit. It teaches to be a master in survival. But ethics, morality, generosity, selflessness and humility are qualities that have nothing to do with it. It can neither be offered, taught nor manufactured.
Sirarul 