Maq Masi Blog

They remembered Vaishali.

She climbed mango trees as a girl. She swam in rivers where the current ran strong. She laughed at boys who were afraid to jump. She was never afraid.

She married at sixteen. The house was big. The gold was heavy. Her husband had land but no words. Her in-laws had only scorn for her poor parents.

She learned people like others learned books — from insult, from hunger, from love. She spoke so you had to listen. She walked the lanes. She sat in courtyards. She made friends in every corner. Men wanted her but would not dare to say so. She could not love easily. But if she loved, she could not hide it.

She worked for women. Settled quarrels. Spoke for the voiceless. The police gave her space. She fought a panchayat election. Lost by a handful of votes. She did not stop.

One hot evening her son came home without milk. The shopkeeper had refused credit. Minutes later, her neighbour passed with milk from the same shop.

She tied her dupatta and went there.

“Why did you refuse my son?”

“I don’t sell on credit.”

“You gave it to her.”

“That’s different.”

She began pulling biscuits, chocolates, crisps from the shelves. They fell to the floor.

“If you can’t give credit in my galli, close your shop in my galli. Invoice me at the end of the month. If I don’t pay, then refuse me. But treat us the same.”

For three days the shop was shut. When it opened, credit was never refused again.

“Every street has a dog that’s a lion in its own ground. In this street, that’s me.”

The girl who had climbed the highest trees and swum the deepest waters was still there. She had only found new ways to dive into society — to live with honour, to give and earn respect, to speak so people listened, and to stand where others bowed.

---