A Woman We Pass By Every Day

This portrait is rooted in a conversation that never left me. Five months ago, she held my hand and said softly, “Amma, don’t report it to the police,” her head nodding twice, as if rehearsed. I didn’t ask why. She smiled, cried, and spoke only of the daughter she still had to care for — the one still breathing. Today, that daughter is gone. She passed away quietly in her sleep, from hunger. The police came not with comfort, but with questions, accusations, and demands for money she could not afford — not even for her daughter’s funeral. She still lives in the same house made of rubble, plastic sheets, and broken wood. The woman I once knew with curiosity, strength, and a faint smile now carries silence in her eyes. This is not an isolated story. She is one of many women we pass by every day — seen, yet unheard.