The lives of women are so strange; they adjust themselves in every situation. They endure everything, but the question is, why and for how long?

Maria Khushk | Hyderabad

Today, I realized how strange life is. It feels like there’s a storm before the rain, then the rain itself, and finally, a fleeting sense of peace. Zara’s life has been much the same, filled with unexpected twists and turns.

Zara married the man her mother chose for her, someone her mother believed would be the perfect match. But life, as it turns out, paints its own shades, and hers was painted with confusion and pain. Zara’s husband never truly accepted her. At first, his words were sweet like honey, but soon, they turned into venom. He would shower her with love one moment and strike her down—both emotionally and physically—the next.  She never understood what triggered him. Once, he lashed out simply because she made a phone call without informing him. He would sit beside her whenever she talked to someone, only to later rummage through her phone, searching for imagined betrayals. Eventually, he took her phone away altogether, cutting off one of her last connections to the outside world. His anger was often absurd. He beat her for not cooking like his mother, for not crying when he was hurt, and for crying when she was.

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The day he saw henna on her hands, his wrath exploded. Zara had told him it was for her sister’s wedding, but that didn’t matter. He claimed it was disrespectful because she hadn’t sought his explicit approval. That day, his hands bruised not just her body but also her soul. He dragged her out of the house, through the same doors she had entered with dreams of love and companionship. And what was Zara’s crime? She had refused to ask her mother for the necklace she had worn at Zara’s wedding, a necklace he wanted for himself. Zara had told him it belonged to her mother and that she couldn’t demand it from her. His response? He beat her relentlessly and threw her out of the house, leaving her without a dupatta, without money, and without dignity.

As she sat outside, she felt the world crumble around her. Her dignity lay shattered, scattered like broken glass. Marriage, she realized, wasn’t the union of souls she had once dreamed of—it was a punishment for simply being a woman. Her sister’s wedding was on the horizon, a glimmer of hope in the distance. But Zara sat outside, trembling. She was too scared to knock on the door, too ashamed to face what awaited her inside.

What does a girl do when she has no one to turn to? When even the walls she called home reject her? Life, indeed, is strange. A girl truly has no one.

She came back to her senses when someone touched her arm. The hand was wrinkled, and the palm felt soft as it rested against her skin. She didn’t flinch. There was no shock, no surge of nerves—she was too accustomed to being beaten and abused. She turned to see who it was. It was the old lady from next door. Her kind eyes met Zara’s, and her gentle presence grounded her in that moment. Zara remembered her story, once the old lady had shared long ago. She was a sweet, wise soul who seemed to know too much about the nature of men. “My husband loves my cooking,” the old lady used to say. Zara had once thought it was because she was a great cook, but the old lady had corrected her. “No,” she had said with a smile. “He never complains about anything, not because my cooking is perfect, but because he understands the struggles of a woman. He knows how much I do, from dawn till dusk, to keep the household running. We work with what little we have, and he never adds to my burdens.” The old lady’s words echoed in Zara’s mind as she asked gently, “What happened, child?” Her question pulled Zara back to the present, back to the weight of her bruised face and battered body. But Zara had no words to offer. “Nothing,” she replied, though the truth was that everything was wrong. The old lady offered to take her into her home, but Zara shook her head. “I need to go,” Zara whispered, her voice was hollow, matching the emptiness inside her.

Zara’s legs felt like they would give out beneath her, but with the old lady’s help, she managed to stand. Slowly, she made her way back to her maternal home. When her mother saw Zara, her face filled with a mixture of shock and discomfort. Her eyes lingered on the bruises marking Zara’s face and the injuries on her arms. Zara stood there, frozen, like a lifeless statue. Her mother approached cautiously, her voice trembling. “What happened?” It was a terrible moment. One daughter was preparing for her wedding, surrounded by joy and hope. The other—Zara—had returned with nothing. Nothing but a wounded heart and a shattered soul.

The lives of women are so strange; they adjust themselves in every situation. They endure everything, but the question is, why and for how long?