I am in the far end of life. Age has made a hollow. Handcarts do not work well. Only the mind moves. Runs unbridled. The son has been asking a difficult question ever since he was able to understand. Remembering that, the heart swells. He would ask, 'Who is my father, mother?' I would be shocked. He looks on in disgust.

The feeling of falling in the eyes of one's own children causes unbearable pain. I ask myself, 'Who really has this hatred for him? Is it with the old mother who rebelled against her own destiny for the sake of her son's happy future or with this insensitive society that humiliates her by asking her father's name step by step? I can't understand, I am unresponsive to myself. 

Nowadays life has become like an unsolvable question. The deeper I think, the sharper I become like a thorn. Planted in my own bosom. But, no matter what happens, I have to live, I am dragging my life. I am alone at home. Touching my own footsteps. How did I get here with blood dripping from my feet? I don't believe myself. However, the son has become a doctor.

The big dream of life has been fulfilled. It seemed that happiness would come by itself when the dream was fulfilled. But, no, you have to be able to feel that. Today I am freed from illusions of dreams and happiness. Yet the struggle continues. Yesterday I fought for my son's happy future. Today I am fighting for my own easy death. The difference is this - yesterday there was vigorous age and 'passion', but today only helpless old age and tears remain.  The

is outright dark. I get lost in that silence for a while. The waves of emotion are surging. I get up and come into the room. I have hung a big photo of my son on the wall. He looks like an angel in a doctor's gown. How could he have made it this far despite his cursed heritage? I get very emotional thinking about it.

I am momentarily overcome with a feeling of happiness and pride. Again the memory washes over me and I am reminded of my torturous days of compulsive prostitution. A thorn grows on the branch. Remembering my son's question makes me sad. I think, where does people's consciousness expand even with an educational degree? I am amazed by the true feeling caused by the experience. 

Sometimes actors come to visit. They tell the stories of the endless sufferings of our marginalized communities, invisible from the city, still found step by step in the remote areas. Gegin expresses strong anger towards discrimination. They say that the alleged social caste system in our country drew an indelible dividing line between people.

made the path of integration uncomfortable. We were placed at the back of the tiered structure. Social, economic and political opportunities were not given. They were also deprived of the right to means, resources and land. We were innocent. We were exposed. The women of our community were routinely sexually abused. And, our entire community was stigmatized. 

Activists express their anger, 'Is this caste system or barbarism? Why is someone born a slave and a master? Why would some be persecuted for life and why would some be honored by birth? How did the womb from which we sprout became impure and how did the supposedly upper caste become holy?' I get confused. Saddened. And when I look back at my own life, I feel sad when I remember my childhood growing up under the pressure of my mother's forced sex. You can easily bear the pain of being dragged into it. Things are still playing in the mind. It is sad to remember the pain of sisters who were robbed of their identity in front of their husbands. Marginalized women are disgusted by the social stigma that only sees them as objects of luxury. 

I often remember - I was very beautiful when I was young. 

! Mother used to say, 'If you were born in Bombay, you would have become a hero! But what to do? If you are born in the womb of an untouchable, how many hares will be bitten and killed by snakes.' I did not understand my mother's words at that time. I used to laugh. The age gradually increased. The desire to read began to grow. However, the society of half a century ago! It would be like committing an unforgivable sin for women of our caste to read! I also reached the swamp where my forefathers drowned in the flesh trade.

The first time I was 14 years old, I was brutally raped by a 40/45-year-old 'executioner'. After this, as mother said, innumerable black snakes kept coming and biting. I had become a rose flower, I fell. Sadly, several others had also sprouted. Like me.

Nowadays, those sweet memories of life come more and more. Countless hateful faces flashed in the eye. The memory is still fresh - an adulterer used to come in hiding, said he was a brother-in-law, and talked about religion and morality. However, he used to ejaculate shamelessly. He used to say he was another Kshetri, he used to come drunk, he used to seek happiness with us which he didn't get from his wife.

They came from all castes, classes, professions and communities, everyone treated them like goddesses until they felt the fire of lust. Then he would spit. My heart was very broken. I was emotional. And, I used to wish that someone would come and love me from the heart. However, no one came into life with that sense of poverty. As many as came, all came with the fire of lust. 

Time passed. A gentleman began to arrive. Showed orange dreams of love. One day I found out that I was pregnant. I was thrilled with the pleasant fantasy of motherhood. When I told him the happy news, he turned blue-black. It came out without touching me. I watched the road for many days. But he never came back. He was suddenly happy. That too went away. I broke down badly. However, I did not leave my motherland. I gave birth to a son. But who was his father, the pseudo-papist, really? Till date I have not been able to get the sheep. 

I am often alone at home. I spend my days drowning in memories. I remember - three lives sprouted in my womb. Two fell unborn. The last one had a son. He was able to take birth. It gradually grew up. At that time I was burdened by a mountain of suffering. However, I made arrangements to keep him in the hostel and teach him.

I spent till 12th standard by myself. Then got a scholarship. He became a doctor. Eligibility increased. Status increased. However, he did not have the courage to stand against caste oppression. Even today he unknowingly asks his father's name. The feeling of living in the eyes of one's children makes one die. These wounds are not only with me, but with other mothers as well. When you look at it, everything looks the same. However, they are gray inside. 

The stories of our women are so twisted. are compassionate. However, no one has understood his meaning till date. No one cares about our hunger, sickness and poverty. No one cares if children are not going to school because of harassment. Various organizations come. Our own tears make up stories. However, no one provides a sustainable means of livelihood. Our consciousness still does not know the law. They don't know the court. Afraid of the police. However, there was no village to support us. There was no place to grieve. For years we have been crushed by the weight of our own pain. We lived a humiliated and helpless life. 

I quit prostitution after my son was born. Caught a new life. I started living in a squatter settlement in West Terai. The road ahead was never easy. However, there was a strong determination in the heart. In this regard, the actors also gave some help. I started a small business there. I ate half my stomach for many days, I slept hungry for many days, but I did not let my son's studies fail. Today he is a famous doctor. Lives near Kathmandu. Also speaks on television. My happiness knows no bounds to see his success. After all, a mother's dream lies in the happiness of her children! 

Today the same son has no respect for his mother. There is dissatisfaction. There is a complaint. But I don't feel sad. I think - it is not only her fault but also the fault of our political, cultural, social and economic power, which never looked at us from a human perspective and created the wrong comment that 'all women are sex workers'.

The rich history of our community's art, music and skills has never been written. Even in such adversity, our mothers did not give up on their single responsibility to give life to their children. Thousands of fathers continue to fight for survival and identity under Madal's barta, balchi and net. The new generation also made it more powerful. Now the results of our struggle are starting to appear like a silver circle in a dark cloud.

Today, getting citizenship through mother's name has become an easy situation. However, citizenship is not enough. The key is emotional acceptance, which we still don't have. Even today, from mobile phone SIM card to bank account opening, parents' names must be revealed. We wanted to forget our bayonet wounds and live. However, those traditional arrangements tend to rub salt in the heart's wounds.

Maybe that's why my son also calls me Bau Chinaide. Those degenerates who rob themselves are in this society. How many mothers know him? Sadly, those ablas, oppressed for years, can neither claim that this is my husband, nor identify their father to the children. Instead, they silently endure the oppression. He lives in humiliation for the rest of his life.