D U R G A 'S  P O V

“Arey sharam kar! Na baap ka naam hai, na maa ka pata.. anath hai tu, ladki…”
“Najayaz hogi ye pakka…”
“Ganda khoon…”
“Anath!”

The words fell like stones, one after another, striking the walls of my chest until something inside me cracked. My Heart..

It wasn’t just a taunt. It was a curse. A curse I’ve been carrying like a shadow since the day I learned what names meant,or even before I knew the meaning.. how heavily people judged the ones who didn’t have any. Father's name and Mother's Address. That's all. And you are accepted by the society.

Orphan.
That’s the title the world gave me.
That’s the only story they ever wanted to hear from me.

I can fight the world, punch, kick, threaten, roar, and I can make men twice my size tremble. I’ve done it before.
But when they talk about my parents… I go quiet.
The tongue that spits fire suddenly forgets how to move.
My head bows on its own, not out of guilt, but because there’s nothing to answer with.

Just like today.

I froze.
The air around me turned still, the noise of the space dimmed and all I could hear was the thudding in my ears, that single, venomous word echoing again and again. Anath. Anath. Anath.

I don’t remember when my fists unclenched or when my breath turned shallow. The crowd blurred. My vision swam, colors bleeding into one another.
And then-

A hand touched my arm. Wrinkled, trembling, kind.

“Shukriya, beta… varna vo aadmi mera ghar tabah kar deta.”
(“Thank you, child… otherwise that man would’ve destroyed my home.”)

It was the old man,his voice quivering, eyes glistening with gratitude. He picked up his scattered belongings, folded his trembling hands before me, and limped back inside. There were some people like him, or many. Who didn't judge me. Rather looked at me as a blessing that saves them from anyone who tries to harm Banarasi's.

Either it's a Awara Anath Girl for them. Or their Saviour. That's me. Durga.

I gave a faint smile or something that looked like it. But my senses were still dead, my soul numb.

Manglu came running to me, his face flushed, eyes wide with worry.
“Durga, chal ghar chalte hain.”
(“Durga, let’s go home.”)

I didn’t look at him. My voice was softer than dust.
“Tu ja… hume kuch kaam hai.”
(“You go… I’ve got something to do.”)

“Kahan jaayegi tu? Chal ghar… warna Nani mujhe dantegi.” he insisted with concern.
(“Where will you go? Come home, or Grandma will scold me.”)

His concern- innocent, pure, only added fuel to the storm burning inside me. I turned sharply, my voice edged with irritation I didn’t mean to show.

“Kaha na, tu ja! Hum aa jaayenge. Doodh peete bachche nahi hain!”
(“I said go! I’ll come later. I’m not some milk-drinking kid anymore!”)

Manglu flinched, taken aback, but he didn’t argue further. He knew this side of me , the one that surfaces when words wound deeper than knives.

Without another glance, I mounted my bike. The engine roared, a sound that felt like a scream leaving my chest.
I sped through the narrow lanes of Banaras, past temples and old brick houses, past the scent of incense and frying jalebis, past everything that made this city feel alive.

But today, Banaras felt heavy.
Every turn, every shadow, every stare,it felt like the city itself was whispering that same word.

“Na baap ka naam hai, na maa ka pata — anath hai tu ladki…”

My grip tightened on the handle. The world blurred Until-

I stopped near Dashashwamedh Ghat, my heart pounding, my throat tight. Without a moment’s pause, I threw the bike’s stand and ran straight toward the steps that jumped into the river.

The chill of the morning wind hit my face. Without thinking, I dove headfirst  into Ganga ji.

The water embraced me like a mother I never knew what feels like. But only imagined, Protective.

I sank deeper, eyes open under the surface.
I wanted it to cleanse me,to strip away every label, every cruel word. I kicked my legs, swimming hard, as if distance could dissolve identity.

But truth doesn’t wash away.

I surfaced, gasping. The water ran down my face like tears I refused to shed.
Banaras glittered before me - lamps floating on the river, chants echoing from the ghats, bells clanging - the same city that worships goddesses but calls me najayaz.

I laughed bitterly.
Because I knew - no matter how deep I dove, the tag wouldn’t leave me.

The world never forgets to remind me of what I don’t have.
A name.
A past.
A family.

Every time someone calls me anath, it carves deeper into my skin, but I’ve learned to live with it - to fight louder, stand taller, pretend I don’t bleed.

Still, as I floated in Ganga ji that night, watching diyas drift past me like tiny hopes, one question kept clawing at my heart - louder than the river, louder than the chants, louder than my own breath.

“Whose blood am I?”

And no matter how many times I asked, the Ganga stayed silent - just like she always does when her daughter cries.

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Author’s POV

That night, the small courtyard of Kamla Ji’s house was silent except for the steady hum of crickets and the occasional ringing of a distant temple bell. The smell of wet earth rose from the floor where Durga had left her dripping footprints.

Durga sat on the ground, her head resting heavily in Kamla Ji’s lap like a wounded child hiding from the world. Her hair was still wet, strands clinging to her cheeks, water dripping in slow beads onto the old woman’s cotton saree.

Kamla Ji’s fingers moved through Durga’s hair with a feather‑light touch, wiping it gently with the edge of her saree pallu.
She caressed the girl’s scalp as if soothing a fever. Her voice came soft but firm, tinged with the concern of a mother who had raised a lioness with her own two hands.

“Kya zarurat thi shaam tak paani mein dube rehne ki? Bimaar pad jaati aap to?”
(“What was the need to stay in the water until evening? What if you fall sick?”)

But Durga didn’t answer. Her eyes stared at nothing, fixed on some invisible wound inside her.

Kamal Ji picked up a plate from the floor beside her- a simple brass thali with roti, dal, and a small ladoo. He tore off a piece, rolled it gently, and brought it to Durga’s lips like he had done when Durga was little.

“Chal ladoo… thoda sa khana kha le.”
(“Come on, sweet girl… eat a little.”)

Durga finally lifted her head. Her eyes were wet but not with tears; they were burning, heavy with questions. Instead of opening her mouth for the bite, she spoke — her voice cracking under the weight of years she had carried alone.

“Kiska ganda khoon hun main? Kiski najayaz aulat hun? Kaun papi tha vo jiska khoon hai meri ragon mein? Kiski kokh se janam hua hai mera? Kahan hai vo… kaun hai vo? Kyun janam dekar chhod diya? Isse accha toh kokh mein maar dete…”

(“Whose filthy blood runs in me? Whose illegitimate mistake am I? Who was that sinner whose blood flows through my veins? Whose womb did I come from? Where is she… who is he? Why did they give me birth and abandon me? It would’ve been better if they had killed me in the womb…”)

Before the last word left her mouth, Kamla Ji quickly pressed her palm over Durga’s lips, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Esa mat bol beta… tera janam lena, tera zinda rehna… kitni badi baat hai, tu jaanti nahi hai…”
(“Don’t say such things, child… your birth, your being alive… it’s a blessing far greater than you realize…”)

Durga pulled her head away, her breath heavy. Her voice trembled with rage and helplessness, spilling out like a dam breaking.

“Kya karungi jaankar, Nani? Maloom toh nahi hai na mujhe kaun hai mere maata‑pita? Kyun chhod diya unhone mujhe? Aur chhodna hi tha toh paida kyun kiya? Kyun unki galti ke karan anath, najayaz jaise shabd mere hisse mein aaye? Kyun??”
(“What will I do knowing, Nani? I don’t even know who my parents are! Why did they abandon me? And if they had to leave me, why did they give me birth? Why, because of their sin, have words like orphan and illegitimate become my destiny? Why??”)

Kamal Ji tried to hold her shoulders, but Durga’s body stiffened with the strength of years of suppressed questions. Her eyes- fierce and glistening- searched the old couple's face for answers she had never been given.

“Shant ho ja beta…” he coaxed her.
(“Calm down, child…”)

But Durga’s voice rose again, low but trembling.

“Nahi, Nana… aaj mujhe jawab chahiye! Kahan se uthakar laye aap dono mujhe? Kyun pala mujhe jab janam dene walon ne hi chhod diya tha? Kahan hai vo maa jiski duniya gun gaan karti hai? Kahan hai vo baap jiska naam leke duniya ehsaanmand rehti hai, jiske naam se log ghoomte hain? Kyun mujhe vo naam tak maloom nahi hai, kyun??”

(“No, Nani… today I want answers! From where did you both bring me? Why did you raise me when the ones who gave me birth had abandoned me? Where is that mother the world sings praises of? Where is that father whose name the world reveres, whose power people flaunt? Why do I not even know their names, why??”)

Her voice cracked on the last question, echoing against the clay walls of the house.

For a heartbeat, the room was only their breaths, one steady and old, the other ragged and young.

Durga sat there, fists balled, staring into the darkness beyond the doorway. Kamal Ji stroked her hair again, her touch trembling now, torn between the truth he had buried and the girl whose fire was born of that truth.

The walls of the dimly lit room seemed to shrink with every word.

“Kya kar logi agar bata diya toh? Haan??” Kamla ji shot angrily.
(“What will you do if I tell you? Huh??”)

Her voice cracked, but her eyes locked with Durga’s defiant ones.
“Jaaogi uski chaunkat tak poochne kyun tumhari shakal dekhe bina hi nafrat thi use tumse? Jaaogi usse poochne… kyun vo insaan apne siwa kisi aur ki soch nahi paaya?”
(“Will you go to his doorstep and ask why he hated you without even seeing your face? Will you ask him why that man could think of no one but himself?”)

Kamla Ji’s hands tightened on Durga’s shoulders now.

“Kaho… lekar ghumogi us insaan ka naam… us khandan ka naam jisne tumhe apnane se inkaar kar diya?”
(“Tell me… will you roam around carrying the name of that man, of that family, who refused to accept you?”)

Durga’s lips trembled but she stayed silent, eyes burning.

Kamla Ji’s voice rose, heavy with truth.
“Ye hai tumhare baap ki pehchaan… ki nahi chahiye thi use ek beti… nahi chahta tha vo ki tum janam lo… uske ghar mein tumhare kadmon ki aahat tak ho…”

(“This is your father’s reality… he didn’t want a daughter… he didn’t want you to be born… he didn’t even want the echo of your footsteps in his house…”)

Durga’s fingers dug into her palms as if trying to crush her own skin. Her voice came out ragged, yet steady.
“Theek hai… jaungi… jarurat padi toh us insaan ki chaunkat tak jaaungi…”

(“Fine… I will go. If needed, I’ll go to that man’s doorstep…”)

She sat upright now, eyes glistening but sharp like steel.
“Jaaungi ye poochne ki use bhi janam kisi ki beti ne diya tha… uske bachchon ko bhi kisi ki beti ne apni kokh mein jagah di thi…”

(“I’ll go and ask him… he too was born from someone’s daughter… his children too were carried in someone’s womb…”)

Her voice shook but didn’t break.
“Jaaungi usse poochne… mandir mein jise pujta hai, kya vo kisi ki beti nahi hai? Jaaungi usse poochne… kya galti thi meri?”

(“I’ll ask him… the deity he worships in temples, is she not someone’s daughter? I’ll ask him… what was my fault?”)

She exhaled, almost trembling with the weight of her own words.
“Par usse pehle… ye jaanna haq hai mera… kahan hai vo maa jisne mere liye ek jung ladi hai,aapke hisaab se… kahan hain vo? Jab mere saath rehne ki baat aayi toh kyun vo mukar gayi? Unhone kyun mujhe chhod diya?”

(“But before that… I have the right to know… where is that mother who fought a battle for my life? Where is she? When it came to being with me, why did she step back? Why did she leave me?”)

Kamla Ji’s hand froze midair. Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice was steady, like a knife.
“Kisi ne chhoda nahi hai tumhe, Durga…”
(“No one left you, Durga…”)

Her words cracked but she continued.
“Vo nahi chahti thi apne bachche ko chhodna… use jaana pada…”
(“She never wanted to leave her child… she was forced to go…”)

Durga’s head snapped up, her heart hammering so loud she could hear it in her ears.
“Kahan gayi vo? Kahan hai vo ab??”
(“Where did she go? Where is she now??”)

Kamla Ji’s lips trembled. For a heartbeat, the room was utterly still. Then she said it, a whisper that shattered Durga’s world.

“Vo mar chuki hai…”
(“She is dead…”)

The words echoed through the mud walls like a temple bell struck in the wrong hour - hollow, sharp, and final. Durga’s breath caught.

She didn’t blink. The sound of water dripping from her wet hair onto the floor suddenly seemed deafening.

Kamla Ji reached out to touch her cheek, but Durga had already gone still -like a statue carved from pain and silence.

Stirred on Kamla Ji's touch she parted her trembling lips.
"Meri-Meri..Ma..Mar chuki hai?" A tear drop slipped off her eyes, even before she could know.

(My-My mother..She has died?)

Kamla Ji only nodded. Embracing Durga in her arms. Her own eyes filled with tears.

For Everyone. The Durga's mother has died long ago..But there was some still ness- A truth. Opposite from what everyone thought.

Far away from the city, in a room swallowed by darkness, a woman jolted upright from her sleep- breath hitching, chest heaving.

“Durga…!” she screamed, the name tearing from her throat like a wound reopening.

Her heart pounded violently against her ribs. Sweat trickled down her temple as her trembling hand fumbled for the glass of water on the bedside table. She drank in desperate gulps, her fingers quivering around the rim.

The moonlight slipped through the half-drawn curtains, silvering her anxious face. She didn’t turn on the lights -darkness felt safer,or may be familiar.

Leaning back against the headboard, she pressed a palm to her chest, trying to calm her racing breath.

But peace never stayed.
The nightmare came back- it always came back.

She closed her eyes, and the vision unfolded again.
A woman in labor, screams echoing in pain.
The crimson blur of blood.
The first fragile cry of a newborn girl.
The woman’s lips moving through her tears, whispering a name -Durga.

Then a little boy, barely six or seven, smiling as he held the baby in his arms. His innocent eyes shimmering with pride.
The woman exhaled shakily, her lips parting to utter another name that burned in her soul.

“Dhananjay…”

Her eyes flew open- wide, bewildered.

“Kaun hain ye Dhananjay aur Durga? Kyun har raat mere sapno mein aate hain?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Kyun har baar wahi aurat, wahi dard, wahi bacchi… Mahadev, yeh sab kya hai…Kya Rishta hai mera Inse?”

(Who are They? Dhananjay and Durga? Why I always have dreams about them? Who is that woman in labour? Who are all they Mahadev..What relation do I have with them?)

Whispering the prayer. She pressed hand against her chest. Breathing in heavily...
The faces never leaving her mind.

In the moon light-her face was barely visible. But her eyes- the same as Durga and Dhananjay inherited. From their mother.