Page 180 - Demo

180 THE CLARENCIAN 2024-2025One day, Trisha%u2019s mother accidentally cut her knee. She called out to Trisha, groaning in pain, %u201cSweetheart, can you please go outside and get some water from the well?%u201d Trisha was puzzled. %u201cOutside?%u201d she asked, confused. %u201cOh, but, oh%u2026 Sorry,%u201d Kamali, her mother, murmured apologetically.The thing is, the outside world, as Trisha%u2019s parents believed, was a cruel, unforgiving and exploitative place, and this village, in particular, was notorious for some inhumane acts. But Raj, her father, wasn%u2019t at home. What could be done?Trisha gazed at the door. Kamali cleared her throat to speak again, %u201cIt%u2019s okay, Amma is watching. Just open the door. There%u2019s a well outside. Just go and draw out some water. Ask some women if you need any help,%u201d she said in a reassuring voice. Trisha simply sat there, frozen in doubt, her heart pounding like it had never before, thoughts racing through her mind. %u201cOutside?%u201d she thought. But she had to go, for her mother%u2019s sake. Quickly, she put on the shawl that her mother used to wear, tying it securely on her head. She placed her numb fingers on the door handle. %u201cOutside,%u201d she thought again, but this time she did not question herself.*Click*The door opened.Trisha peered out.Her hair, like matted strings, could be seen peeping through the window of the small shelter where she worked on the handloom. She was a weaver, and from her hands, her small, soft hands, she had produced expanses of bright, beautifully and artistically woven fabrics, which were exported all around the world. But sadly, for this girl, all she had ever known since she could remember was the four walls that enclosed her in the dusty weaver%u2019s house of her adoptive parents.She went by the name Trisha. A girl of 10, her greatest and only skill was weaving. She had been abandoned by her biological parents and later found and adopted by a couple who earned their living by the intricate warps and wefts woven on the family handloom. Trisha was not oppressed by her parents; rather, it was the %u201cmanagers,%u201d as they called them, who were the real oppressors %u2014 forcing the family, and many other families in the area, to work tirelessly. Nevertheless, Trisha was determined. She had once overheard her adoptive parents telling someone that if they earned enough, they would send her to get an education and a better life.Weaving never felt like a torment to her. She was, of course, curious about what a %u201cbetter life%u201d meant, but could not comprehend it. It was terrible, absolutely terrifying, how the %u201cmanagers%u201d had turned such a beautiful art into something dark and oppressive. There was no escape, except through education.