Twenty one years old and laying in a hospital bed, without skin. Charred black, and leaving ash on all she tries to hug. Naked but disguised by the lack of flesh. Ninety five percent burns and a funeral to attend some day this week – Doctors orders. I don't know her, I have only heard. What I heard is a common story, but the reality is that this is no 'tale' but the short life of one beautiful woman, born in Bangladesh and to die in Kolkata. Two nights ago she covered herself in three litres of petroleum. She threw a match on her body and burned herself to nearly dead. Her husband was arrested but later released. Her friends said he hit her – hard – but not on the face; that wouldn't be good for business.
Her story – her life - is Consuming.
As a young girl she arrived in Kolkata; pretty, tall and fair. Before long she was working the streets of Kalighat. Where the younger girls can earn more per ten minutes, then the older or darker women. The going rate is between 30 and 50 rupees per ten minutes (around 10 cents). At the age of sixteen she met her husband – a client. They decided to marry and move to his village away from the city. But soon her savings ran out, and she was expecting her only child. She ended up back in Kalighat, but this time working to support not just herself but her husband and new baby boy. Then two nights ago Fire must have seen like a solution to burn away her pain. Her little son trying to reach her, singeing his fingers. Her husband reeling in guilty tears.
But the fire wasn't as effective as it should have been. She is fully conscious. She can see – her body. She can move around in her filthy death bed. Crying out for water which she is not allowed to drink, and laying naked with only one bandage wrapping the IV drip to her wrist.
Just to reiterate. This isn't a story. This is reality. Now.
Her story – her life - is Consuming.
As a young girl she arrived in Kolkata; pretty, tall and fair. Before long she was working the streets of Kalighat. Where the younger girls can earn more per ten minutes, then the older or darker women. The going rate is between 30 and 50 rupees per ten minutes (around 10 cents). At the age of sixteen she met her husband – a client. They decided to marry and move to his village away from the city. But soon her savings ran out, and she was expecting her only child. She ended up back in Kalighat, but this time working to support not just herself but her husband and new baby boy. Then two nights ago Fire must have seen like a solution to burn away her pain. Her little son trying to reach her, singeing his fingers. Her husband reeling in guilty tears.
But the fire wasn't as effective as it should have been. She is fully conscious. She can see – her body. She can move around in her filthy death bed. Crying out for water which she is not allowed to drink, and laying naked with only one bandage wrapping the IV drip to her wrist.
Just to reiterate. This isn't a story. This is reality. Now.
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