True Story: My friend was raped and killed.

Kamala Budhathoki 'Sarup'
Published in:UPI Asia Blog.

I arranged my hair, and I looked at myself in front of the mirror. I lit the stove and boiled tea in akettle. My heart began to boil like the tea in the pot. My women'srights activist friend and I had been good friends in school, when she was in 9th grade and I was in 10th grade. I used to help her in many ways. To reach school, it was necessary to walk up a foot walk. On the way,there were raspberries and peaches.

She was short and could not reach the fruits, so I helped her pick them. I protected her from the raspberry thorns, as I collected the raspberries, which I gave to her on a leaf plate I brought from home. We often walked together hand in hand. Oh, how we used to enjoy watching movies and drinking milk together. We used to sing and dance on the way home. I can’t remember more than that. I’ve tried to remember.

In December, she said to me and my brother, "If you study hard, we will go to the city. We will share our joys and sorrows in a small rented room there. We may get good jobs also. A teaching job might be easy to get."My brother had said, "Studying in a city is not as easy as you think. It is very hard to lead a life. It takes a lot of money. Studying without money is impossible. It is better to search for a job first. Money does not grow on trees. Money will do everything.”

To which she replied, "Don’t you understand? I will be happy if I join the police!" She used to make such jokes to keep me happy. I poured the boiling tea in a cup and entered the room. I stood in front of the mirror and sipped my tea, awaiting my friend eagerly. It is ten minutes to four. I adjusted the window screenand lay on my bed.

"Which one is Kamala's home?" I heard the voice of one of my school friends, Kumar, from the yard. I stood up, went to the mirror, adjusted my eyeliner, put the red spot on my frehead, rosy lipstick onmy lips and went down to welcome Kumar. He was standing in the yard. I said, "We are meeting after a long time. Thank God for reuniting us."Kumar just stared at me. I just smiled at him, thinking this was one of his usual jokes. We entered my house together. "When did you come?"Kumar asked without hesitation, which I didn't anticipate. "I am still searching for my future," I said. I went into the kitchen and started frying meat and preparing tea.

After a time, I gave Kumar eat, fried beaten rice and a cup of tea. Placing the things on thetable, I told him, "I am still waiting for my friend. Why is she late today?" While saying so, my heart trembled and I wanted to weep,and embraced him at that moment.

"Why do you weep? I know you love your friend. After two long years,not only is your heart pious, but also it loves her. She also wept for you. You would be surprised to read the note in her diary.
Did you know her parents tried to force her to marry, but she didn't listen to them. Her mother perhaps died from grief and father has been a heart patient for four years. It was her who wanted you to come to her marriage. She did not want to get married without your approval of the man. She could not trust her parents." Saying so, Kumar also wept. "Please eat first. The tea is getting cold. Eat everything now; we will continue our conversation after breakfast." I tried to change the matter from the serious to the simple. Within a minute, he expressed the bad news. "Your friend struggled with life in many ways.

She was raped and killed. Only the day before yesterday, she was engaged and then today she died in the hospital." There is no security and no rights for women. These days, thereis no security for women even in their homes, work places and public places. My eyes were full of tears.
Copyright mediaforfreedom.com
Kamala Budhathoki Sarup
http://mediaforfreedom.com/

Prostitution: True Story Of My Friend

Kamala Budhathoki ‘Sarup’

Published in UPI Asia news (Blog), Opednews.com, newsblaze.com, mediaforfreedom.com, webcommentary.com, Nolanchart.com.

I wrote this diary about my friend. Actually after returning from Prostitute Brothel, my first meeting with her began the strange day for me. In a way, every day I have been meeting a person or the other. Whatever it may be, among those I met at this moment she is a bit different from other and, in fact, this is an important in our friendship.

It's not that I am trying to keep this day separate from others from the expected thought of other things. I am not trying either to interpret the concept of the philosopher that people live in their own ways. Whatever it may be, in this situation of tension I am delighted to have met this friend. She told me "The large city of prostitute brothel which is terrifying to look at with its tall buildings, I felt as if everyone who lived inside felt satisfied and they quenched their hunger. I don't like even to remember. I was buried in my mind's inner conflict of that really. Due to the compulsion to sell my body every evening, all the time within me an unknown fear, terror and fright created an empire of its own.

I felt restless at my living; I was disgusted every moment with that kind of life. The notorious brothel where I was living was a place where thousands of girls like me had to sell their bodies for cheap prices. How hard and full of terror was to live in that environment! When I think of it, my heart trembles even today. Although the pain within me had another chief reason and that was the memory never left me. Almost always I remembered my village. The mountains, the waterfalls and the forests that extended far and wide looked as hard as life itself with them uphill and downhill filled with the crowds.

She further added " My mother had a dream exactly like mine that her daughter would get some education by going to the city and could stand on her own to make her living. But I was brought to this terrible brothel and was sold by my own uncle's son. I was sold, and I came to know later that it was a brothel where thousands of girls were sold and they were forced to sell their bodies for a small amount of money. In a place where the human vultures spend money to play foul with raw flesh and the prestige of one was ruined just for a handful of coins, how could I survive in a place such as that? My heart was filled with depression, but I was unable to express any of my feelings to anybody because the trade of female bodies was found from big lodges to hotels and yellow mansions of that city.

In that place bargain of girls, selling them and turning them into prostitutes by force inflicting untold tortures on them were just a common incident in that environment. The rich men filled their thirst with me everyday”.

She was obviously scared. She cried "It was a great joke that my right over my own body was snatched away from me. Often a question tormented me from time to time. After all, what was the real meaning of a person to live as a woman? Was it just a means of providing cheap enjoyment which one could have by paying money? I hated my existence as a woman in thousands of questions. What a pity! My body was torn and snatched out by hundreds everyday. When I saw the mistresses of brothels surrounding me, every time I felt inferiority complex. All the males were hungry for fulfilling their sexual passion. I felt a strong hatred towards men. But despite the fact I had to sell my body. While she was talking, crying and talking "When I came to my city, I had a great imagination. My life, in fact, was quite terrible and horrible as I had to live surrounded twenty four hours by agents and customers. At the gates of every building there were agents busy haggling for our bodies as if we were beasts kept for auction. And we waited for the customers inside a very dark and foul smelling room. Who was there to love me in that world of money ? Everywhere there were alcoholic drinks, money and only customers.

At that time, I was completely robbed. The value of my body and of my soul was completely depleted. But now, I have returned with the germs of HIV in with me. Although I served the brothel for so many years. I have gone empty now. When I have come back, I am here with empty mind and carrying a terrible disease with me”. She said. I asked her a lot of questions, only some of which she could answer. She spent the time talking with me and said " After my arrival here, I have met my old sweet heart. I found out that he hadn't got married yet. Really, I didn't see any difference between in the past and at the present time. He showed the same attraction, the same love and the same restlessness to see me. At this moment, he is closer to me and I am crying to open up some thing of life to him. To be closer to each other is a pleasant moment. " It's definitely not easy to be alive. In fact, life is a difficult, dangerous and unpleasant journey". She said.

I am outside of my apartment. I am now looking at my diary. A street ! When you refer to a street you have to associate it with the crowds of people. With the street comes the question of crowds and noise they make. There used to be the same crowd in the street at that time and even today. There is no decrease in the throngs of people. At this moment I too am in the crowd of people. But, the special quality of the street has been to remain alone. Even in the crowd except one or two faces known sometimes remain mostly unacquainted.

I am walking on the side of this crowd without stopping. But the crowd is increasing. "Even at this moment in this place, the crowd has been large as at the market," an old women near me shouts. "These people are tremendously increasing in number. Every time I am afraid that there would be some accident. It is not safe to send children to school", she prattles on for a long time. She pulls a small child walking beside her and holds its friendly arm. Everybody has his own problem. Perhaps no person is free from his or her problem. Should I have an ideal thought like this? I am alone in my walk and unknowingly my steps turn toward the residence of my friend again. She was found all alone in her room.

 She shows her formality, "Come in Kamala". I go close to her and sit down. " I have arranged a job for you in an office. You must forget your past. Whatever may be, the criminal has been punished. Now you shouldn't continue worrying", I told her everything in a breath.
She cried in response and said "My past has gone through such a hot torture that the criminal's getting even a capital punishment would not heal my wound nor the stain in my character erase, because of which today I am suffering from HIV. He deserves to die for the shame he brought to my life. ?"
When I hear what she told me I felt that I was sinking where I stood. I am frightened. I am choked. I move away from the place. I don't even like to look back. I don't know where I am going now.

Copyright kamala budhathoki sarup.

Overcoming Depression

Overcoming Depression
By Kamala Budhathoki Sarup.
Published in Cape May County Herald.

http://www.capemaycountyherald.com/opinion/letters_to_the_editor/article_0c32a662-3f91-11e6-b883-03c9acb6f150.html