Shakeela A Promise Beyond Poverty

A Bitter Truth

BY:Khan

Reality is often far more bitter than we can imagine, and facing it becomes one of life’s most painful challenges. Sometimes a person utters words without fully realizing their weight, but living up to them later turns out to be almost impossible. The incident I am about to narrate is one such bitter truth—an unforgettable experience that has stayed with me ever since.

My dear cousin, Musarrat, married her son into a very wealthy family. The in-laws gave their daughter not only jewelry, a car, and a large house in dowry but also something unusual—a servant girl. At the time of the wedding, I could not attend. Months later, when I finally visited Musarrat’s home, I came to know about this shocking addition to the dowry.

As I sat conversing with Musarrat, a small girl of about seven or eight entered the room carrying tea. She was thin, dark-skinned, and fragile-looking. Musarrat introduced her as Shakeela—the servant girl who had come with her daughter-in-law as part of the dowry. I was stunned. When I gently asked the child her name, she answered shyly, “Shakeela.”

Her presence disturbed me deeply. How could her parents have sent such a tender little soul away from home to serve strangers? I wondered what kind of desperation would drive a mother to part with her young daughter like this. Surely her heart must have rebelled at the thought of her little princess living far away, scrubbing dishes and cleaning floors instead of playing with dolls.

At that moment, I didn’t argue further, but I did tell Musarrat, “This is pure cruelty. Such a young child should not be living away from her parents, working all day long for others.”

Musarrat sighed and replied, “I told my daughter-in-law’s mother that we did not need a maid. But she insisted, saying, ‘My daughter needs her.’ So I stayed quiet.”

I had to leave shortly afterward for another commitment, but Shakeela’s face haunted me. Her tiny hands should have been holding toys, not trays of tea. I could not get her out of my mind. A few days later, I went again to visit Musarrat. This time, I found Shakeela crouched near the sink, scrubbing piles of dirty dishes. I looked at her small, roughened hands. Already, at such a young age, they had become calloused from constant hard work.

When she noticed me, she smiled faintly, but I could see her exhaustion. Musarrat’s daughter, Erum, was asked to prepare tea for me, while Shakeela was ordered to run errands at the market. As Musarrat and I chatted in another room, her daughter-in-law Shazma entered, calling impatiently, “Shakeela! Shakeela!” She then greeted me politely before turning to her mother-in-law with irritation, asking about the girl.

Just then Shakeela returned from the market. Shazma snapped at her, “You are so slow! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Why can’t you hurry up?”

I could not stay silent. I said gently, “She’s just a child. How much can you really expect her to do?”

But Musarrat remained quiet, her face stiff, as if my words were unwelcome. Shakeela, however, had been listening closely. She suddenly looked at me and said, “Aunty, I’m not helpless. I earn well. My mother was given twelve thousand rupees by Madam’s mother for my work. That’s why I came here by choice. No one forced me.”

Her words shocked me. For a moment, I didn’t know whether to admire her courage or cry over her situation. I looked at her fragile face and said, “If I give your mother fifteen thousand rupees, would you come with me instead? You could live at my home. I would send you to school, and you wouldn’t have to work so hard.”

Her eyes lit up instantly, and her whole face brightened with hope. But within seconds, her expression dimmed again, and she lowered her gaze. Puzzled, I asked, “What’s wrong, child? Why do you look sad?”

She hesitated, then whispered, “It’s nothing, Aunty.”

I gently pressed her to share her feelings. Finally, she spoke softly, “Aunty, I do want to study. I dream of being like other children who go to school. Sometimes Madam teaches me a little, but she loves my work more than my books. After all, I came here as part of her dowry.”

I tried to comfort her, saying, “Don’t worry about money. If you live with me, I’ll take care of everything.”

Her reply, however, pierced my heart like a knife. With quiet dignity, she said, “Aunty, a promise is a promise. My mother gave her word that I would work here for a certain period. How can I make her break her word? Even if you offer double the money, I cannot go against my mother’s promise. If I do, then who will hire my younger sister when she grows up? She is only five now.”

I was speechless. This frail little girl, whose hands were already hardened by labor, was carrying a sense of honor, loyalty, and sacrifice greater than most adults I knew. In her innocence, she had understood something profound—that a word once given must be kept, no matter the cost.

I left Musarrat’s house that day heavy-hearted, with Shakeela’s words echoing in my mind. Her life was a painful reminder of the cruel realities faced by countless children born into poverty. And yet, within her small body lived a soul of remarkable strength and dignity.

To this day, I cannot forget her lesson: sometimes, the smallest among us carry the greatest wisdom.