Chains of the Brothel: Part 5 Ashes of Hope

The girl who had once arrived at the brothel broken and trembling was no longer a stranger to Anita. Padma had become her daughter—not by blood, but by something stronger. By pain. By loss. By love.

For Anita, Padma was more than a helpless child she had rescued. She was a fragile piece of her own shattered heart, a reason to keep breathing when life had already stolen everything else.

Anita wrapped her in the warmth of motherhood. She gave Padma the love she could never give her own son. In Padma’s innocent eyes, Anita found the possibility of redemption—a second chance.

But the brothel’s walls pressed down like a coffin. Each scream from behind closed doors, each drunken laugh of men intoxicated by power, each woman’s tear-streaked face—Anita knew she could not let Padma grow up there.

One evening, as Padma slept with her small hand curled into Anita’s, she whispered into the darkness:

“This place will not claim her soul. The fire that burned me alive will not touch her. I will take her away, even if it means starving on the streets.”

And she did.

Freedom at a Price

When Padma developed rashes that spread across her body, the brothel-keepers grew impatient. At the same time, Anita herself was fading. Age and hardship had dulled her beauty. Men stopped asking for her. To the owners, both mother and daughter had become burdens, not assets.

One cold morning, the verdict came like a hammer:

“You two are useless now. Get out. Find your own way.”

They were thrown onto the streets of Kolkata—homeless, penniless, unwanted.

But even as they begged for scraps with empty stomachs, Anita felt something she hadn’t in decades: relief. At last, Padma was free of that cursed roof.

A New Beginning

After weeks of wandering, fortune led them to a small village in Bihar. Here, Anita found work in the fields of a wealthy landlord. The sun scorched her back, her hands split and bled from pulling weeds and carrying water. But every blister, every drop of sweat, was a prayer for Padma’s future.

They rented a cramped single room at the edge of the village—four crumbling walls, a roof that leaked during rains. But to Anita, it was paradise. No footsteps haunted the nights. No stranger’s hand reached for the door.

Padma slowly began to bloom. Her laughter returned—soft, uncertain, but real. And in that laughter, Anita felt life again.

The Promise of Love

Padma’s beauty did not go unnoticed. A young man from the village confessed his feelings, asking for her hand in marriage.

Anita’s heart tightened with fear. What if his love turned to cruelty? What if history repeated itself? But then she saw the hope in Padma’s eyes. For the first time, Padma dreamed of a life beyond survival.

The marriage was small but sacred. As Padma stepped into her new home, Anita wept silently. Not from sorrow—but from the fragile joy of a mother watching her child step into a future she had never known.

Maybe God had finally decided to be kind.

The Shattered Dream

For a while, life tasted like stolen happiness. Padma visited often, her cheeks glowing, her laughter brightening Anita’s small room.

But fate does not forget its debts.

Months later, Padma fell ill. Fevers consumed her, leaving her frail and weak. Her worried husband took her to the hospital. Tests were done. Doctors came and went, their faces clouded with something more than concern.

The report arrived. Padma had AIDS.

The words ripped through Anita’s chest like a blade. Her ears rang, her lips trembled, her knees buckled.

“How… how is this possible?” she whispered.

And then, like a tidal wave, memory returned—the early days when Padma first arrived at the brothel, the nights of silence and terror, the cruelty Anita had been too late to stop.

Tears scorched her eyes. She collapsed outside the hospital ward, clawing at her chest as though she could rip the pain out of herself.

The curse of the brothel had followed them, poisoning even the fragile happiness they had built.

Padma’s laughter, her marriage, her hope—everything was now under the shadow of death.

And Anita, once again, was left with nothing but the unbearable weight of helplessness.

To Be Continue...........

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