By Salil Gewali
Until two months ago, amid the noise at a certain point on the periphery of Iewduh market, there stood a petite woman — Airi. About 25 years old, Airi and her little daughter, Dari, who was barely 6, would leave their tiny hut in Mawiong and begin their journey towards the bazar every morning. Airi took the bus up to Mawlai Thangkhiew petrol pump, because she couldn’t afford to travel further by bus. From there, she walked the remaining distance. Her daughter walked beside her, holding her hand. Perhaps she did this every single day, rain or shine.
Life had not been kind to her in many respects. A single mother since her husband left three years ago, she had fought her battles in silence. For the past one and a half years, she had set up a modest makeshift stall out in the open at the outer edge of Iewduh. It was a minimal plastic rack structure, just enough to hold a few packets of cigarettes, gutka, zarda, and bottles of mineral water. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It was her hope — her only way to earn and somehow make ends meet. Her business, which usually earned between Rs 80 – Rs 150 at most per day, was totally dependent on the mercy of the weather.
My attention was drawn to this tiny stall because of Dari. Every day around two in the afternoon, I passed by their stall. Dari, with her frolicking and childish acts, brought a strange kind of joy to my routine walk. I had taken to giving Dari two toffees. At first, she accepted it shyly. Then, with time, she became friendly with me and would ask for three as well. “One for my mother,” she would say. It became my small, sweet ritual!
But one day, just a month or so later, I learned something that quietly broke me. The three pieces of toffee that I had begun offering casually — tokens of playfulness—were actually their “breakfast.”
The weight of that truth has sat heavily on me ever since. From then on, I began slipping Airi, sometimes forcefully, a little money now and then. She would always resist at first, her pride not yet ready to yield, but she’d eventually accept, never forgetting to say, “Brother, I will try to return your money.” That would only make me more emotional. In a quiet moment, she opened up about her life — how her education stopped after Class 7, and how there was no one she could turn to for support. Her parents, she said, had passed away long ago, leaving her alone. It struck me then, how life so often demands more than a person is ever prepared or able to give. Once, in a slip of the tongue I told her that someday I would write a story about her. Since then, she would often ask me with eagerness and gentle insistence, “When will you write my story, brother?” It was, in fact, the voice of a woman who had lived through hardship she never imagined.
I also began buying a packet of Britannia biscuit for Dari almost every day, hoping it would bring a little more joy to her face. Well, following some good advice from kind people in the bazaar, Airi managed to get Dari admitted to a school in Jaiaw last year. Nursery class, probably. It was her motherly hope that her daughter would receive at least one proper meal a day — something she couldn’t provide at home.
Still, I didn’t know how dire her situation was getting — until one cold day in January this year. That day, for the first time, she mustered the courage, though with hesitation, to ask if I could spare Rs 80. To explain her request, she also showed me her half-torn crossbody money bag. Inside, there was a single, lonely one-rupee coin. She looked completely run-down and drained. Yes, the winter cold was always cruel for a family that could barely afford warm clothes.
Concerned, I asked her if she had eaten. “No brother,” she replied softly. “When did you last eat?” I asked. “Day-before yesterday morning,” she said. I asked what she ate then. Airi paused and then answered, “Rice… and tea.”
That moment remains with me. Without another word, I offered her the money. A surge of emotion overwhelmed me. It felt like the least I could do in a world that had already taken too much from persons like Airi. She took it with both hands and thanked me with prayers, her voice trembling, eyes filled with tears — but never once letting go of her quiet and resolute dignity.
However, it’s painful to say this, but in the past one and a half months, I haven’t seen Airi or little Dari in the market. The continuous rains in June must have washed away her strength to return to the bazar to sell kwai and cigarettes. She would often lament to me how the rain messed up her days. Yes, Airi survived last year’s rainy season but not this year!
This is the silent story of so many who come to the town with nothing but some investment money, mostly borrowed, a plastic or wooden rack, and a heart full of hope –only to be swept aside by a world that rarely pauses for the weak and downtrodden!
From my own experience, what I can say is this — there are not ten, not a hundred, but thousands and thousands of Airis. Each one walks with a trail of children behind her, trying to stitch together a day with just a meagre Rs. 80, Rs. 140, maybe Rs. 250 — if fortune and weather smile!
Of course, the struggle of Airi — or Daphi, selling green mustard leaves bring back memories of my own mother, who fought for her survival far from the warmth of home. For her, I could do little, much as I wanted to. But I can pay tribute to her now through Airi or Daphi.