Facades of democracy collapse when people are not names, just numbers. Millions starving. Protesting. Dying. Lost in the “million”, an individual suffers to be an individual. Facades of democracy shrink when work hours are way beyond life hours. Facades. Just that.

The Sickle written by Anita Agnihotri, and translated from Bengali by Arunava Sinha is a powerful book. It’s not about cozy routines, and hopeful platters. It’s about people forgotten, trampled by those in power. It’s about women, who don’t get a space in stories yet whose stories challenge the very pillars of “democracy”, “humanity” and laws governing the two. It’s about so much that we fail to take notice of. So much we don’t get to hear about.

I read three chapters till now. And, I’m moved by the power of the words. There is no denial, no polishing up of stories. Just truth. Spilling forth with all might. Of labor, power, survival. Of women juggling with different roles. Of women in so many spaces and tragedies. Of women being women. With all their might.

“𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦
𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘱
𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘴, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘴
𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯?
𝘈 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴. . . ?

The above excerpt is the ferocious wind that turns the pages of this book. Each women a story, scarred and burnt in the ashes of her lives. “Women thrive on whatever they can scrape off the bottoms and rims of cooking pots.”

Even as I’m writing this, my mind goes back to a chapter – How much farther? As much is it a question, it’s a deep void, where un-born girls are buried. Again, no names, only numbers. Facades, I told you.

This book lead me to those nooks and corners I never visited. As the sunlight gleams outside my window, I think of this cover, various shades and figures. Of nomadic tribes that have thrived and struggled to weave a life for themselves. Power, money, corruption, lies, follow them like glum shadows as they are wrapped in the soot of life. “The political elite” only thinks about numbers, not names. Of power. Promises – A facade.

Fate. Of people. Of women. Of land. Specially, of land. Of new-borns. Of un-borns. Specially, of un-borns.

We often associate fate with people. But, for hoards of people and their communities, it’s the fate of land that paves way for a “man-made exile”, mercilessly driving them back and forth in search of labour and livelihood. As people wearing the costume of “nomads” work more than they can ever live, what pierces the soul of women is beyond trembling to read. How much farther? – as much it’s a title, it’s a question that how much farther, are we as a society willing to turn a blind eye to the atrocities of women! Mental, physical, emotional – how much farther, women of these stories seem to speak with trembled lips yet an undefeatable spirit!

It was horrifying to read about child determination procedures and the inhuman agonies that follow after confirming it’s a girl child. And, oh those stereotypical facades ! How they crumble in the ashes of realities! Behind closed hospital doors, in simmering fires!

What is more appreciable about the author’s writing is that she has discarded no one as she holds an issue in her hands. Multiple approaches and narratives to a single issue reflect the depth with which she has scraped the bottoms of an issue. And, against everything, she has ignited a hope through characters who are willing to take a step to raise their voices beyond the tremble they feel.

Pick this book up to read about labourers whose work is crushed in the palms of power, women whose voice is either buried or burnt, caste being more important than humans, valley of death, lives darkened over time, and political and tons of other facades collapsing. Reality is a sharp-blow, after all! ✨