Sweat, trickling down her skin, embracing hot winds with a cold sigh, she managed to rearrange her torn saree to display her best. Stretched her hands, straightened her back with a chuckled noise louder than the ramble in her stomach.
She wished to lay down, to give her tiresome a way to escape, but work did not permit. At least not my back, but my palm could touch the ground for some support. But suddenly she remembered she couldn’t meet dust.
She surrendered her tiresome in the hands of wish, hope and a bright future. She pressed hard, with low strength to get the silk thread out from the other end. Every time, a small milestone achieved. She sew her strength, hope, sacrifice, tiresome -her thirst to make the Bedsheet.
Carefully, with misty eyes, she folded it to be sold out in the market.
