Everytime I read something I wrote even two weeks ago, I hate it. I feel my writing technique is childish or I’ve failed to convey my point or that my vocabulary is too limited.

I have struggled with accepting my work and celebrating it because I have read books and quotes and blogs written using the same words as me, yet so much better.

I wrote this piece in 2017, came across it today on my Instagram page where I used to share my writings, and like I always do, I wanted to delete it.

I realised how wrong it is of me to look down on young Jasmita. She did her best, I am sure.

Isn’t finding your voice, your passion, your calling A JOURNEY?

So, here is a part of my journey that I am trying to be proud of.

Bear with me, please.

Here Mr. Rai got his daughter all the frappés from Starbucks because he couldn’t recall which one his daughter likes

&

there poor Qureshi gave away his eldest daughter in exchange of a few days under a shelter, some food & drinking water for the rest of his children, yikes.

Mr. Rai never let a tear roll down his beloved Isra’s cheek by providing her alot more than what she could ever need

&

there Alia cried tears of blood everynight as poor Qureshi gave her away to a beast who hits her for pleasure while smoking weed.

Both, Isra & Alia are 15 years old.

While Isra writes essays on rape culture, poverty, child trafficking & domestic violence to score straight A’s, Alia is a victim of these evil activities.

Though both are familiar to the word- struggle, its meaning is very different in their heads.

Life plays its cards so biased, one sleeps on a bed made of imported teak & the other lies on the floor covered in blood, weak.

Do I count my blessings for the comforts of life I am blessed with or toss sleepless at night worrying about my sisters living through hell & me not being able to do anything about it?