It is half past ten and the light is being broken up by the jagged edges of an entire neighbourhood of palm fronds, scattered on the dug-up soil and glinting off the falaj. Saalma, abandoned and forgotten, has sat here for 8 years, squatting in Mithadhmat, weeding out the undergrowth while workers tend the fields of fijil all around.
Originally from Wadi Ala, hidden among mountains behind Bahla, Saalma left her ancestral home so her son could find work in the city. He did, eventually, but left her to tend fields once he settled in. She starts to cry now, wiping away her tears with bloated fingers.
There are no happy stories here. Everyone around, from the roadside vendors with their shacks of fijil, loomi and khijar to the Pakistani day labourers depend on the cars that pass by on the narrow strip of road that runs parallel to the falaj, earning a handful of rials a day at best. And even that is better than the old days, when there wasn’t any road at all.
As I turn to leave, Saalma gets back to her weeds, the Pakistani sips at his milky tea in the shade of the undercarriage of a truck (now used to prop up a date palm), and the one-eyed vegetable seller and his blind friend mutter me goodbyes.
2 Comments
I’ve seen women like Saalma in Greece, forgotten in some village while “the children” are somewhere in the city or abroad. Most of these women have sold everything but their little shack to give “the children” better start. I’m sure they wish they had a Pinaki telling their story as well. Instead, there they are, forgotten, till it’s time to honour the grave that they buy and tend to for till they’re in it. Mind you, most of them must be in these graves by now. With nobody tending to them. What a story, how very, very real, how sad. How well told. Thumbs up.
Hey, looks like there’s a lot of work been done here. Looks good
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