“After mother died, her sister brought me to Nepal. I was very young. I only have faint memories. In the age of innocence and playfulness I was married and sent away to a new house where I was to look after my husband and his father and mother and a group of other relatives in the family. I bore three sons and a daughter. But one of my son passed away when he was three. His departure was without any noise, but I cried in the corner. The doctor said, “The medicines cannot treat him, so take him home and wait.” I waited but his destiny was to die. The others have grown up and they have carried on with their own lives. I do dishes and mop floors wherever I can find work. My husband used to sell biscuits but he ran out of money and my sons could not help him with any funds. In this age, there is no son, no daughter. So he just stays at home and has decided to grow a beard to his chest. And this flood has taken away our floor, ceilings and walls. But it is the same hope that makes me wait for some good to happen.” (Gita Devi Yadav, Hatkhola, Morang)