Phoola Kuchbandiya Janaki GP 3, Banke

“I am a woman of Indrapur, born in a house with leaking walls and wet floor. But I am a woman who has raised her sons and daughters like any other mother in the world would. It is the same love of the heart. The same hope for the future and the same hope that they live a happy life. Sadly, with what I had at my disposal, I could only give them little. A little of school. A little meal. Little sleep and a lot of hard work. What does a mother do when she has nothing? She makes sure that her children survive. For she knows if they do, the earth is bound to take care of them…

My name is Phoola Kuchbandiya. One of the many Kuchbandiyas in this community, this cluster of broken huts. We all rely on the stones we bring in from India. We make them into Silautaas and sell them around the village. These grinding stones are like our lives. Always grinding. Sometimes from poverty, sometimes from neglect. And you know electricity has killed our livelihood. They put these cables into these holes and then the mixture runs. So fast that you can grind any pickle, any spices in a matter of minutes. You don’t get your hand dirty and you don’t sweat. Who is going to buy our Silautaas now…

We thought we could sell ropes made of vines but then found out that they have started making ropes of nylon. And then our sons went to India to bring in plastic buckets to sell in Nepal but they have all been seized by the border police. They tell us that we broke laws. I do not know what laws we have broken when we are only trying to make some money and feed ourselves.

That is my life. I am Phoola Kuchbandiya, one of the many Kuchbandiyass in this community.”


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