Widow women are living a miserable life

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Many widow women are living a miserable life, are not educated, do not have access to health facilities and free education.  Widow women cannot forget how giving women political power does not mean improvement overall in women's political, economic or social status. 
 
My friend, who lost her husband recently said "My husband loves me so much. I love him too, so passionately as though life itself comes with it. Since our marriage we didn't even have time to talk fully. He should have stayed at home to farm.  My husband is no more now." . 
 
"Your husband is said to be in hospital. Get ready. We should leave right away on the 2:00 bus," I had told my friend hurriedly, recentlly.,"  Her mother said with great pain.
 
The house of my friend was not more than a 15 or 16-minute walk from mine. Though she was the third-born daughter among seven sisters, she was more like the eldest in terms of household work, and in addition she was the most beautiful girl, so all the boys liked her. Of course, there were some rumors about her marriage when I was in the city. A number of people would come daily to her house to persuade her to marry, and her mother would harass others telling their number, counting on her fingers.
 
" Your husband has come back." After returning from his house, her husband had come straight to see me. He was smartened up with nice clothes and talked with my father of big things about the nation and the world. He had become well-learned, my father had commented. Then we went to the market for the whole day and had tea and talked about his wife.
 
Really I had no fear of the world. I was thoughtless and free in the world. I was in a passionate hurry to exchange my feelings with him and wished to tell him,  you are the best.
 
The red nose pin in a case which he gave me, I have kept very carefully in a small box on the floor. Cream powder, hair oil and scent I have kept in the same place. Even to remember those things brings tears to my eyes.
 
Then, after he started sending letters twice a day, I would wait for the postman every day. I would give him two rupees as a tip to make him happy so he would come first to my house. I used to be greatly pained If I didn't see the postman even for a day, and I used to go and sit under the shade of a tree that leaned over my house, facing south.
 
"Did your husband send any message?" said  one uncle. Uncle knew me from my childhood so I sensed that he wanted to help me. "Nothing would happen to my friend's husband." I told my uncle with a trembling voice.
 
I could hardly speak. "OK, now I will hand up the phone. I can't pay the bill any more." He hung up.
 
"Kamala sister I always see only your face in front of me. I have been so restless to meet you. At all times, I have been living with your love." I repeat his last letter again.
 
  "Kamala, my husband died. I am homeless, loveless," said the teary-eyed friend.
 
 
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