In a cool A.C. room of Tristar Hotel, two people sat quietly. The woman’s age was indeterminate. There was sorrow in her eyes, but her face carried the grace of someone well-educated. The man was a journalist and a writer. They both sat on chairs, with a water bottle and two used cups resting on the teapoy between them.

“Shall we begin?” he asked.

“You’ll record this?” she asked.

“If you don’t mind,” he replied, setting up the camera.

“Why did you clash with him?”

“He set his eyes on my 'Ananda Dhaama'. To take it away, he started spreading lies—that it’s a brothel, that I traffic children. His only goal was to send me to jail and make the kids orphans, so he could take over the home.”

“What happened to him? He’s gone missing, right?”

“I don’t know. I’ll speak only of myself. Don’t interrupt. If you do, I’ll leave. And you know you can’t stop me,” she said firmly.

“I won’t. Only if you're comfortable,” he said, determined to hear her truth.

She sat cross-legged on the chair, closed her eyes, and began:

~*~

The harsh Rohini sun blazed outside. Her mind felt dry, lifeless, like the long walks of migrating laborers—each step a wound. She thought: Why was I even born? For whom? This world is for people with connections… not for someone like me.

With calm eyes, like she was in a trance, she began to speak:

“I was born and my mother died the same moment. My grandmother told me the tale. My mother had collapsed in labor. My drunken grandfather beat her like she was a piece of wood, then kicked her till the pain wrung life out of her. In the end, she gave birth. My paralyzed grandfather screamed helplessly. Neighbors gathered. My mother lay in a pool of blood; half my baby body protruding, gasping.

The old woman from next door—my ammamma—pulled me out, bit the cord with her teeth, blew air into my ears, slapped my back three times, and shook me thrice to breathe life into me. Then she said to the old man, ‘Your daughter-in-law is dead. But this baby girl has lived.’

Since that moment, my tears have never dried.

They say my mother couldn’t bear to see me and died. I was raised by that same old woman. She was the only one I ever called "Ammamma". No one knew where my father was. I’ve never seen my mother’s face or my father’s. I had no one—on either side.

I was a birth no one wished for. A life no one needed.

That old woman became everything to me. She fed me with water-soaked rice and wiped my tears. If I got in the way, people would shove me aside like a stray pup. They’d hit me, curse me—but I survived. I ate what people gave. Wore what others threw. They all called me ‘Pori’—a casual, mocking name.

Time spun forward.

When I was four, my ammamma died—the same one who gave me breath. Only the old man was left. He was half-blind. Feeding both of us became my job.

‘Pori, hold my hand. Take me to the temple nearby,’ he’d say.

Morning to evening, I would guide him to the temple steps. Passersby would drop coins, coconut shells, prasadam into our hands. That’s how we lived. Sometimes, we begged at the bus stand, sometimes the railway station.

I was six when I saw other children going to school and I longed for it too.

‘Tata, school is next to the temple. I’ll sit inside, and if you call, I’ll come running,’ I pleaded.

He agreed. I took him to school one day.

But the teachers stopped us. ‘Begging is not allowed here. Don’t come inside.’

‘I didn’t come to beg. I want to study,’ I said.

They dismissed me, but I clung to Tata’s hand and went inside.

‘Sir, please,’ Tata begged. ‘Our Pori wants to study. Let her learn here.’

The headmaster looked me up and down.

‘Name?’

‘Pori,’ I said confidently. ‘That’s what everyone calls me.’

‘Father’s name? What does he do? What will you become?’

Tata scratched his head, couldn’t remember, and said, ‘God knows.’

That’s what they wrote.

‘Caste?’

‘We don’t know, sir. We are beggars. No parents, no roots.’

They wrote down ‘Beggar caste’.

He asked Tata's name. ‘Pentayya.’ ‘Occupation?’ ‘Begging.’

‘Date of birth?’

‘The day before Ugadi… full moon night during Sammakka Jatara,’ said Tata.

The teacher nodded. ‘Fine. Bring her from tomorrow.’

I was overjoyed. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I bathed, dressed well, took Tata to the temple, then went to school.

Inside, the children stared at me. ‘New girl? A beggar girl? Pori?’ they jeered.

‘I want to learn too,’ I said quietly. I had no slate. I walked to the teacher and asked, ‘Sir, may I have a slate?’

He looked annoyed, but an elderly man nearby signaled him. He fetched a spare one and sent me to the class.

I was so happy.

Everyone else had been to Anganwadi, learned basics—I hadn’t. But I wasn’t scared. I looked around, wide-eyed, full of wonder.

It was like a garden of butterflies and birdsong.

Each day, I learned. I told Tata everything at night. At lunch, I fed him first. We shared our egg and banana. They gave us uniforms and books too. The school became my heaven.

When I turned eight, Tata passed away in his sleep. My last companion was gone.

I cried for him—long and hard. Like when they took away Ammamma. The neighbors once again helped cremate him.

I missed two days of school. On the third day, I returned. The kids had told the teacher. She helped me join a hostel.

I studied hard, passed my 10th exams with a district rank. Private colleges wanted to trap me—but I refused. I studied in a government college.

During holidays, I’d return to clean the hut where my mother once lived, and where Ammamma had raised me.

But now—that land is a Home. A shelter I built. For homeless people.

I let children like me—orphans, beggars, abused girls—sleep in those huts. I stopped studying after inter. Why? I’ll tell you.

Initially, hotel workers and housemaids would bring leftover food for the residents. But it was never easy.

Those who had no roof found only illicit liquor and drugs. Even children drank. People behaved like beasts. I too was a victim—many times—violated, bruised, broken.

Once, I got pregnant. The doctors said it was placenta previa. The baby had to be removed. They said I’d never be a mother again.

So I made these street kids my children.

With my own body as capital, I built 'Ananda Dhaama'. This home. I’m just repaying the kindness I once received—with interest.

Many who studied here have jobs now. They help run this home. This is a new vision. A safe haven.

If anyone dares touch these kids—or this building—I won’t stay silent. This is the home of joy for orphans,” she ended.

She leaned forward, drank water, then stood.

“I’ll leave now,” she said, folding her hands, walking out with quiet dignity.