Salma Bhuyan
The needle moves fast, the machine humming like a restless insect. My fingers work from memory, guiding the fabric under the presser foot, stitch by stitch. I don’t need to think; my hands know the rhythm better than I know my own face in the mirror. The sweat clings to my skin, the heat of the factory pressing down like an iron weight. The fans overhead barely stir the thick air.
By the time the shift ends, my body is a crumpled rag. I step outside into the evening light, blinking against the dust and noise of the street. The buses are already packed, men hanging onto the doors, their feet barely touching the steps. I walk instead, past the market stalls, the smell of fried snacks and rotting fruit mixing in the air. This is Dhaka, Bangladesh—loud, restless, relentless. The city has never been kind, but it is my home.
When I reach our one-room dwelling, my mother is waiting, my youngest asleep in her lap. The other two rush toward me, arms wrapping around my legs. They are five and six, old enough to understand that I am always tired, but not old enough to stop asking when I will have more time for them.
I eat quickly, barely tasting the rice and lentils. My mother watches me with quiet worry. “You look thinner,” she says.
“I’m fine, Ma,” I lie.
At night, I try to rest, but the words from the factory still crawl under my skin. The men—coworkers, supervisors, even some I barely know—always watching, always whispering. “You’re too beautiful for this work.” “I can give you something better.” “What do you say, hmm?”
I say nothing. I keep my head down, my hands busy. But silence does not make them stop.
The only place I feel safe is among the other women. We share food, stories, fears. We stand together when someone is treated unfairly, when a girl is fired for being too slow, when a foreman’s hand lingers too long on a shoulder. In that, at least, we have power.
My children will start school next year. That is the only thought that keeps me moving. I am twenty-eight years old, and my life is set in hard, unchanging lines. But theirs—maybe, just maybe—will be different.