Anjali was stuck. Stuck. Trapped. She couldn’t leave him. What would happen to the children? What would they do the next time he was in one of his moods? She had been a good child, always listening to her parents. She worked hard and did well in school, and could embroider, stick, knit, sew, paint, sketch, and cook better than any of her sisters. A pleasant smile was never far from her face. Her heart on her sleeve, she gave generously to those around her, and always had a kindly word for anyone who may need it. All she wanted was joy. She had never thirsted after money, manipulated her position for power.

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Living in the bleak rural outskirts of Multan, Razia Mushtaq had a childhood full of hardship. She was from an underprivileged family. There was no silver spoon. Her father was a shoe mender. Such was the bitter reality she had to face, day after day. Their house was a mud-and-brick structure, covered by a flimsy tin roof, incurred at considerable expense.

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