In the narrow, dusty lanes of Hyderabad, Sindh, my life was once a tapestry woven by hands other than my own. I am Saiqa Shabaan, a daughter of migrants who crossed a border in 1947 with nothing but hope and a trunk full of memories. I grew up in a house echoing with the voices of six brothers and four sisters. My father worked tirelessly for the Hyderabad Metropolitan Water Supply and Sewerage Board, while my mother—the heartbeat of our home—was a simple housewife.
I was the second eldest, a position that usually carries weight, yet I felt invisible. I had a hunger for books, but my extended family held onto old shadows. They believed a woman’s world should be no wider than the four walls of her home. Because of their “conventional” views, the school gates remained closed to me. Instead of holding a pen, I spent my youth weaving carpets, my small fingers flying over wool and silk to earn a few rupees, all while my heart felt like it was being unraveled.
At sixteen, life changed. I was married to my maternal cousin, a soldier. For years, we followed the rhythm of his service until he retired from Malir Cantonment. We settled in Zakarya Goth, on a 300-square-yard plot that became my sanctuary. There, I finally found a way to make things grow. I planted a garden—okra, tomatoes, and greens—nurturing the earth in a way I hadn’t been nurtured.
But life in Sindh can be as cruel as it is beautiful. The 2023 floods didn’t just bring water; they brought tragedy. The currents swept away my mother, leaving a hole in my soul that no garden could fill. In the wake of that grief, the old regret of my illiteracy burned brighter. I had five children—three sons and two daughters—and I promised myself their stories would be different. All of them, especially my girls, are in school.
Then, a neighbor mentioned the Amna Shamima Foundation. She spoke of an “Adult Literacy Course.” The fire inside me, dormant for decades, roared to life. I didn’t care that I was in my mid-forties. I didn’t care that I was a grandmother-aged student. I took admission immediately.
My resolve was tested almost instantly. It was during the course that my mother passed/swept away. In our culture, such a loss demands your total presence, but I knew that if I stepped away, I might never come back. I mourned, yes, but I never missed a class. I studied through the tears because I was finally weaving a carpet for myself.
Today, my life is modern yet humble. We have solar panels that wiped away our 10,000-rupee electricity bills, and though we pay 300 rupees for water—perks of living on a “Wadera’s” street…!!!
It’s the fact that I can now look at a calendar and read the names of the months. I can pick up a flyer and understand the words. It’s a small thing to some, but to the girl who was told she didn’t need to know A from B, it is everything. I am no longer just a weaver of carpets; I am finally the author of my own life