Reshma is the young garment worker who was rescued after surviving 17 days in a collapsed building here in Bangladesh.
Today I read that Reshma is out of hospital, in good health, forgetting about her long ordeal in the basement of the collapsed building at Rana Plaza. She has been offered several jobs and taken one at a hotel near our house – I long to go and see her, though I can’t quite explain why. Perhaps I am too skeptical in my poem and it will turn out that her moment of fame after her terrible sufferings will be the start to a new life and new opportunities. I hope so. This poem is my own interpretation of her story, as best as I could make it out from news reports on the days after her rescue and from my little knowledge of life in Bangladesh.
Reshma
Reshma, my daughter; born under thatch
In a home with three goats and a vegetable patch
She took not much schooling but cooked rather well
She wandered the market with nothing to sell
She went with her sister to Dhaka for work
Sewed for small money, met some young jerk
Welcomed him innocent into her life
Thought it a glory to be someone’s wife
He wasn’t that bad, just an average man
But a man has his dreams and maybe a plan
Dowry tradition and social demands
Led to the end of her hopes for romance
Reshma, my pretty, has a sweet face
Not a bad figure; of average grace
Clever enough in illiterate ways
Worked passably well for very small pay
Reshma, the seamstress sewed for the west
She and her sisters doing their best
Sowing fine garments they’d not think to wear
Carefully saried with neatly oiled hair
Early one morning the factory fell down
Nine floors came tumbling with thunderous sound
Fell like a cake with the layers all piled
Down at the bottom lay Reshma, my child
Hours they past and the dust settled fine
Weeping and wailing was mixed with the crime
Reshma in darkness lay fearful of death
Death was at harvest, so much to collect
Under the rubble and ruins she lay
Surely they’ld rescue her after a day
Alone in her dungeon saving her tears
Trying with care to ration her fears
Reshma, Reshma the dying souls call
Bring us the rain, we hear that it falls
Reshma, Reshma, death knocked at her door
Reshma lay trembling, a prisoner of war
She heard sounds of clearing and tearing at walls
But nobody heard her or answered her calls
Seventeen days my girl spent in hell
Seventeen days and each hour as well
The clearing comes nearer, the hammers and shouts
Reshma swings feverish from hope back to doubt
A rescuer hears her, she taps metal poles
Down in the rubble with all the dead souls
They dig her out safely with hand tools and care
No one can believe that she’s actually there
They carry her tender, bring her to the light
Shedding real tears for her courage and fight
The whole world knows Reshma, a hero, a saint
All want to believe she’s a soul without taint
All want to see her, to hear her, to praise
To love and admire and see Rashma’s face
Reshma my daughter, she watches, quite calm
The fuss and attention can do her no harm
She’s wiser by now, knows nothing lasts long
This is her verse but it’s never her song
