I don’t remember my name.\n\nI woke up in a hospital bed, bandaged, disoriented, with no identification. The doctors said I was found unconscious near a construction site on the city’s edge. No one came looking for me.\n\nNow I’m here—living in a tin-roofed shack, wearing borrowed clothes, eating whatever scraps the others share. They call me 'Didi'—sister. I watch them haul bricks under the sun, their backs bent, their eyes hollow. I see how the foreman leers at the women, how the police take bribes to look away.\n\nYesterday, I saw a man collapse from heatstroke. No ambulance came. They carried him home like he was nothing.\n\nI found a notebook in my pocket. Pages torn out. One line remains: 'They’re killing them. And no one cares.'\n\nWas that my writing?\n\nDo I still have a life out there? Or is this my life now?\n\nA man named Ram says I should speak up. But Shankar—the contractor—watches me too closely.\n\nWhat do I do? Pretend I don’t remember? Or start asking questions?