It hadn't even been 24 hours when horrifying rumors began to spread. Gangs were taking advantage of the chaos, abducting women and teenagers for trafficking.
Our family panicked. We were five teenage girls, and there weren't enough strong men around to protect us if something happened. That night, the police patrolled the streets, ensuring safety. But fear gripped us tighter than ever.
Beyond our own struggles, devastation surrounded us. A building at the end of our street had split in half. People were trapped, crying for help. Shops had sunk into the ground, their signs barely visible. Families had lost their homes, their savings, and, worst of all, their loved ones.
Despite all this, my father found time to reprimand my mother. "Why would you let our daughter get waxing (hair removal) done? Don't you know men will look at her differently?"
I was almost 15. I had thick hair growth and simply wanted to look good for the wedding. But even in this moment of survival, my appearance was a problem for him.
My mother, still recovering from her abortion, was the one he sent inside the damaged house to fetch food and belongings. Years later, her body bore the consequences of his indifference - multiple surgeries, the removal of her uterus, and deteriorating health.
After two days of living like refugees, we finally found a way out of Gandhidham. But our escape came with another harrowing sight.