Her Skin Was Melting Before My Eyes!

“Maa, main theek ho jaungi na? Mujhe doctor banna hai… sabko theek karne ke liye.”

When she says this, her little burnt hand holding mine… I don’t know where to look. I nod and smile, but inside, my heart breaks into a thousand pieces. I cry quietly at night so she won’t hear me. Because she’s already in too much pain.

My Muntaha is just 7.

But her childhood… It ended four years ago. That day still haunts me.

I was in the kitchen, cooking like always. She was playing nearby, giggling her little feet running across the floor. I didn’t realize the floor was wet. I didn’t see her slipping until it was too late.

And then screams. A burning splash. The pan full of hot oil spilled. Right onto her tiny neck and hand.

She screamed, and I… I froze. My hands shook as I picked her up. Her skin was melting before my eyes. We rushed to the hospital. We begged the doctor to save her. “Kuch bhi kijiye, bas meri bacchi ko bacha lijiye,” I cried.

But the burns were deep. And what they left behind… is a life full of pain.

She can’t move her neck properly anymore. She can’t speak clearly. Even eating dal-chawal hurts her. And her smile, the one that lit up our whole house is gone.

Children her age play in the gali, laugh, and make friends. But my daughter? She stands behind the curtain. Watches from the shadows. “Maa, sab mujhe dekh ke darte hain,” she says.

She left school. Not because she wanted to, but because she had no choice. The other kids would tease her, laugh at her scars. One day, she came home crying, and said, “Main school nahi jaungi. Main badsurat ho gayi hoon.”

Tell me… what does a mother say to that? Every night, she whimpers in pain. Her skin pulls and burns. She can’t sleep. And I… I just sit beside her, wiping her tears. Feeling like the most helpless mother in the world.

We tried everything! Home remedies, local clinics. But nothing worked. The doctors now say she needs surgery at Ganesh Hospital, Ghaziabad. With proper treatment, she can get better. She can go back to school. She can smile again.

But the cost is ₹3.5 lakhs. This amount would be less for you, but for us? 

My husband is a construction laborer. He earns ₹400–₹500 a day, when there’s work. I’m a homemaker. We sold a little of whatever we had. We’ve borrowed from friends. But it’s not enough.

And now I’m begging. Not for me, but for my little girl. For her dreams. For the life that was stolen from her.

She tells me every day, “Maa, main doctor banungi. Main sabko theek karungi, jaise mujhe koi karega.” Please… help us give her that chance.

Your donation can be the reason she walks back into school. That she smiles again. That she holds a stethoscope, not hiding her scars.

Please help Muntaha heal. Please help her live.!” cries Muhtana’s helpless mother.