Mumbai, Sept. 30: Sadiqa Alam, 39, sits on the floor of her 8ftx7ft tenement, filling some tiffin carriers with set meals.

She cooks and delivers meals for about a score of people in the locality for a living.

This afternoon, Sadiqa is keen to finish work early and sends her daughter off on her cycle to deliver the tiffin boxes so she can return home before 3pm. “I do not want her hanging outside when the Ayodhya verdict comes. My husband was just walking back home from work when police shot him dead in January 1993. I don’t want to lose her too. I am doubly worried because she is a girl. But she is very tough,” she smiles, as 17-year-old Noori rushes off to run her mother’s errand.

“I want a safe and bright future for my daughter. She is good in studies. She must not have the life I have lived,” Sadiqa says as her voice muffles and eyes well.

She was 20 when she came to Mumbai from Aurangabad after marriage. At 21, a week after breaking the news of her pregnancy to her husband, Sadiqa found herself a widow.

In Pascal colony of Jogeshwari East, there are many who lost their own in the riots that followed the demolition of the Babri Masjid.

“The loss includes some of our dearest friends, who were Hindus. They moved out for good after those horrible events,” says Rabia Bi, 67, a local community leader and Sadiqa’s neighbour. Rabia’s son was killed in the riots.

Sadiqa and Rabia stare at the TV running on mute in the older woman’s tenement.

“I am not interested in that mosque in Ayodhya. I do not know who built it or broke it. How does it matter to me? I just know that my husband was killed because of that and my whole life turned upside down. But today’s verdict will tell me whether the law will ensure that there will never be a repeat of a similar incident again,” says Sadiqa.

“My husband was a tailor and worked at a nearby factory. When he died…. I was left holding a cheque of Rs 2 lakh for his life,” she says.

Soon the confusion on the TV screen gets her agitated. The verdict is out and slowly more people gather in Rabia’s room. As it dawns on them that the land has been divided among all parties, some sniff, disgruntled. But most heave a sigh of relief. Rabia and Sadiqa hug and cry.

Noori walks in nonchalantly. “Kya hua?” she asks, as if enquiring about a cricket score. Sadiqa tells her. “Bas ab khatam hua na yeh tamasha (Finally, the farce is over),” she says.

Some elderly men titter at her remark and talk of appeal.

Noori laughs. “If this issue ends here, what will they talk about day and night? Anyway, I have a test tomorrow,” she says and leaves.