 few places live up to their name, the way Dhadapura has. For pain, it would seem, has found a permanent address in Dhadapura. So real, all pervasive are pain and sorrow in this village that here in the village school, where one would assume that songs and rhymes of childhood would fill the air, children matter of factly recite a collective oath to death. Because Dhadapura unfortunately has become a village of women who have suffered and survived the death of their menfolk, of mothers who've lost young sons, wives who've lost husbands, little children who will never feel the warmth of a father's embrace, sisters who've lost brothers, young girls who live the life of widows, having lost and betrothed. Perched atop the high ranges, almost surreal in its harsh beauty, with its homes and mud tracks almost touching the clouds, Dhadapura is situated practically on the border between India and Pakistan. For the locals, par or a cross was just an everyday reality until As the spider wove its web, like helpless insects, locals were drawn inextricably into it. As a result, today, after 14 years, what remains in Dhadapura is a mass of seething women betrayed by all, where anger, resentment and frustration barely concealed. Men, of course, are conspicuous by their absence. Dhadapura, by virtue of its location, inadvertently found itself in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in the crossfire between those who professed that their violence had an ideology and those whose call of duty insisted upon their elimination. While violence, unfortunately, always lays claim to an ideology to justify its excesses and depravity, for these women in Dhadapura, their pain and agony are the only reality which they know and understand. They live conducting the everyday business of life, but framed in their sorrow, also for life.