"Apa, aren't you going to school?" Lima asked, her small voice tinged with impatience.
"I will," Sarah replied softly, her eyes still fixed on the river beyond the house.
"Hurry up," Lima added before rushing back inside.
Sarah stayed a moment longer, dreamily seated on the riverbank behind the house. The water, known to locals as Madini, was swollen with the monsoon rains. Its muddy currents twisted and turned like a restless maiden, flowing endlessly toward the distant horizon. Dense mats of green water hyacinth floated lazily downstream, carried along as if they too were fleeing something unseen. Sarah's gaze remained unblinking, mesmerized by the river's relentless motion.
A launch sliced through the water, reminding her of an incident from a month ago. That night, Shahana had entered her room with a knife in hand. Sarah had lain in her bed, trembling, barely daring to breathe, until exhaustion finally stole her fear and she slept.
The next morning, the chaos had erupted. As she returned from school, she prayed, and sat down to eat, Hossain — Shahana's younger brother — had rushed into the house.
"Apa? Hey Sarah, where's Apa?" his voice quivered with urgency.
"What happened, uncle?" Sarah asked, her young heart racing.
Hossain ignored her question, calling out again, "Apa! Hey Apa!"
Shahana appeared quickly from behind the house. "What's wrong?" she demanded.
Hossain's body shook as tears streaked his face. "Apa… Bhaijan… he's been murdered! Someone… someone killed him last night!"
He sank to his knees, helpless. Sarah's eyes darted to her mother. Was she surprised? Or was she only pretending for Hossain?
"Lima, keep Shima away from here," Shahana said quietly. "Sarah, stay close."
Hossain hobbled after her, his gait awkward from the childhood ailment that had left him partially crippled. At twenty-two, he still cried easily over tragedy. Now, his brother was dead. Surely, he would grieve for months.
Sarah's heart thumped painfully. Fear gripped her chest. Would the police come? Would they arrest her mother? The thought made her sweat pour down her face.
She pulled the edge of her scarf over her head and whispered to Lima, "Take care of Shima, sister." Then, trembling, she ran toward the edge of the house, hiding her terror from the gathering crowd.
The courtyard was now filled with people, murmuring, crying, pressing close to Shahana. Among them, Jahanara — Shahana's mother — and her sister had rushed forward, clinging to her and weeping uncontrollably. But Shahana's face remained calm, controlled. Even as Harun's lifeless body lay sprawled nearby, she felt a strange sense of peace. Years of fear and suffering seemed to lift just enough to leave her steady.
Sarah watched from the cowshed, heart pounding, covering her mouth with her scarf. Her mother's calmness was both comforting and terrifying.
Soon, the police arrived. They questioned witnesses, took Harun's body away, and whispered among themselves. Rumor had it that he had been killed late at night, dumped in the river, and discovered floating near the launch pier.
When the police left without arresting Shahana, Sarah let out a shaky sigh of relief. Jahanara sank to a corner of the yard, exhausted, her eyes red from crying.
Sarah's mind spun with questions. Shahana's faint smile toward her was unsettling — almost knowing. Jahanara approached her daughter, eyes wild with suspicion.
"Did you… did you kill him?" she hissed.
Shahana's voice was calm, unyielding. "Why would you think that?"
Sarah's heart raced. If her grandmother went to the police…
"Last night, I saw you go into his room," Jahanara pressed. "Don't deny it!"
"Yes, I went," Shahana admitted flatly.
"Then why? Why would you go there? Why did you kill my son?"
Shahana's voice dropped low, steady and sharp. "Just because I went there… does that mean I killed him?"
Jahanara's eyes narrowed, searching for deceit. "Why else would you go so late at night?"
Shahana didn't answer, leaving a silence heavy enough to press against Sarah's chest.
"Amma, please don't tell the police!" Sarah cried, clutching her scarf to her chest.
"Don't try to turn my daughters against me," Shahana warned, her tone icy. "You won't like the consequences."
Sarah's young mind whirled. Why did her grandmother fear her mother so much? Why was Shahana so rigid, so distant, yet fiercely protective? Questions piled upon questions with no answers, leaving her head aching.
That night, during a quiet dinner, Shahana spoke softly, almost as if confessing to herself rather than anyone else.
"Sarah?"
"Yes, Mother?"
"I didn't kill Harun. I don't even know who did."
Sarah's eyes widened. Her mother never lied. Then who…?
A few months passed. Matric exams approached. The three sisters, scarves drawn tightly, set out to school together. Lima chattered endlessly, a relentless tide of words and laughter. Once she started, she couldn't stop. Sarah reminded her constantly, "Mother said don't talk or laugh on the road. Please, be quiet."
But Lima ignored her, laughing freely, as if testing the boundaries of the world.
"Sarah… wait!" a voice called from across the fields.
It was Asha, running down the ridge between the plots. She caught up to them, panting heavily. Soon, the three girls — Sarah, Lima, and Asha — walked together toward school.
"Did you study the Bengali lesson today?" Sarah asked, trying to distract herself from her own racing thoughts.
Asha ignored her, teasing instead. "If you speak so properly at home, do you have to speak like that outside too?"
"I can't speak in dialect," Sarah replied, firm. Her mother had raised her to speak with care, to be precise.
"But Lima can," Asha shot back, disapproving.
"I just… don't feel comfortable otherwise."
Their conversation ended abruptly as Asha leaned closer, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "Hey! Tomorrow, actors and actresses are coming to our house!"
Lima squealed. "Which actors? Who?"
"To shoot a movie," Asha said, trying to recall names.
"Zayed Shah and Mayadevi!" she finally exclaimed.
Sarah remained indifferent, though Lima bounced with delight. Weekly trips to Shila's house for black-and-white films had fueled her fascination with movie stars, and she could barely contain herself.
As the river Madini flowed silently beside them, carrying memories, fears, and dreams downstream, Sarah realized that life would never be ordinary. Shadows followed her family, weaving themselves into each moment. Yet in the laughter of her sisters, in the chatter of classmates, she found the first fragile stirrings of hope.
The river never stopped moving, and perhaps, neither could they.