The day seemed cursed from the moment Sarah opened her eyes. One of the red hen's chicks was missing, surely the work of a cunning fox. The coop had been left unlocked the night before. And to add to her dismay, the wall clock had stopped ticking — a gift from Aunt Hani in the capital, rare and precious in a village where only a few houses boasted such luxuries.
Sarah frowned, glancing at the sun to guess the time. Monsoon clouds drifted lazily across the sky, hinting at the rain that would soon fall. After lunch, Lima and Shima had already surrendered to sleep. Sarah tiptoed to her mother's room, where Shahana sat sewing with unwavering concentration. She was the village's only true seamstress, and every household depended on her skill for at least one piece of clothing.
"Why are you peeking? Come inside," Shahana said without looking up.
Sarah flushed. "No, Ma… I have work to do."
"Take this jug and fetch some water."
As Sarah grabbed the jug, she asked, "Ma, which hen should we give as sadqa today?"
Shahana's brow furrowed. The previous night, she had dreamt that their house was engulfed in flames. Sadqa would act as a shield, a small protection against the unseen dangers hovering over them.
"Give the white rooster," Shahana replied. "Has Rabbi come yet?"
"No. He usually comes in the afternoon to fetch water. He'll be here soon."
Sarah left quietly for the tubewell, the jug swinging at her side. The Asr call rang from the mosque as Rabbi arrived — a ten-year-old boy, orphaned of mother, with a crippled father struggling to survive in town.
Sarah approached him, the white rooster held carefully in her hands. Rabbi's face lit up instantly; he understood without words that today's sadqa was for him.
"Why are you smiling like that? Here, take it," Sarah said softly. "Share it with your father."
Rabbi hugged the rooster with a joy that made Sarah's heart swell. Her lips curved into a small, peaceful smile. "You're very happy, aren't you?" she asked.
"Yes!" he replied.
"Pray that we stay well."
"I will, Apa."
"Want some pickle?"
"Yes, I do!"
Sarah laughed. Rabbi's eyes sparkled like sunlight on the river; his innocence and hunger for life were contagious. They shared the pickle, eating in contented silence.
"You're very good, Apa," Rabbi said, looking up.
"Am I?"
"Yes. When I grow up… I'll marry you."
Sarah choked, glancing around in embarrassment. Marriage? At ten? Her cheeks burned crimson. "Where did you learn such things?" she whispered sharply.
"Abba said it," he said innocently.
"Don't ever say that again. Now go home," Sarah scolded gently, her heart racing.
Returning to the house, she found Shahana preparing dinner. Evening shadows had begun to gather, and the hurricane lamps flickered dimly, casting long, dancing shapes on the walls. Electricity was a luxury, and Shahana preferred finishing the cooking before dusk.
"Ma, shall I cook?" Sarah asked, eager to help.
"No need. Just assist me," Shahana replied.
Sarah scanned the kitchen, searching for something useful. Shahana instructed, "Bring a bottle gourd."
"Shall I pluck it? Or is there one in the storehouse?"
"Not in the storehouse."
Excitement surged through Sarah — her mother's request was a reward. She dashed into the garden, wet grass brushing her bare feet. The monsoon had turned the yard lush and green, vines climbing eagerly toward the sky. Bottle gourd, long beans, okra, teasel gourd, bitter gourd, snake gourd — the earth seemed to burst with life, unbothered by the shadows pressing in around their home.
Shahana watched her daughter with quiet melancholy. Sarah's thick, black hair reminded her of endless nights, her delicate frame a vessel of fragility and hidden pain. The small mole below her lip — such a tiny mark — seemed to Shahana a sign of destiny's cruelty. How had such beauty been entrusted to a life so fraught with struggle?
It was Friday. No school. After the Fajr prayer, the three sisters began studying, though Shima's attention wavered, her eyelids heavy. She prayed only out of fear of Shahana's scolding. Lima stifled giggles at her sister's struggle, and Sarah tried not to laugh as well. Shahana's sharp voice rang through the room.
"Shima! Sit up straight! Read properly!"
Shima jolted awake, blushing with guilt. After a few moments, Shahana softened, "Don't study anymore. Go to your room and sleep."
Shima ran off happily. Lima pouted but returned to her lessons. Sarah, quiet and observant, continued reading, noting the rhythm of her mother's words and the silent weight behind them.
As the sun climbed higher, Mizan returned from his morning fishing trip, a jute bag slung over his shoulder, a fishing net tucked under one arm. Purna and Shima squealed with delight at the sight of fresh puti, tangra, pabda, and shrimp spilling from his bag. Sarah's favorite was shrimp cooked with bottle gourd leaves — a small, exquisite pleasure.
"Abba, will you stay home? Then we'll eat fish every day!" Sarah called out, her eyes sparkling.
Mizan glanced at Shahana, then at Lima. "If there's no trouble, I'll stay," he said.
Heading to the pond to bathe, Mizan left Sarah's face falling slightly. Each time he returned home, his temper could flare without warning, sending waves of fear and excitement through the household.
"Sarah! When did you come back home?" Rashid — now Selim — the matchmaker, arrived unexpectedly, his face slick with sweat and betel juice.
Purna brought him a chair as Selim sat comfortably, observing the girls play. "All's well. So, won't you marry off your daughter soon?"
Mizan's gaze hardened. "Let her study. She's still young. Let her finish her exams."
Selim's face fell. His hopes had been high, only to crumble in the shadow of Shahana's firm decisions. "Girls this age attract sin. Better marry her off while you can. Don't wait. Do you understand?"
He went on praising the groom — his wealth, land, and family prestige — but Mizan remained silent, his mind churning.
Later, Mizan tried again at the kitchen table, speaking to Shahana about Sarah's marriage. Her eyes, hard and unwavering, met his. "Be a father first," she said. "Then come to do a father's job."
Mizan's temper flared. He stormed out of the kitchen, and his shadow loomed over Sarah on the veranda. "When this girl turns her beauty into sin, I won't be here! I'll teach her a lesson she won't forget!"
Tears welled in Sarah's eyes. Shahana moved to intervene, but Sarah grabbed her hand and pulled her back. The fire of her father's temper and the warmth of her mother's protection intertwined, leaving her heart in turmoil.
That evening, rain pelted the house in torrents. Mizan returned, drenched but smiling. "Shahana, for a month, move into the Lahari house," he called.
"What for?" Shahana asked, wary.
"The film crew — the ones from the Matobbor house — liked our home. They'll pay well. They come tomorrow."
Shahana sighed, irritation flickering across her face, but the need for money to support Sarah's studies and the household left her no choice.
The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, rain, and distant fear. Inside, Lima and Shima whispered excitedly about the stars who would soon walk through their home — Zayed Shah and Mayadevi. Sarah, her mind heavy with responsibility and dreams, wondered how much her world would change with the arrival of outsiders.
Rain lashed the windows, the river nearby swelling with monsoon fury. Shadows clung to the corners of the yard, reminding Sarah that even amid beauty, danger lingered — and her life, like the river Madini, flowed unstoppable toward an unknown horizon.