The Glass Bangles

The lone young man who sat hunched on the park bench had an unusual gleam in his

eyes. He ran his calloused thumb over the edges of the paper box cradled in his hands. Bringing the box up to his ear, he shook it gently. The contents of the box made a faint tingling sound, like the raindrops scattering across the asphalt bridge he crossed every day to reach home.

He lifted the lid slightly, peeking inside to catch a momentary glance.

Glass bangles.

They basked in the flushed glow of the dying sun that bloomed over the city park. Glass

bangles—stained with all the colours of twilight. A bashful smile tugged at his ashen lips.

Against her wrists, they would look lovelier than the lake at their village where they had

spoken to each other for the first time.

They were both thirteen then, and it was her last day of school. He had known, even though

the longest word she had ever spoken to him had been “idiot”— an English word. Murmu Sir had asked him what the capital of India was, and he had promptly named the closest city that he knew of— Kolkata.

“Idiot,” she had whispered, before Murmu Sir called on her. Asking other students a question once in a while was merely a formality. Everyone knew that Noushin was the only one who always had the answers—the correct answers.

“New Delhi,” she had said, and Kabir had wondered how far from Anandagram that place was. Was it even larger than Kolkata, even more crowded?

Murmu Sir had smiled, before clicking his tongue sympathetically. “It is a pity that a student like you will not be here from tomorrow. Why, children like you belong in those Kolkata schools! But it can’t be helped— ah, your father was a good man. Give my condolences to your family.”

Kabir had jerked his head to look at Noushin, but the questions died on his tongue because she was stubbornly studying the mud floor.

That evening after school, when Kabir had returned from his father’s field, he had found a lamb struggling to stay afloat even in the still water of the lake. He had jumped in immediately. When he came up, drenched water with the lamb whimpering against his chest, he had found Noushin staring at him with a tear-stained face. The lamb had leaped into her arms immediately.

“He is yours?”

She had nodded. There was a pause, and then — “I’m sorry for calling you ‘idiot’ today.”

“Oh?” He had grinned sheepishly. “Was it a bad word? I don’t know English like you, you know.”

She had laughed, and that was how they had become friends.

Just like that, ten years passed, weaving through thousands of evenings brimming with his

enthusiastic questions, and her amused laughter.

They were married now, and he had finally seen Kolkata; he went there to work occasionally.

Maybe next year, he could work hard and save up enough money to pay back all his debts

and buy her the books she had always wanted. For this Eid, the bangles would have to do.

When he reached home, the stars were already looking down at him. Her gaze had hardened now, and she was quieter than he used to be. Next year, he would surely take her to the city so that she could go to one of those adult schools he had heard of. Maybe then, she would laugh as freely as she had—on that evening by the lake. He had asked her what Delhi was like, and she had told him that they sold the most exquisite bangles there, next to Hanuman Mandir.

Maybe when she saw the bangles— she would.

“Rauf had sent one of his men here again this afternoon,” Noushin said, handing him a glass of water. “He said that if we do not return the money soon— he would, he would— do something bad to us.”

“It will be alright, darling,” he said, wondering if she would laugh as fondly as she had when he had used that word— an English word— when they had been eighteen.

She did not.

“You do not have to take me to Kolkata— or Delhi, you know.” Her voice was barely above a

whisper.

“But you cannot sit here in Anandagram for the rest of your life. You are— different. You are,

you are—”

“We cannot even afford to buy mutton for the Eid biryani! What use will it be, going to a school now and buying silly books?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but she stopped him. “We are too old to cling to the

big dreams we used to have. It is never—”

She was interrupted by the sharp knock on the door.

It was one of Rouf’s men. “Look, this is the last time we are asking nicely. Hand in the

money now, or else— you don’t want to know. Rauf will not leave you, or that wife of yours.”

Kabir joined his hands. “Brother, tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure.”

When the man left, Kabir decided that he needed to leave for Kolkata tonight to arrange for the money. He went inside to tell Noushin, but she was already asleep.

He extracted the paper box from his bag, placing it next to her head.

“We are never too old to dream,” he whispered, before leaving.

The next evening, he returned to the village in a rush. He had asked the factory manager for an advance, and agreed to work for extra hours.

Arriving home, he found the door unlocked. He went inside, and found Nowshin, sitting on

the floor like a lifeless doll. Her clothes were tattered, her hair dishevelled. Around her feet

lay shards of coloured glass, rivulets of blood dripping down from her hands to the floor.

He was too late.

He shuddered, blood simmering hot in his veins. He could not do one thing right. He opened

his mouth, but the words died on his lips. He could not bring himself to look at her. “I—”

She stopped him. She always did. Even today, she was the only one who had answers.

He looked up to see that her eyes were already on him— just like on that summer evening.

“Idiot,” she whispered. Then, there was a laugh— that laugh. A lone blue bangle glinted

against her wrist. It had survived. “Let us go to Delhi .”

Written and Illustrated by Sarah Aziz