Fiction and Fiction in Translation: July 2025

1. Travelling Light : Ranu Uniyal
2. Welcome to the Chaoseum : E. W. Farnsworth
3. Voice : Johny Takkedasila
4. The Gift : Sanjida Parveen
5. The Awakening : Sharon Berg
6. SCROLL. SKIP. STAY : Aarushi Dutta
7. If I had Multiple Lives, I’d Die in One : Gourav Chakroborty
8. Virus : Manju Bala (Translated by Surabhi Jha)

Travelling Light : Ranu Uniyal

Staring at the carpeted floor, papered walls and empty ceiling of an unknown house, a lump dislodges itself at the pitch of my throat and eyes flash with an insipid glare.  Brown and pink of the room mixes staunchly with the deep grey of my heart and ripples of intrepid gloom sink in with a smell of unwashed  towels and dirty socks.  A night here perhaps and then I move away into the twilight of another city, another door and a still unknown keyhole.  Tomorrow I shall take the train to Beverley.  Maybe the mood will lighten and the spirits soar as the fog clears the mind rotted with guilt and disuse. Like her I could not put my head into the gas oven, but unlike her I had a strong urge to kill someone.  A man, an animal or even a fly would do.  It is rather hard to control one’s instincts sapped inside out and dried like an almond shell.  Like her I wanted everything.   I could not do with half-heartedness or with a few lumps of everything.  Life, love and poetry – I wanted them all to survive.  But none did.  And I simply could not bring myself to the fact that imperfection and guile go hand in hand.  There must be truth somewhere if not here maybe I would discover it at the platform or the back street of Cottingham or the shop where I purchased my last pair of sunglasses.  Deceitful the teeth rattled as I sat holding the clutches of my worn out toothbrush.  Tomorrow perhaps I shall find a dentist who would stop them from chattering like this.  It hurts when they go beyond control.  Lies, lies and lies they seem to utter.  I am searching for a pack of truth so that I could munch it like the Kitkat or golden crisps.  If not I would have held it in my arms and never let it go.  Good things are hard to come by they say.  And then I have never had it so good.  Everything is fine.  Absolutely delicious is the time.    I don’t have to spend a penny on anything.  Then what’s your problem? What are you fretting about? Thoughts rumble off and on.  Frozen words have to be kept secure.  I do not wish to see them defrost and die.  They would sink into oblivion, like one of us.  Emptiness and solitude sound like clichés of modern existence.  And I do not want my experiences to drown into worn out clichés.  After all there is a difference between a toothbrush and an experience.  One outgrows the other.  Years ago I remember my mom had forced a glass of Ovaltine down my lips.  It never went down and had stood dumb at the throat.  Mind you it is still there pale and grisly and each time I eat something it travels with me, the taste of Ovaltine.   It is there a perpetual reminder of the meaningless offence.  Every single night I hear rats pacing up and down the staircase.  This is not a childish hallucination, but for the past one year I have heard their steps.  Believe me they are rats.  Soft and nutty they couldn’t be beetles.  Beetles make a rasping sound.  They scratch, but they don’t run.  Rats – I find them wherever I go.  At fifty six one begins to see signs of senility in some women they say.  I am only forty.  So what’s the fear?  I don’t talk to the walls.  I don’t smile at myself.  I am a serious person and I don’t talk unless asked to.  I giggle a lot. But isn’t laughter a shade of light heartedness? And doesn’t this go with wholeheartedness? I am complete.  I need not be reconstructed.  I have a history and I plan to write my future.  I collect facts.  I read fiction.  I write poetry.  I despise lies and I am still waiting for truth.  Phone me if ever you manage to discover it before I do. My number – it does not exist in the directory. My city – it follows me wherever I go. My name plate – I managed to hide it in the gas oven. 

Welcome to the Chaoseum : E. W. Farnsworth

Many Americans had reasons for celebrating the New Year 2026.  Likewise, an equal number had reasons for fearing and hating the perpetrators of Project 2025, which had promised to transform the country’s culture in well-defined revanchist ways but with mixed results.  Forgotten by celebrants and denigrators alike was the sworn revenge for the assassination of General Suleiman of the Republican Guard of Iran.

            So while New Years parties were underway at the White House and Mar-a-Lago, two Iranian cargo ships sailed off the Atlantic Coast, their augmented crews launching and controlling drones filled with thermite explosives.  The unmanned aerial vehicles took off from the decks of the ships heading for their targets with the stealth and cunning of the attacking civilian aircraft of 911, three hundred destined for Andrews Air Force Base where Air Force One and Air Force Two were on the tarmac ready for instant takeoff in any national emergency.  Eight hundred drones were flown to hover positions over the White House and Mar-a-Lago.

            The national security apparatus of the USA was so engrossed in carousing and singing, the first reports that at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve both the command aircraft of the nation were engulfed in flames from an unknown source.  The President and his National Security Adviser might have been spared if their Secret Service personnel had had the presence of mind to hurry them out of the White House.  The intelligence failure was, however, total as the explosives-laden drones broke through every glass window in the building in successive breaches.  No one in Washington, DC, had any notion that similar destruction and mayhem was underway at Mar-a-Lago where the President and Vice President and all members of their tight-knit administration team were dying of the extreme heat and blasts of the drones’ payloads. 

            Half-way around the world, Islamic celebrations broke out spontaneously in every Middle Eastern nation.  Arabic radio stations spread prepared propaganda about the death of the Great Satan.  Ayatollahs danced in their hiding places while they waited for inevitable retaliatory strikes while their people danced mindlessly in the streets.

            By one o’clock in the morning Eastern Time on January 1, all the attacking drones had hit their targets.  The White House was a smoldering ruin.  Mar-a-Lago was a wasteland of rubble.  Andrews Air Force Base was useless.  Emergency crews were alerted and fully active, yet cautious since no one had any idea what might be coming next.  No orders were being received from anyone in authority though the Federal Emergency Management team that had stood watch in the earliest hours of the 911 attack was trying to sort out the murky situation.

            By sheer default, the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff happened to have avoided the general attack as he was not a drinker and his wife had been hospitalized at a facility in the Virginia suburbs.  By the chain of command of the US military, he was now in charge.  The young general officer who carried the Football as well as the nuclear launch codes had located him on his classified cellphone and was awaiting his superior’s instructions.  The current Director of the CIA was also communicating from a train proceeding on the way to the underground command center in West Virginia.

            While the responsible parties withheld actions until the situation clarified, the media were conducting their usual shrill nonsense in the absence of validated information.  International news outlets were reporting waves of drones attacking Tel Aviv.  The explosions at home and abroad were broadcast on a loop giving the impression of a vast, global conflict—thus far with conventional weapons, all conveyed by drones.

            The Iranian cargo ships in the Atlantic had switched to their false positioning systems, and no source linked them to the attacks.  Meanwhile, the bodies in the ruins were providing evidence of the scope of the atrocities.  At three o’clock Eastern, it had been proved by forensics that the President, the Vice President and the majority of the administration had been wiped out.  The possibility that nuclear war might be coming now was discounted, only to be restored to the alternatives as Israel countered the surprise drone attack from Iran.

            The FEMA command center in New England was now operational.  The Deputy Chairman of the JCS and Director of the CIA were communicating continuously with that center.  It would be another four hours before Israel provided intelligence indicating Iran as the key perpetrator.  The Director of the Mossad spoke with the Deputy Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.  He was explicitly asking for permission to use nuclear weapons on Iran.  Wisely, American officials urged caution.

            Looking back on the early days of assessment in the aftermath, the Deputy Chairman said he was lucky not to have done a knee-jerk response to the chaos.  He had considered the possibilities of collaboration by Russia or China or both in the attack.  Analysis did not substantiate blaming the “usual suspects,” and Israel had been restrained from using its strategic weapons.  The Deputy Chairman was sacked and replaced by a political hack for the former administration.  The American blame game was in full swing by the time scheduled for the convening of what was left of the National Security Council though the legislative branch was walled-in by contentious wrangling for an acceptable way ahead.

            Those who did not perish in the attacks felt lucky they had survived their close calls with death.  The former Deputy Chairman, now forcibly retired, decided to write his memoirs though the current political climate was not propitious and anyway the CIA Director had beat him to the punch.  As he packed his station wagon for a long-overdue fishing trip, he once again considered the title for his memoir.  Probably his publisher would have the final say, but his preference was for Welcome to the Chaoseum.  He had no axe to grind.  But he thought someone should put a version of the truth on the record. Why not he?

Voice : Johny Takkedasila

The boys in the street are talking crazy about the new movie that has come in theaters and the actors who have acted in it. Charan likes hero Chiranjeevi. To Munna, hero Balakrishna is life. All the boys split into two teams and argued that, ‘Our hero is great, Our hero is great..’

Meanwhile, Reddeppa who came from the other side asked, ‘What happened? Why are you fighting?’ He looked at Charan angrily.

A boy from the group complained to Reddeppa that Charan is saying, ‘Balakrishna is a waste in front of Chiranjeevi’s dance.’

‘What’s up, Chanti? Do you need all these?’ Reddeppa said.

‘My name is Charan not Chanti’, he said sadly.

‘You and that Chanti are one in my opinion,’ he said sarcastically. All the boys laughed. Charan went home crying.

***

His uncle noticed Charan going inside the house sad and crying.

He went to Charan and asked lovingly, ‘What happened? Why are you crying? Did anyone say anything?.’

‘There is no such thing,’ he lied, tears came because of a crumb in his eye.

‘Tell me the truth, did someone say something?’, his uncle asked again.

He went into the room saying ‘No’.

***

Charan sat on the bed in the room and cried. He couldn’t bear to be called Chanti in front of everyone. However, he wondered why his voice sounded like a girl’s voice, unlike everyone else’s voice.

Reddeppa called him Chanti in front of everyone, so lately his friends and people on the street are also jokingly calling him Chanti, Chanti..

Chanti is a hijra from the same village. Reddeppa started jokingly calling Charan as Chanti..Chanti because Charan’s voice is like Chanti’s voice. Reddappa stays next door to Charan’s house who is about thirty years old and is married.

Whenever Charan is seen, he tries to make fun of him saying Chanti.. Chanti Charan is very sad because of that. He is crumbling inside. When he is alone, he cries a lot because of his voice.

***

Charan is 13 years old and he has a sister. Now she is studying in second class. Charan’s parents work in a factory. They will go in the morning and return in the evening. There is no time for them to spend with children. Uncle and Aunt are taking care of all the children’s well-being.

Uncle went to Charan’s room to find out the cause of the child’s pain. Charan was seen lying on one side of the bed and crying.

On seeing Charan like that, he said, ‘Hey Charan, why are you crying?’ He took Charan close.

After a while he said, ‘Reddeppa who stays next door is calling me Chanti.’

‘Because you are a child! That’s why he might have called you like that, why are you crying for that?’ He made a confused face.

‘Chanti does not mean a child. In the evening, Chanti sister comes wearing a saree! He is making fun of me because my voice is like her’s. Why did my voice change like this? Will I have the same voice?’ Charan hugged his uncle tightly.

His uncle started explaining, “I will tell you about it, but you should not cry. All children’s voices change at this age. Everyone’s voice changes regardless of male or female. A strong voice emerges after months or years.”

“The vocal cords of children of this age become thicker and longer. Your voice has changed because of that. It will be like this for two or three years. After that, your voice will come like my voice. This change is less noticeable in girls, but common in boys.”

“Have you noticed the voice of your friends Mohan, Vishnu and Krishna has also changed. Because you are all children of the same age. Slowly everyone’s voices change. Some may change quickly, others may be late. If the voice is still the same even after puberty, then there is a need to consult a doctor. But remember it’s not your problem, it’s natural.”

“You have to be prepared for the changes in your body. It is not a strange thing or something that happens only to you. Don’t cry if someone makes fun of you, instead you should answer them. If the other person is older than you, you should tell about them at home, but you should not cry inside yourself.”

Charan was encouraged by his uncle to discuss such things with him even in future.

Since that day, Charan has enquired his uncle about the many changes in his body.

***

Charan’s uncle scolded Reddappa.

Uncle was relieved to see that Charan was again talking to everyone without bothering that his voice was new and strange.

The Gift : Sanjida Parveen

It was almost time for a day’s wrap-up, Maryam looked at her phone’s screen desperately expecting a call. The day was quite busy at the convenience store at the corner of Slade Lane in Manchester. Now she could only expect two or three truant customers hurriedly ravaging the shelves for some last-minute errands. 5.55… 56… 57. It seems almost endless as she would quickly grab her bag and rush home shooting the speed dials. There comes another customer, Maryam almost about to prance the “closed” board but slowly pulled it down with a sigh of desperate smile tinged with exhaustion.

This one she guessed would be a grumpy one, she preferred not to mess with and quickly get done before she could call it a day. It went quickly with hardly a chance for thanks and goodbyes and off she went snatching her receipt from Maryam.

‘Alhamdulillah’! Finally, it was time for her daily international call back home. Abba would be waiting for her quite panicked as she would already have missed calls by this time. Had a glance at the mirror in the store washroom, applied Boroline to her chapped lips, repining hijab, stacking her flirtatious strands behind her ears. Azure, the colour she picked last Friday from the open market on her way back home, a good choice that would match with all her dresses.

‘Bye Sonia’, Maryam greeted her Pakistani colleague, Sonia.

 ‘Bye Maryam… have a great time tomorrow’ Sonia retorted. It would be a day off for Maryam, she had long waited for. 

 ‘Thank you’.

Maryam and Sonia almost had the same shifts preferring the afternoons after attending the morning classes. After the girls were out Rajesh would pull down the shutters and formally closed the store for the day. Stepping out Maryam felt a bit hot on her cheeks with the sun still blazing, unbuttoning her summer coat to her ease. Nonetheless, it was safe to carry an extra layer even if it wasn’t needed every day during summers.

Desperately scrolling her phone, she was quite surprised that there were no calls when she most expected it. She recollected that the day before, she was just late by a few minutes, and she received three missed call notifications from her father on WhatsApp as soon as she switched on her mobile internet. During her shift hours, she would keep her mobile on silent mode, connected to the store Wi-Fi for emergency calls. In between she would browse her lessons on her phone to keep up with the class. Her dreams- her classes- her aims …all should be at pace. She couldn’t afford to lag behind. Not by any chance.

Staying away from family was a challenge that she took up quite for the sake of her family which comprised of her father. ‘Abba’ was all she had, and she grew up with after losing her mother, her family, her home, her heart and her soul.

Abba had often gone out of his way to support Maryam in every possible means after the death of his wife. They had each other’s back and shoulders for every blow. He cuddled her, took her in his arms and hugged her to console the young girl at her mother’s loss.

In Ranigar, all villagers often gathered and suggested bringing another wife to take care of his daughter and he shoved them all. He cosied and comforted her, giving her no chance of insecurity of being reared by a stepmother. He often stood up against extended family members who appeared to care for the poor soul. He brushed all aside, “You all don’t have to worry about my daughter, she is my daughter… I am there to take care of her, and the rest is up to Allah.”

Some days little Maryam would prefer going without food, it was Abba who would make sure she didn’t go to bed hungry. He tidied her hair into neat plaits and bid her goodbye to school. As she started growing up, she started receiving requests from potential suitors… wealthy, affluent, powerful with great links… some good-looking and some very driven.

Early on Maryam was headstrong, passionate and determined not to be swayed easily. She always dreamt of making her father proud by doing the unthinkable.

She never entertained any of the lovers and their proposal as she deemed them unfit for a young girl. All she knew was her father’s support in all she did.

Her father with all his courage and might sent her daughter to pursue graduation from the nearest city, walking with her all the way to her college on her first day of admission.

From coming to the city to heading to a new country was a tough journey that would have been unfathomable without the support of two, Abba and Rahim.

Rahim was shy, spoke less, smiled more but had a spirit that set him apart from all other potential suitors she rejected. Rahim adored and admired Maryam. To him, Maryam was a woman of grit and strength who could hold a man in all her might and confidence. Rahim stood with Maryam in her choices and decisions and supported her undaunted even occasionally against the will of both families. Above all Rahim was a star student throughout bagging the best scholarship to pursue PhD in Physics from the University of Manchester. He wanted not the fairest of wives who could just cook delicious dinners but the brightest of wives who could walk shoulder to shoulder. Their passion for the best, and sapiosexuality brought them together. With Rahim by her side, Maryam could have the best roadmap for a new beginning.

Rahim already had his own experience of studying at a UK University; the best guide Maryam could think of. From finding the best university, to writing supporting letters she had her best mentor. After a lot of research together they both chose a master’s in international Disaster Management and Humanitarian Response from the University of Manchester. In this way, they could flourish together nurturing each other’s dreams and goals.

So, when the two families met to finalise the marriage date Maryam’s father made a final glance at her daughter’s eyes to confirm that the final consent came from her without the slightest coercion. In a very low-key affair, they exchanged vows, solemnized their eternal bonds and cleared her path of setting out for abroad. No dowry, no pompous ceremony, money would be used for necessities. The only other challenge before Maryam was her IELTs.

It was a Friday and she waited desperately for her results.

“Abba, I’ve done it. Ami London jachhi.”

Though she was not going to London, London interchangeably denoted any other place in the U.K.

Stepping abroad was not just a dream but much more. She had to be realistic enough to do away with all the migrant dreams of setting out for a foreign degree. In her nuptial vows, she made it clear to Rahim. Rahim would allow her to do some jobs with which she would support her Abba without hampering her studies. All their conjugal bliss and couple goals would follow later. From the beginning she had all the calculations sorted for her monthly expenses and savings. Herself on a student visa she could earn a few pounds during restricted work hours. Rahim’s scholarship was sufficient for their sustenance and even if didn’t they will make things work. From scratch, she had plans to manage the budget and shove away a few hundred pounds every month. Maryam knew well life would be expensive, and she chose every step economically cutting down all excess. 

She had done her networks well before setting out and even getting her visa. Her seniors were already living in Manchester doing some odd jobs after classes to earn some extra bucks. She had a similar plan, and the very name Manchester had a South-Asian ring to it. At ease, Maryam knew she would need all those connections and settings in a diaspora… the language, the food, halal shops, essentials and of course the mosque. 

The pandemic had set forth the arrangement for mixed learning which meant she didn’t have to attend all her classes on campus.

Though quite tiring she had to juggle with her classes, assignments and duty hours.

It has already been quite some time since she has been working in this store mostly at the till. A degree from the UK would surely ease her way to her dreams, an educational set-up in her village. Empowerment… emancipation… development… all etched in her mind as a design to act out.

Before plunging into her own setup, she had a plan… a repayment… a payback in the least for the one who had been her rock.

Her fellows and classmates had all envisioned of a grand graduation ceremony, gleefully hoisting the robe and the hat and parents in the audience cheering each achievement in the grandest term possible. Maryam had it differently. Abba had nothing to do with graduation… ceremony was too far-fetched. Would be a bit out of place for him, a simple man from the village with no knowledge of ‘London’. The weather would also be excruciatingly unbearable for him… and how would he shift from his pajamas to pants and jackets? She would need the most puffed ones for him to protect from winds and rain.

Payback… compensation… impossible won’t happen in a lifetime. 

A gift… toufa… a small token of love – appreciation – recognition for all that he had done for Maryam.

Abba didn’t even leave behind a piece of land for him, what would he do? Who would till these lands… do the sowing… reaping… with no son to lend a hand? He leased them all for Maryam’s venture. The course fee would be too much for a middle-class household in Ranigar, a remote village in the Sundarban area of West Bengal. He didn’t bat his eyes twice, did all with an embracing smile at the tip of his chin. He did away with all his lands except for his old tattered loosely roofed house where the father and daughter had spent almost a lifetime. The folded sleeves of his kurta bared his arms manifesting exhaustion and aging by years of hard work.

All his earnestness, rigour and passion has been spent on making of a daughter. Nothing did he hope for in return- only Maryam should have the best for her.

How could Maryam think otherwise, could she be selfish? Spent a few pounds on some weekend hangouts- fancy dresses and make-up. She could fancy nothing- not in her dreams nor passion for possession.

Repayment was beyond her capacity for all he had invested over the years. All she hoped and dreamt was a home, a decent one- not a villa not very fancy.

She had been living all her life in a single-floored house, not even roofed properly with the asbestos loosely giving shelter. The heavy rains were a real pain and panic for them and many others. They had a very humble living so far growing up with the smiling comfort of her Abba beaming resiliently amidst all storms.

Her education… setting out for a better scope is all meant for giving some respite to her father, not that he expected one from his daughter. That would give her some pride to see her father living in a decent house with a stable roof. Over the years she had seen her village transform from mud houses to pukka ones, single storied to double except theirs. The remote rusticity of Sundarban villages was fading away gradually making space for concretisation and development. In the last few years Maryam had witnessed changes in the livelihoods of people around her. The picaresque beauty of Sundarbans welcomed tourists across the globe opening fascinating opportunities in her village. Her father had received all housewarming invitations from neighbours and relatives gracefully. Did he covet none, didn’t he ever dream of a good house for himself?

It was a seven-minute walk from the store to their Honor Street apartment. The sun was still dazzling bright with an occasional breeze patting her face gently. Maryam always picked up her daily groceries on her way back home from Lidl superstore. It is a bit cheaper there than her workplace; a few pounds would add to a great sum.

In the last few months Maryam kept aside five hundred pounds, the first thing that cropped in her mind with every month’s salary credit. The calculation was clear, Rahim would do the house rent and bills and she would just do the groceries. Together they could save about five hundred pounds which would be about fifty thousand Indian Rupee. She could not have done it if she stayed in her village, none of her cousins could manage to make so much from pisciculture or tourism business. Who cared that she slogged tiring hours in an Asian Superstore after her classes and managed her lessons on her mobile in between customers? At the end of the month, the money sneaked into her account and that was all that mattered. Abba had no clue of it, difficult for a simple desi man to imagine his daughter working in a grocery store.

The couple had shared a secret bond of not divulging more than necessary details of their lives to both families. They were earning well and hence in the process of achieving greater goals, all other things would be secondary.

Maryam knew that she couldn’t have done so much with her sole contribution if not for Rahim’s generosity and participation. Rahim made sure never to impose his desires upon Maryam. He quite wished to watch movies, go for dinners and of course a cherished honeymoon to Scotland.

For Maryam all of these could wait, but not Abba’s house. She had come far and there was no way to step down. She could only begin her life, her conjugal bliss, her desires only after she had gifted Abba his dream house. A house that she had dreamt of all along her childhood. Abba would be the proud possessor of his daughter’s gift. She couldn’t let her father regret not having a son. All his neighbours and relatives whom she would personally invite to the housewarming… those who never supported her… stood by her. They would marvel and be struck by her feat.

This was the day she had been waiting for long. She had already taken a day off at work. Maryam really heaved a sigh of relief when she counted that she had saved four thousand and now her dreams could take wings.

She had done the budget for her pillars, bricks and cement, as the ground floor was already existing. Her contribution would help in moulding the roof, and it would no longer be asbestos. It would be a decent one and gradually a two-storied house with a stable roof. Four thousand pounds is a big start and it would transform her humble childhood dream into reality. With this she would have no more qualms about how she spends her life, going for honeymoon or her movies.

Over an hour-long phone call with Abba, it was all decided to begin with the construction task. Abba had withdrawn the amount in instalments from Gramin Bank where he shared a joint account with his daughter. They had hired the best mason and his team in her village. They had built some of the spectacular villas of her village, she had gazed all along in wonder and amusement.

Abba was rejoicing, teary-eyed… speechless, he couldn’t express his gratitude. They had seen so much of the hardships, and it was the beginning of their good days ahead.

“Did Abba call you?” Maryam asked.

“No, he didn’t. Did he call you?” Rahim replied becoming alarmed at Maryam’s panicked face.

“No, why would I ask you then?”

“Why what happened Maru. Must be busy in the market or mosque. Don’t worry”.

“It’s not like that, it’s never so… ever… he always calls me… daily… once twice… several times”.

“Don’t worry.”

 “I don’t know what’s wrong… his internet is off as well; his phone is switched off”.

“He will be fine” Rahim always understood that the panic alarm had been switched on for Maryam and no matter what it was beyond recompense.

He headed towards the kitchen for a cup of evening chai with mashed ginger and cloves shredded into fine grains.

The aroma and flavour would drive away her anxieties only he hoped.

They lived in a one-room apartment… a bedroom piled with clothes and papers and books, and a prayer rug tugged up in a tiny corner. The bathroom opened to their bed with a little space. She hated the stink and stench and each time there was a flash Maryam would be cautious not to leave the door ajar.

The bedroom led to the kitchen and living room through a tiny corridor. It was all they needed for the moment.

Reminded always they lived not for themselves, but for others, family, friends, community, neighbourhood. It was a Bengali lane, with mostly people from Sylhet making it to all the lined terraced houses on the other side of the road where they lived. They had befriended a few of them through mosque and local gatherings. Occasional exchanges of Assalam Aliekum…Kemon Acho… kept the spirit of roots alive.

They didn’t speak the same Bangla as on the other side of the border, the dialect and intonation was far from being familiar, but the emotions conveyed reached the soul.

When chai came to its perfect boil Rahim accidently came across a notification popped on his phone screen.

 A MASSIVE CYCLONE STRIKES VILLAGES IN SOUTH 24 PARGANAS OF WEST BENGAL.

His heart pounded with the sudden gush of the moment.

Did Maryam know of it? Quickly pouring the chai into clean porcelain cups he rushed to inform Maryam in the bedroom.

‘Maryam! Maryam!’

‘What happened? Did he call?’

‘Did you check the news?’  Rahim asked finding it difficult to gather words scrolling down through the news page.

‘No! What happened? Please don’t give me shock’ I didn’t check today’ Maryam retorted getting more anxious.

Unlike other days she was occupied with her thoughts of the house, and she didn’t quite check the news. She suddenly gathered that there was a cyclone alert and she snoozed the notification away carelessly as her mind ran on a single track.

Maryam felt clueless about what was happening, and what lay in store for her in the next few moments.

She quickly picked up her phone and searched for the news channels. They did not have a TV Set or even a licence and the local news channels subscribed to her YouTube were the only means of news.

She started feeling empty within with strange thoughts clouding her mind. What if something happened to Abba, what about their house?

She felt she would cry like a child. Did the roof just come down on her?

The couple turned to the Bangla News from YouTube.

A massive cyclone hit Sundarban at 5 am IST and many disturbing visuals started flashing on the screen space. Trees were uprooted, buildings floating on water… cattle and humans swimming afloat with the stream. No water…no electricity.  Several casualties- livestock damaged-crops devasted.

Maryam closed her eyes tears quickly tickled down her eyes, she prayed for only one thing.

Deep down dark thoughts started disturbing her. She prayed for her Abba’s life, nothing mattered… money…house. She could trade all for her father’s life.

The night was endless, Maryam couldn’t sleep. She kept pacing the room. Rahim sat on the chair making it impossible to beat the drowsiness of his eyes.

It was 4 am in the morning and the sky was not yet clear for the day in Manchester. Her phone started ringing suddenly…

Shocked and horrified she looked at Rahim- it was an unknown number from India.

“Hello!” Maryam responded in an anxious voice.

“Hello Maryam…Abba bolchi…”

 “Abba… what happened? Ki holo? Are you Alright?” relieved to hear his voice at last.

‘Maryam… Maryam… Yea, I am alive… We have lost everything… our village is destroyed…I am at relief camp… calling through rescue team”.

SILENCE!

“Abba you are alive that’s all that matters. Don’t say like this… I was so worried.”

“Maryam… I couldn’t keep the money”

“Don’t worry Abba” Maryam stifled her emotion so as not to express her regret to her father “we will start again”.

“No… I gave the money away for the relief camps… everyone is dying… there is no food… no water… I can’t be selfish at this moment… I donated”.

“It’s Okay” was all she could answer thankful for her father’s life.

Her words started choking her breath and she could not continue the conversation any longer.

She disconnected and knelt in prostration not knowing how to start again. She must be happy that her father is alive. Why couldn’t she just be happy? So, what if months of hard work didn’t pay for the gift?

Tears… tears… and some more tears and a passionate whirlwind of emotions grabbed her tightly and she burst into a loud howling.

Rahim unable to understand what happened to his wife kept looking… afraid to take a step further, to stop her. He looked on speechless. Outside the clouds darkened far away… a few thick drops settled on the windowpanes.

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