A warm sunny day.
Farhin sank to the floor with exhaustion, the stick in her hand clattering softly as it hit the ground. Her whole body was drenched in sweat. She wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead with her palm and exhaled deeply, again and again. Then she lifted her eyes and looked ahead.
No man could usually endure the pressure of remand — but here, a woman had survived for four days straight.
The girl sat slumped in the chair, tied up, half-conscious. In four days, she hadn't uttered a single word. Despite severe physical and mental torture, she hadn't cried out once. It felt as if someone were beating a stone — a stone that bled but never spoke.
Just then, Inspector Jafar entered. Farhin looked at him with trembling voice and said,
"It's impossible now… she won't say a word."
Jafar's sharp, experienced eyes rested on the girl for a few seconds. Then, in a calm, deep voice, he said,
"You can go."
Farhin left with unsteady steps.
Jafar pulled up a chair and sat in front of the girl. For a long time, there was only silence — the hum of the ceiling fan, the distant cry of a crow outside.
Finally, he spoke softly,
"This is the first time I've seen you."
The girl didn't move, didn't speak.
Jafar looked at her intently and asked,
"Do you remember your parents?"
Slowly, the girl raised her eyes — muddy, lifeless eyes. Blood dripped from her cracked lips; bruises darkened her skin, both eyes red and swollen. Every detainee looked like that after remand. Without changing his expression, Jafar repeated,
"Do you remember your parents?"
The girl nodded weakly. She did remember.
Jafar leaned forward slightly.
"What's your name?" he asked gently.
Though he already knew, he wanted to hear it from her own lips — as if saying her name would remind her she was still human.
Her voice came out heavy, trembling.
"Sarah… I… I'm Sarah."
Then her body went limp, falling forward.
Jafar caught her before she hit the ground and shouted,
"Farhin! Come here—quickly!"
Farhin and two others rushed in.
1989
Early morning sunlight filtered through the bamboo fence of Shahana's house in the village of Atpara. The arrival of Selim Ghatak that morning irritated her terribly.
She had told him again and again,
"I won't marry Sarah off now. I want her to study."
Yet Selim kept coming every week with new proposals.
"How old is she anyway?" she would say. "Only sixteen! Jahangir Alam's daughter married at twenty-four. Sarah will marry then too — and with her own choice."
But Selim never gave up. He appeared again, a toothpick in his mouth, chewing betel leaf. Shahana saw him coming and pretended not to notice.
"Listen, Sarah's mother," Selim said, spitting a wad of betel juice into the yard. "The groom I've found this time is a pure diamond."
"I didn't ask you to find anyone," Shahana replied sharply. "Why do you keep coming?"
"Keeping a young girl at home too long isn't good," he muttered.
"She's my daughter. Let me decide," Shahana snapped.
Selim realized he'd get nowhere today. Scowling, he muttered as he walked off,
"Are there no other girls in this village? Why is everyone's eye on this one? You can't always get what you want."
Lima, wearing her school uniform, called from the doorway,
"Sis? Hey, Sis? You're not going to school today?"
Sarah blinked her sleepy eyes.
"No…" she whispered faintly, then turned over and closed her eyes again.
Lima sighed and went to her mother's room.
"Ma, won't Sis go to school?"
Shahana stopped making the bed and frowned.
"Of course she will. Tell her to get up."
But Lima hesitated. "She's not well, Ma. She cried all night with stomach pain."
Shahana's face softened for a moment. "Let her sleep then."
Lima lowered her head silently. She somehow understood what kind of "pain" her sister had been through last night — though no one had said a word.
Sarah woke late that morning.
When she entered the kitchen, a plate was already waiting for her. She smiled faintly, sat down, and just then, her mother entered. Quickly, she pulled her scarf over her head. Shahana's rule was strict: a girl must eat with her head covered.
"Why so rushed?" Shahana said gently. "You've wet your hair again washing your face. Sit in the sun afterward and dry it properly."
"Yes, Ma."
"Where's Lima?"
"She's gone to school. Shima will come in the afternoon."
"When is Abba coming home?"
Shahana's face froze. In a dry voice, she said,
"I don't know. And don't talk while eating."
As Shahana walked away, Sarah's eyes filled with tears. One drop fell onto her rice. She quickly wiped it away.
Yes, she had a father — but no father's love. She didn't know what she had done wrong. Twice, she had asked her mother,
"Am I really your daughter, Ma? Did you adopt me because you couldn't have children? Why does Abba hate me so much?"
Shahana had stayed silent for a long time before saying softly,
"You're my own blood — and your father's too. Now go study."
That was all. But Sarah always felt there was a secret — something hidden, something painful. She just prayed it wouldn't destroy her when she finally learned it.
That evening, the power went out — as it often did in Atpara. The village fell into darkness.
Sarah, Lima, and nine-year-old Shima were studying together. Shima clung to Sarah's scarf, frightened.
"Ma?" Sarah called softly.
"Go bring the torch," Shahana's voice replied from another room.
Sarah stood up. Just then, she heard the gate creak open. Peeking outside, she saw Harun — her step-uncle — entering the yard. Her heart raced. Quickly, she stepped back into the shadows.
"Bubu! Why's the house dark? Light the lamps!" Harun called.
"Harun, you're here?" Shahana came out, holding a lamp.
"Yes, me," he grinned.
"Come in," she said quietly.
"Where are your girls?"
"In their room, studying."
"In the dark?" He chuckled.
Shahana didn't answer. Whenever Harun visited, the air grew heavy. Something about him made her uneasy — though she couldn't explain why.
"You'll stay for dinner?" she asked finally.
"Should I eat here or in your fancy dining room?" he joked.
"If you want to eat, then come," she replied curtly.
But Sarah didn't join them. She sat frozen in her room, trembling. Since Harun's return from Saudi Arabia three months ago, she'd done everything to avoid him.
Shahana noticed it all. She didn't force her tonight — but decided silently, tonight, she'll tell me the truth.
An hour later, after the electricity returned, Harun left.
Sarah turned to her sisters immediately.
"How many times have I told you — don't go near him! Ever!" she said in a broken whisper.
Lima and Shima stared at her, stunned. Sarah had never raised her voice before.
Just then, Shahana entered the room.
"Sarah, come to my room," she said sternly.
Sarah's body froze. Her hands trembled. She followed her mother, silent and terrified.
Inside, Shahana looked at her daughter — beautiful, fragile, and scared. She wanted to speak gently, but her voice came out firm:
"What are you hiding? Why don't you want to face Harun? What has he done?"
Sarah burst into tears.
After a long pause, Shahana's tone softened. "Harun is a deceitful man. I know him — not just because he's my stepbrother. If he's done anything wrong, tell me. I'll believe you."
At those words, Sarah broke down completely — crying like a river breaking its banks.
And for the first time, Shahana understood the silence her daughter had been carrying all along.