Chapter 2
The bus to the city smelled of sweat and diesel. Mother sat by the window, the pink bottle wrapped in her old sari, held tight against her chest like it was Ayan himself.
I sat beside her, my legs dangling, not reaching the floor. She had sold our goat that morning. "For the bus fare," she said. But I knew. She sold it because she couldn't look at the goat anymore. It reminded her of Ayan. He used to feed it grass, laughing between coughs.
The city was loud. Not like our village where you could hear the river at night. Here, horns screamed, people pushed, nobody looked at your face.
Mother went to the big hospital. The building was white and cold. A man in a clean shirt asked for 50,000 taka. Just like that. Like asking for the price of rice.
"We have 3,210," mother said, placing the tin box on the counter. Her voice didn't shake. That scared me more than if she had cried.
The man didn't laugh. He didn't shout. He just looked tired. "Madam, we can't do surgery for that. Come back when you have the full amount."
We came out. Mother didn't cry. She stood on the pavement, people rushing past her, and opened her bag. She took out the pink bottle.
"Rain from a mother's heart," she whispered to herself, practicing. "Heals what medicine can't."
She started walking. Not back to the bus stand. Deeper into the city. To the market where rich women bought flowers for their vases.
She stood on the corner, the bottle in her hands, and spoke. Not loud. Just clear.
"I am selling rain. Rain from a mother's heart. My son is dying. This is all I have."
People stared. Some laughed. One man said, "Crazy woman."
Then a woman stopped. She wore gold bangles and expensive perfume. She had a little girl with her, maybe five years old, holding her hand.
"How much?" the woman asked, not unkindly.
Mother looked at her. Then at the girl. "Whatever you think a mother's heart is worth."
The woman opened her purse. She took out a 500 taka note. Then another. Then five more. 3,000 taka. She put it in mother's hand and took the bottle.
"My daughter had fever last month," she said softly. "I was scared. I understand."
She walked away. The little girl looked back at us and waved. Mother waved back, her cut palm hidden in her sari.
That night, we didn't go back to the village. We slept on the pavement outside the hospital, using mother's bag as a pillow. She counted the money again and again. 6,210 taka now.
It was still not enough. Not even close.
In the dark, I heard her crying. Silent tears, the kind that don't make noise because you're too tired to make noise.
I touched her arm. "Ma, is Ayan going to die?"
She didn't answer for a long time. Then she pulled me close, her body warm against the cold concrete.
"No, beta," she said. "Mothers don't let their children die. They just... find new things to sell."
She looked at her other palm. The one that wasn't cut yet.
And I understood, with a cold fear in my stomach, what she was going to do tomorrow.