Devoted

Chapter 1 - On a Mission

Vocabulary:

Moyoor - Peacock

Lehenga choli - Traditional skirt

Korma pulao - Type of Pilaf

Pahar/pahari - Hills/belonging to a hilly area

The cotton candies hovering above the red-orange horizon suddenly becomes dense. Colliding against each other, they give out a roar. It's the first rain of the monsoon season. That means the moyoors will be dancing on the hilltop. Afrin has to run. She can't miss their first and last dance of the year. Grabbing her lehenga choli, slightly lifting it with both hands, she heads for the doors.
"Afrin! You can't go out right now. The boy's side is coming to see you. Plus, it's about to rain." Her mother, Amina, paced through the kitchen door to stop her daughter, realizing that it was too late. Afrin had already escaped through the Kashmiri doors. Amina sighs, acknowledging that's how Afrin has always been since childhood--a serious pluviophile. However, she's all grown up now. Afrin can't act like this anymore; she's soon to get married, and the guy's family is about to come. Amina itches her sweaty forehead with the kitchen towel in her hand. ssss...ssss. The pressure cooker buzzed, letting her know the korma pulao is ready. "Oh God, what am I going to do with this girl?"

Afrin could care less about the world. All she has in her mind is the peacocks' first dance. She has to get to the hill 500 feet above the valley that lays in the most south-east region of Chittagong in Bangladesh, and that, too, before sunset. Pacing through the narrow pathway into the forest of bamboo trees, Afrin steps into the flowing stream of warm freshwater. Tickled by the little fish in the stream, Afrin chuckles. "Wish me luck." She passes the slightly rocky area on the way to her destination, barefoot. Her callus feet brush over the grainy sand leading her way across the flourishing green field that her grandfathers cherished for centuries. This land is hers, and she belongs to this land. An outsider's feet would be bleeding by now, but hers doesn't. She is the daughter of strong Pahari women, a reflection of the firm pahars of the village. Sunlight lays across her silky black hair that hangs up to her bottom as she adjusts her side bangs with one of her hands and holds the skirt with another, finally crossing the field. A little more to go before it starts raining.
"Afrin, where are you heading, dear?" Jahangir's uncle shouted from the back, halting her upward trajectory. She unwittingly turns to see her father figure, who runs a tea shop in the bazaar.
"Hilltop, uncle, next to the main road." She is about to turn when he advises her to take the safe way.
"Okay, it seems like you're in a hurry. Take the bazaar way." Following his suggestion, Afrin runs upward through the bazaar, grabbing a sugarcane stick from one of the stalls, almost tripping over the clay pots Pushpa aunty set up to sell. Ouch.
"Watch it, Afrin!" Pushpa rushes out of her stall, almost grabbing Afrin by the ear.
"So sorry, Pushpa. I'll make it up to you, I promise. Babu, I'll pay you for the sugarcane once I return." She holds her ear as a sign of apology while running as fast as she can.
"When will you pay me back for the last two sugarcanes?! Is this your father's stall?! You can't escape next time!" Babu keeps a note for every cane she steals from his stall and swears that he won't let her steal one next time, every time. In a matter of seconds, she fades into the mahoganies, almost in a floating motion, camouflaging in her mirror-beaded auburn skirt that wrapped perfectly around her waist, outlining her hourglass shape. Almost there, few more steps. The sun shines for the last time, reflecting against the mirrors on her skirt and creating a radiating halo around her before the gloomy clouds completely takeover. Shoot. Last shot.