She Walks in the Sun
Mira's day begins not in celebration, but in stumble. On her way back from school, books dangling loosely at her side, she walks the narrow pars lanes. The afternoon light stretches her shadow in front of her like a guide, but her steps falter. She slips, falls hard against the road, dust clinging to her uniform. Pain sears through her palm. Rising slowly, clutching her books tighter, she continues-her rhythm broken, yet her resolve intact.
The next morning, on the rooftop, the city stirs beneath a pale wash of gold. Mira brushes her hair, her eyes squinting at the rising sun. Her left palm is wrapped in fresh white cloth, catching the faint light. Though her movements are habitual, the air feels different. During Pujo, even the breeze hums differently, carrying the weight of anticipation. Later, she leans against the terrace parapet, her books still in her arms. Her elder sister, playful yet cutting, lifts their arms into the sunlight, comparing their skin. The sister's laughter lingers, sharp against the still air. Mira lowers her eyes, her bandaged hand tightening on the parapet until her nails dig into cloth. No blood surfaces, but the wound is etched deeper in silence -the first scar born at home.
By afternoon, she arrives at the old thakurdalan. The pillars stand in solemn light, divided between, brightness and shadow. She does not step inside. Instead, her bandaged hand rests gently on the iron gate. She lingers there, not entering, not leaving-held at a threshold that feels more like a question than a welcome.
In a deserted courtyard, she sits cross-legged, her head tilted upward. The sun floods her face, while her open bandaged palm rests on her knee, a fragile gesture of offering. Stillness surrounds her, broken only by the distant cry of a bird, reminding her that silence too can speak.
The lane carries her forward. Her hand, wrapped in cloth, brushes against a peeling wall, gathering dust. At a broken façade, she stops. With firm defiance, she dips her bandaged hand into sindoor and smears a bold stroke across her forehead. The wall cracks, her skin marks- both endure.
Evening unfolds at the river's edge. Barefoot in a white saree with a red border, her steps leave vivid alta footprints on the stone ghat. Her bandaged palm trails the railing, a hibiscus resting by chance on one step. Finally, in the open field, horizon blazing, her saree catches the wind. She spreads her arms, the bandage fluttering faintly, and realizes: the goddess does not wait in temples. She rises wherever she stands.
