The Village Girl

I was a village girl.

Not the kind you see in stories, with braided hair and wildflowers in her hands. No, my hair was often undone, my hands were calloused, and my flowers were weeds I had to pull out of the yard.

The village was real. Dusty in the summer, frozen in the winter, and always full of work. Chickens clucked before sunrise, and cows needed milking before I could even think of brushing my teeth. But I didn’t complain I didn’t know anything else. That was my world.

“Wake up, Begim,” my mother whispered one morning, gently touching my shoulder. “The sun is up. The broom is by the door.”

It wasn’t a request.

It was a rhythm.

We didn’t have store-bought brooms. My mother made them herself tightly bundled twigs bound with her hands, rough and precise. I hated that broom. It scratched my fingers and made my arms sore. But it had to be used every morning.

And before sweeping, came the ritual.

“Water the yard first. No dust in the air,” Mama would say firmly. “The neighbors shouldn’t see you raising dust like a careless girl.”

I would drag the metal bucket across the courtyard, spilling water as I went, then sprinkle the ground before sweeping it clean, corner to corner, like she taught me. It wasn’t just about the dust. It was about pride. Dignity. Order.

Looking back now, I understand.

She was teaching me discipline the kind you don’t learn in books.

My parents were always busy. My father worked. My mother worked even more. I rarely saw them during the day. Instead, I grew up among brothers older, louder, more important. I was number seven. The invisible child.

They were the sons my father had waited for. Their voices carried more weight than mine, their opinions mattered more. I was the little one not the baby, but not the elder either. Not loud enough to be heard, not big enough to be feared.

I was a rose growing among thistles. And sometimes, I bled.

But there were moments of magic.

Weekends.

Two golden days.

That’s when my sisters came home.

I remember standing by the window every Friday, waiting to see the bus the one that brought them from the city. My heart would leap the moment I spotted it.

“They’re here!” I’d shout, running barefoot across the yard.

They brought laughter. Lipstick. Perfume. The sweet smell of shampoo and that mysterious cream they used when dyeing their hair. I loved that scent. I still do. It smelled like freedom. Like women who belonged to a bigger world.

They cooked the best food. They played music on cassette tapes. They told stories about school, boys, books a life I had never touched. And for two days, I felt like I belonged somewhere softer, somewhere warm.

Then Sunday evening came.

The bus took them back.

And I was alone again.

During the week, I was quiet. I didn’t speak much. I would sit in the corner with my dog or the cat, stroking their fur slowly, like a prayer.

I didn’t know how to say it then, but I was lonely.

Not sad just… waiting. For something. For someone. For life.

Even now, all these years later, I still carry those weekends in my heart. The joy, the smells, the tastes they stayed with me. And when I built my own family, I brought that same magic into my home.

Every Saturday and Sunday, I try to recreate the feeling: music, food, guests, family.

I became the sister.

The woman with the lipstick and the stories.

And the little girl I once was

She smiles from deep inside me.