Unfinished Lilies of Hope

West Bengal, India, 1971

Adib caught a glimpse of her again.

She was a few feet ahead of him in the ration queue. He had first seen her three days ago near the main refugee camp area, while she was talking to another girl of around her age. What had struck him was the serene aura she seemed to radiate, even with all the misery around them.

He watched the grumpy distributer hastily measure two cups of rice and one of lentils before dumping the grains into her brown cloth bag. Once a candle, matchbox and a small bottle of oil were also thrown in, she graciously took the bag and placed its worn-out strap over her shoulders.

When she turned around, their eyes met. She was expressionless for a few seconds, but then the sides of her lips curved to reveal a sweet smile. Adib smiled back awkwardly, tilting his head slightly in acknowledgement.

He was surprised to see her waiting when he collected his share and was about to head back to his tent.

“Salam,” she greeted as he approached her.

“Walaikum Assalam,” he replied, and then added, “I am Adib.”

“My name’s Sharmila,” she said warmly. “Which district did you flee from?

That question had become the customary opening for introductions amongst the Bangladeshi refugees, whose backyards had turned into battlefields without much of a warning.

“Kushtia - it wasn’t too long of a journey for us. And you?”

“Rajshahi. Have you ever been there?”

“Sadly no, but I did taste the mouth-watering mangoes and lychees from your region. My uncle went to medical school there and used to bring us some whenever he visited.

A nostalgic look passed over Sharmila’s face which she quickly waved away and asked, “Speaking of schools, are you a university student?’”

Adib chuckled, and replied, “Not yet. I am sixteen but I do look older”

“I am almost sixteen too, and I don’t think you look super old. But the country’s situation has certainly taken a toll on everyone……my mother seems to have grayed overnight and added a decade to her age.”

“Are you staying at the camps as well?” Adib asked gently.

“No, my father has an acquaintance here, whose family generously offered to take us in. My parents, two younger sisters and I share a room in their house.”

“That’s good. I am glad you have a solid roof over your head at least.”

Adib and Sharmila exchanged some more details about their backgrounds and then parted ways. However, they kept running into each other every now and then by chance, and before long, their encounters took place by choice. They met regularly to discuss political updates they had picked up from the radio or overheard from adult conversations; or to trade bits of uplifting news on how brave, patriotic rebels were trying to counter the West Pakistani army with guerilla tactics, or to commiserate over how captured Bengali freedom fighters were being cruelly tormented.

“What would you like to if Bangladesh attains liberation… or if things go back to normal?” Sharmila asked Adib one afternoon.

“A doctor, perhaps? Or a lawyer?”

“Really? I am surprised.”

“Why?”

“I have noticed that you often start making patterns on the ground whenever you have a stick, so I presumed you wanted to study art.”

“Oh,” Adib laughed, “Maybe in another lifetime, but now I have to choose something more practical.”

“I want to show you something. Will you be able to come near the jute warehouse tomorrow at dawn?”

“Sure, I think I can manage to sneak out of my tent without waking anyone up.”

Thus, they met at the designated rendez-vous early next morning, and Sharmila directed him towards a rusty metal gate in front of the east wing of the abandoned warehouse.

Adib stopped in his tracks when he saw what she had brought him to experience.

There was a gigantic spider web, very intricately spun, covering one third of the gate. It was awe-inspiring, not only due to its size and pattern, but mainly because the dawn air had settled along its silk threads, making it appear as a gossamer fabric bejeweled with dew drops.

Sharmila grinned at Adib’s amazed face, “I knew you would appreciate it. I also got you a gift.”

She gingerly took out a small black notebook and a pencil from her bag.

“I believe I was able to carry a few more school materials than you were while seeking shelter. And I thought you could do with something other than mud as your canvas.”

“Thank you,” Adib muttered, deeply touched. He held the notebook, caressing its thick cover before opening it. He saw a sketch of a water lily on the first page, but it was asymmetrically drawn with only five petals.

Interpreting his quizzical look, Sharmila explained, “We have a pond back home with beautiful, pink water lilies. I took the liberty of drawing you one, but intentionally left out the sixth petal as a way to nudge you to keep continuing to finish it.”

“I never asked you - what do you want to do when you grow up?” Adib asked, shifting his gaze from the notebook to Sharmila’s dark brown eyes.

“I don’t know….maybe something that allows me to help people…people who are in situations similar to ours?”

Adib smiled at her kind heart and thanked her again for the black notebook.

He mentally planned to find something suitable to give her as well, but little did he anticipate that he would not be seeing her the following day, or ever again in that camp.

Boston, United States, 2017

“Congratulations, Adib!”

“Thank you, Maria,” Adib replied to his younger colleague, beaming at the sight of all the Ropes & Rods employees who had gathered to celebrate the end of his 20-year term at the architecture firm.

“We are going to sorely miss your charming presence and ingenious ideas! What are your grand retirement plans?”

Adib shrugged, “Nothing concrete yet, but I do have travelling in mind. And I will certainly miss you all too.”

After he gave a sentimental farewell speech peppered with some roasts of his closest work buddies, he gathered his belongings, said his final goodbyes, and reached home before the sun set in the October sky.

As he sat on his armchair, sipping his usual black tea, his large house felt quieter and emptier than usual. He twiddled the ring on his finger, which he wore even after eleven years of his wife passing away from osteosarcoma. He suddenly had the urge to find company in old photo albums, so he slowly made his way up to the attic to retrieve them. And while taking out some albums from a dusty box, something dropped with a gentle thud.

He stared at the faded, black notebook lying on the ground. He had totally forgotten about it but had never forgotten the person who had given it to him. He held it tenderly, memories flooding back. He had never ceased to wonder what had happened to that bright, optimistic girl who had once made his days at the refugee camp more bearable. Why had her family left in such a hurry? Did she ultimately manage to have a happy life?

If only he could have a chance to thank her again for the great impact she had on him. He had decided to pursue a more creative career path after all and studied architecture; met his wonderful wife in one of his university classes and had immigrated to America soon after their marriage.

The notebook made him recall the majestic sight of the dewy spider-web and reflect on how his life events were also intertwined and often sat on opposite poles – fleeing his country by force and leaving the homeland by choice; watching his son being delivered and seeing his wife being buried; experiencing phases of huge success and enduring periods of bottomless grief.

The first few pages of the notebook contained beautiful sketches of people and sceneries he had made as a teenager, but the notebook remained mostly empty. Adib had been at a loss to figure out how he wanted to spend the twilight years of his life, but he knew right then exactly what he wanted to do.

*******

Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz!

Adib’s cell phone vibrated. Seeing the auction manager’s name on the screen, Adib picked up the call eagerly, but also nervously.

“Mr.Rahman, I have great news. You made a grand total of $20,000 with all your sketches!”

Adib took a good long minute to soak in the information. He hadn’t quite expected to acquire that large of a sum from the fifteen art pieces he had put up for auction after two months of productive toil. But he finally broke into a grateful smile with his eyes brimming with tears, for he knew the money would allow him to proceed with his plans.

Dhaka, Bangladesh, 2018

Reaz carefully made his way to the director’s office, trying not to bump into anyone. Things were more hectic than usual at the UNHCR branch in Dhaka, with the ongoing crisis of Rohingya refugees from Myanmar.

He tiredly knocked on the door once he reached his destination.

“Come in,” a gentle voice permitted.

“Ma’am, we received a large parcel from an anonymous donor. It had a note requesting the donation be made to children and interestingly in honor of your first name. So, I thought I would check in with you first.”

“That’s very strange indeed. It must be a coincidence. What’s in the package?”

“Thousands of pocket notebooks. I brought you one in case you wanted to see.”

The elderly lady curiously took the black leather-bound notebook from Reaz. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw what was embossed in pink on the notebook cover – an asymmetric five-petaled lily, just like the one she had drawn some five decades ago for a boy she had profoundly cared about…..for a boy she had seen losing hope of chasing his dreams.