Kulsum Begum

In the dead of night, Mariam awoke with a start. It seemed to her that someone was bathing in their courtyard. A sudden chill coursed through her chest.

It was a dark monsoon night in Asharh. For four relentless hours, rain had poured from the heavens, only recently easing into a gentle drizzle. The soft patter upon the tin roof echoed like the measured rhythm of a tabla. From the stagnant pond behind the house came the coarse croaking of frogs, while unseen insects hidden among tangled bushes filled the night air with a ceaseless, shrill chorus. The darkness itself seemed burdened with an unnamed dread. The winding road that stretched through Rasulpur village from east to west resembled a giant python lying motionless in the night, its silent breath brushing against the back of her neck.

Mariam nudged her husband, who was lying on his side.

“Wake up,” she whispered.
“Someone seems to be bathing in our courtyard.”
Half asleep, Amir Uddin pulled the quilt over his shoulder and turned away.  
“Oh, who would it be? No one.”
Exhaustion weighed heavily upon him. The previous day had marked the second birthday of their only daughter, Maimuna.

 Since the child had been born on the seventh day of Asharh, the occasion had become a cherished family celebration. 

Relatives and neighbours had spent the day coming and going, enjoying mangoes, jackfruit, rice pudding, and sweets. Since the courtyard had turned to mud under the incessant rain, the children had played on the veranda while the women remained occupied in the kitchen.

Only after feeding the guests, bidding them farewell, and cleaning the northern veranda had Amir finally retired to bed. His sleep was not one of peace but of utter exhaustion. Mariam, however, was certain she had heard something. 

Ever since becoming a mother, her senses seemed sharpened beyond measure. While cooking in the kitchen, she could hear the faintest cough from Maimuna. While gathering vegetables in the garden, she could distinguish the child’s smallest murmur. More than once, she had rushed back to the house at the slightest sound. On one occasion, a sleek black cat had meowed beside Maimuna’s bed, prompting Mariam to chase it all the way to the neighbouring village of Palashpur. Such was the ferocity of her devotion.

Then the sound came again.  Splash.  A moment later�"  Splash.

Someone was indeed lifting water from the large earthen vessel beneath the veranda roof, set for collecting rainwater, and pouring it over themselves. This time, Amir Uddin sat upright. 

“Who’s there?” he shouted. “Who is it?”
The darkness remained silent. His voice startled Maimuna awake, and the child began to cry. As Mariam gathered her daughter into her arms and soothed her, she called out as well.

“Who’s there?”
A trembling female voice emerged from the darkness.
“It is I�"Kulsum.”
The child’s crying drowned out the words at first. “Who?” now they asked almost together.

“I am Kulsum.”
“Who is Kulsum?”
They stepped outside.
The moon had risen, though it remained concealed behind drifting clouds. In its pale and uncertain glow, they discerned the figure of a woman standing in the courtyard.

She appeared to be around thirty years old, roughly Mariam’s age. Yet poverty, hunger, and neglect had aged her beyond her years. Her cheekbones jutted sharply beneath weathered skin. Strands of wet, tangled hair clung to her forehead.

She wore a loose, worn-out garment. Most striking of all, she was shivering�"violently, continuously shivering. And yet, in that chill, she had been bathing. The sight was deeply unsettling. It was not winter, but after seven days of relentless rain and a night of uninterrupted downpour, the damp air carried a penetrating coldness that seemed to seep into the bones.

At that moment, Solaiman emerged from the study room. He was Amir Uddin’s nephew, a tenth-grade science student with a naturally inquisitive mind. Courage fascinated him. He scoffed at ghost stories and dismissed superstition. To him, every mystery possessed a rational explanation.

Yet even Solaiman felt uneasy. There was something strange about the woman’s eyes. It was not madness. Nor was it merely sorrow. Rather, it was a weariness so profound that it seemed she had wandered the roads of the earth for ages and found no refuge anywhere.

Amir Uddin, a university graduate employed by an NGO, began questioning her.

“Where is your home?”
The woman remained silent.
“Why have you come here?”
She stared vacantly into the darkness. Eventually, she began to speak, but her words emerged fragmented and incoherent. No one could make sense of them.

By then, Maimuna had fallen asleep once more. Mariam held her daughter tighter. An unknown woman, an isolated courtyard, the dead of night�"a mother’s imagination can summon countless fears.

“You must leave,” she said firmly.
Kulsum slowly raised her face.

“My father drove me away,” she murmured. “He left me behind with three children. Where shall I go?”
The words lingered in the damp night air. No one replied. Rainwater dropped steadily from the edge of the veranda. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

Kulsum bent down and picked up an old pair of sandals lying near the wall. Perhaps she intended to wear them. Perhaps she merely wished to touch something that belonged to a home.

At once, Amir Uddin’s elderly mother cried out from beneath her mosquito net.

“Oh, dear! She’s taking the sandals!”
Solaiman stepped forward and gently removed them from her hands. Kulsum offered no resistance. She simply stood there in silence. And somehow that silence unsettled them more than words ever could.

Only seventeen days earlier, a robbery had taken place in a neighbouring village. Criminals had drugged an entire household, rendering them unconscious before looting everything they owned. The incident remained fresh in everyone’s memory.

What if this woman were part of a scheme? What if accomplices were hiding nearby? Fear has a remarkable power to distort human judgment. In the end, the family decided that Kulsum should be escorted beyond their property. Solaiman volunteered.

The drizzle continued as they walked along the muddy path. For a long while, neither spoke. Then Solaiman noticed that Kulsum was barefoot. Broken shells, pebbles, and stones cut into her feet as she walked.

“Where are your children?” he asked.
Without looking at him, she continued through the mud.
-“They’re gone.”
-“Where?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The answer filled Solaiman with a profound sadness. This was not merely a homeless woman. This was a human being who had lost her place in the world itself. When they reached the veranda of the village grocer’s shop, he stopped.
“You can spend the night here.”

Kulsum nodded.
She moved quietly to a corner and sat upon an old jute sack spread across the floor. Solaiman lingered. He wanted to do more�"to bring her a blanket, find her food, persuade his family to let her sleep in the cowshed. But he could already hear their objections. At last, he turned away. Yet the image of the solitary woman haunted him throughout the night.

The following day was Friday. The sky had partially cleared, and the village resumed its ordinary rhythm. Courtyards were swept. Meals were prepared. Men went to the market. Only Kulsum seemed disconnected from the pulse of life.

Near the canal embankment, she was seen searching for discarded scraps of food�"a handful of rice, a piece of bread, anything she could find.

Many saw her. Some muttered disapprovingly before moving on. Most simply looked away. On his way to Friday prayers, Solaiman saw her as well. Something twisted painfully within him.

At school, they taught humanity. At the mosque, they preached compassion. Books praised charity and social responsibility. Yet in the real world, a hungry woman scavenged for scraps while everyone remained indifferent. Before leaving for the mosque, he brought her a few dry rice cakes and an old pair of shoes. Kulsum accepted them silently.

 Then, for the first time, she smiled. It was not a smile of happiness. Rather, it was the smile of someone astonished to discover that humanity had not forgotten her entirely.

After Friday prayers, life quickly returned to normal. The strange visitor of the previous night became little more than a topic of casual conversation. Only Solaiman remained quiet. Kulsum’s smile stayed with him.

That afternoon, the village watchman, Rahmat Ali, arrived carrying Mariam’s citizenship certificate, which she needed for a job application at a social welfare organisation. As he prepared to leave, he casually mentioned that the body of an unidentified woman had been found in the neighbouring village. She had been discovered floating face down in the water. No one knew who she was. A sudden silence descended upon the room. The old woman looked at Mariam. Mariam looked at Amir Uddin. No words were spoken. Yet much seemed to pass between them. Rahmat Ali noticed nothing and departed. Evening fell upon the village.

After the Maghrib prayer, Solaiman was walking home. The last traces of daylight had faded from the sky. The rain-soaked road glistened faintly in the darkness, while the dim heavens reflected upon the still waters of the canal. By then, he too had heard the news. Removing his prayer cap, he gazed upward into the vast expanse of the night sky. 

Then, in silence, he asked the Almighty a question that would leave a scratch in his young but thoughtful mind: Who was responsible for Kulsum’s death?