by Arisha W., 17
This is how it begins.
The bicycle racing through the Forest belongs to the book-boy. No one knows his first name, but they all know him as Hawkes’s son. The local bookseller’s boy. One half of the Hawkes family. They know him as the tinkle of bells as the bicycle reaches the house, with a lovely brown package wrapped delicately and delivered tenderly by his hands. They know him as the stars that flitter gently beneath his eyes, the striking black hair that peeks through his brown Ivy-cap. The book-boy. Unthreatening, careful, safe.
This is how it begins.
The house hidden near the woods does not have a name, because it rarely needs one. When referring to the grand wooden fixtures, the bright fireflies that dance around it, the regal man, his quiet wife and his three beautiful girls, all the outsiders need to do is say that house, because there are no houses like it around. Not anywhere, one might say.
This is how it begins.
Three girls lounge in the afternoon sun, braiding each other’s hair, reading books, telling stories, laughing. They are the image of childhood, of girlhood, of love. They are, forever and always, happy.
It begins with the bicycle racing towards the path that leads to the house. It begins with one of the girls straying further away from the house, to pick at a patch of dandelions that grow. It begins with an eye staring through the bushes, the bicycle discarded, the package clasped gently in a pair of hands. It begins with a glance, then a stare, then a flit away. It begins with a hand, reaching out to pour the package into another hand. It begins with a few words, a shake of the head, a mumbled, infatuated, thank you. An equally hesitant, nervous, no problem. It begins with her steps, gentle and careful and drawn-out, to give the package to her older sister. It begins with him, hands feeling empty, heart feeling wrung out, as he races back home.
It begins with both of them, miles away, worlds away, looking at the same moon. For her, it begins with a prayer. For him, it begins with a wish. For both of them, it begins with something fickle and quiet clasped gently within their hands, hope.
Dhaka, Bangladesh
Bridge Ink 