Written piece
The Sew
Raiyan Tausifur Rahman
Bangladesh
About this piece
A mother and her Hindu neighbor stand guard over a sleeping child with what they have: a Boti, a curved kitchen blade kept flat for safety, held upright to cut.
The child sleeps wrapped in the Nakshi Kantha, beneath the warmth of a design woven with hope.
‘Aagh...’
His gang faced resistance before, but none left them bleeding. Though the blade cut his ego more deeply than his hand.
Hence, his eyes prowled around the shack for something. Something to compensate for what the boss had wanted.
Soon the red that fed his eye,
Was a red kantha,
wrapping a want.
… … …
My mother was humming me to sleep. As I, with my head on her lap, kept my eyes wide open.
“The earth of Karbala weeps, the sky fills with cries.”
Her singing lulls me to sleep. But her gaze is anchored to the roof. With a sigh, her song tremors.
A speck of moonlight splinters through the tin shed, shining the tear in her eyes and a knife on her right. Both hidden in plain sight.
The light also shines on the nakshi kantha that wraps me. With the sown design of a Saif blade and a trisul,
forming a cross on my back.
Alike the design, I lived both.
We sew kobutars, Crescent; They sew Padma, Ganesh.
They came to ours at Eid, and we went to theirs at Diwali.
This ‘theirs’ of mine was my mashi.
Mashi, not related by blood but by threads of choice.
She sits by the door, eye pressed to the worm-eaten crack. With a boti at her side, upright.
She never forgot to lay it flat. But today it's ready to cut.
Eventually, my naivety wins over consciousness,
I fall asleep as Mashi sings,
“Lord, the day has passed, evening has come;
ferry me across to the other side.”
… … …
The moment he saw the sew,
An ominous dread filled his mind.
Whether spiritual dogmatism or divine intervention
He flinched and
walked back to those who wait in agony,
saying, “No one inside.”