By Dr Lokman Khan
The rain lashed against the grimy windows of the terraced house in suburban Cardiff, a relentless drumming that mirrored the discontent simmering inside. Kamal Hassan sat hunched over the copy of a journal, his brow furrowed in concentration on a scientific paper.
Across the room, Sabina, Kamal’s wife, paced the cramped living room, her saree whispering against the cheap floral carpet. “Look at this weather,” she muttered, her voice dripping with disdain. “Didn’t we have sunshine in Dhaka at least?”
Kamal, hunched over the journal, a lifeline to his research, offered a distracted, “It’s the monsoon season, Sabina. It rains in Wales too.”
“But not like this,” she countered, her frustration morphing into a familiar accusation, her voice dripping with exasperation, “this weather is unbearable! Can’t we just move to a proper place, like London? At least there, we’d have some decent sunshine and proper people to socialize with.”
Kamal, buried deep in a research paper on bio molecular science, barely looked up. “Sabina,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “London is expensive. We can’t afford it on my student stipend.”
“You wouldn’t need a measly stipend if you’d taken that lucrative job offer back home!” Sabina’s voice rose in a familiar argumentative pitch.
Sabina flicked relentlessly through a glossy magazine filled with images of opulent houses and manicured gardens.
“Kamal,” she began again, her voice dripping with a theatrical sigh, “Look at this kitchen! Granite countertops, a walk-in pantry… This is what I was promised when you dragged us to this godforsaken place.”
Kamal sighed internally. A year in the UK, and Sabina’s complaints hadn’t dimmed an inch. He’d come for his PhD, a chance to elevate their lives, but it felt like he’d landed them in a perpetual drizzle instead.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. Their four-year-old daughter, Priya, huddled near the window, clutching her tattered Bengali doll, her large eyes brimming with unshed tears. The constant tension in the house made her stomach churn. Her once vibrant chatter replaced by a quiet sadness.
The frustration bubbled up within Kamal. “We’re building a future here, Sabina. A better life for Priya, for all of us.”
Sabina scoffed. “Future? This is barely surviving. I miss Dhaka, my friends, the sunshine… everything felt brighter there, before I married you….”
Their conversation was cut short by a sudden crackle. The lights flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness. Priya whimpered, burying her face in her doll.
A low rumble of thunder shook the house. Sabina shrieked, a sound laced with more than just fear of the storm. For a moment, the weight of their fractured life pressed down on Kamal. He remembered a similar monsoon night back in Dhaka, the power gone, their tiny apartment lit by flickering candlelight. He’d held Sabina close then, a warmth shared despite the storm outside.
“Remember that monsoon night in Dhaka, Sabina?” Kamal asked softly, surprised by his own words. Sabina was silent for a moment, then a shaky laugh escaped her lips. “How could I forget? The power went out, and we sat on the balcony, watching the lightning illuminate the Buriganga River.”
Kamal cut her off gently, surprised by a surge of empathy. He remembered their old house in Dhaka, the warm glow of hurricane lamps during power cuts, the stories his grandmother used to weave in the darkness. “Come here,” he said, his voice softer than usual.
The memory flickered to life like a flickering candle flame – the Dhaka monsoons, their tiny apartment in old Dhaka filled with the scent of wet earth and brewing chai. Sabina, clad in a crimson sari, knelt by the window, her frustration a counterpoint to the rhythmic drumming of rain.
“Kamal,” she began, her voice tight with annoyance, “look at this street! Flooded again. There’s no way I’m wading through that mess to get to work.”
Kamal, hunched over a pile of research papers, looked up with a tired smile. “There’s always rickshaws, Sabina. Besides, a little rain never hurt anyone.”
Sabina scoffed. “Easy for you to say, Mr. Scientist. You don’t have to worry about ruining your new shoes.” She gestured towards a pair of delicate sandals perched on a chair, a stark contrast to Kamal’s well-worn chappals.
“Shoes can be replaced,” Kamal said patiently. “But this opportunity… this research fellowship? It could change everything for us. We could move to UK……”
Sabina’s eyes narrowed. “Everything? Or just your dreams, Kamal? What about mine?”
The question hung heavy in the air. Kamal knew Sabina had her own aspirations – a career in fashion design that had been put on hold since their wedding. Dhaka, with its bustling textile markets, had offered her an outlet for her creativity in embroidery.
“Your dreams are important too, Sabina,” he said gently. “Maybe, once I finish my PhD, we can…”
“Maybe?” Sabina cut him off, her voice laced with bitterness. “Maybe we’ll be too old then, stuck in a dreary little flat with a career that won’t even get you a decent cup of tea!”
Kamal felt a surge of anger, quickly quelled by a wave of helplessness. He understood her frustration. The constant rain, the cramped quarters, the feeling of being utterly lost in money worries – it was a pressure cooker, ready to burst.
He stood up and walked towards the window, gazing out at the rain-soaked cityscape. “Look, Sabina,” he said softly, “I know it’s hard. But we have each other, and Priya…”
A loud wail from the bedroom interrupted him. Their daughter, barely two at the time, emerged, tears streaming down her face. The constant arguments had become a frightening norm for her.
Sabina scooped Priya into her arms, her anger replaced by a wave of protectiveness. She cradled their daughter close, rocking her gently. Kamal watched, a lump forming in his throat.
In that quiet moment, a shared sense of defeat hung heavy in the air. The rain continued its relentless assault, mirroring the turmoil within their tiny apartment. The dream of a brighter future seemed to recede further into the distance.
Yet, as the storm raged outside, a flicker of warmth remained. As Sabina hummed a Bengali lullaby to Priya, Kamal reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, a silent gesture of solidarity. The unspoken words hung between them – a love tinged with frustration, a hope battling against the harsh realities of their situation. The storm would eventually pass, but the weight of their unspoken dreams lingered, a burden they would have to carry together.
Kamal jolted back to present. He lit a candle, its faint light offering a shred of comfort. Sabina huddled next to him, her usual sharp edges softened by the darkness. Priya, sensing the change in atmosphere, crept closer.
A shared memory, a shred of their past life. The storm raged on, but within the small circle of light cast by the candle, a fragile connection flickered. Priya nestled between them, her doll clutched loosely in her hand.
Outside, a flash of lightning illuminated the rain-lashed street for a fleeting moment. Priya snuggled against Kamal’s leg.
A strange silence fell upon them, broken only by the rhythmic patter of rain. Sabina shivered, a gesture that seemed more about loneliness than the chill. In the dim glow of the candle, Kamal saw a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes, a stark contrast to her usual facade.
Before he could speak, Priya piped up, her voice trembling. “Tell the story of the magical river, Baba.”
Sabina scoffed. “What river? Stop filling her head with nonsense.”
Kamal, however, felt a warmth spread through him. “There’s a river in Bangladesh,” he began, his voice soft, “hidden deep in the forests. When the monsoon comes, the river overflows, bringing life and light to the land.”
As he spoke, painting vivid pictures with his words, the tension in the room seemed to dissipate. Sabina didn’t interrupt, and Priya’s eyes widened with wonder. For a moment, they were transported back to their homeland, a shared experience bridging the gap between them.
Sabina turned to Kamal, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Maybe this England isn’t so bad after all,” she said, her voice softer than usual.
Before Kamal could respond, Priya tugged at his hand. “More story, Baba?” she pleaded.
As the first rays of dawn peeked through the rain-streaked windows, the electricity returned. The house remained the same, worn and small, but a shift had occurred. The shared memory, like a lightning flash, had momentarily illuminated the chasm between them. Was it enough to bridge the gap, or would the storm outside continue to mirror the turmoil within?
Kamal looked at Sabina, a question hanging in the air. Her face, usually etched with dissatisfaction, held a flicker of something new – a hint of vulnerability. Would this shared experience become a stepping stone to understanding, or would the harsh reality of their struggle in the UK shatter the fragile connection? Only time would tell.
30 June 2024
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
LK INNOVATE 
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