The rickshaw seemed to come out of nowhere, mounting the pavement at frightening speed. Muneerah drew back against the wall, transfixed by its advancing wheels. The driver shouted something, but his words were lost in the roar of the traffic. She watched in horror as the vehicle bounced heavily across the pavement, and then jockeyed for position as it re-joined the crumbling tarmac. She let out a sigh of relief. It was no less than a miracle that the fool hadn’t killed her. "God is great, God is truly great," she muttered under her breath. Slowly the shock subsided, and was replaced by a sudden longing. Almost twelve months now since she'd been sent away from the village. Would she ever adapt to life in the city, with its unbearable smog, and the drivers who trusted to karma rather than their brakes? Pulling the edge of the sari over her face she hurried along the street.

Climbing a short flight of steps Muneerah entered the family apartment. She made her way into the kitchen and dropped the heavy basket onto the floor. Leaning against the counter she attempted to catch her breath. As she stood panting heavily, she felt the baby stirring in her belly. Her legs and ankles ached from carrying the heavy load, and she was suddenly aware of a twinge of pain in the small of her back. Ignoring the discomfort, she opened a cupboard and took down a small bottle of oil.

"Is that you Muneerah?" shouted her mother-in-law from another room.

"Yes," she shouted back. She closed the cupboard door, making sure it didn't bang. Hajir had berated her several times in the past for making too much noise. She waited for Hajir to add something more, but nothing came. So, pulling a large saucepan from a shelf, she set it upon the cooker, pouring just enough of the oil to cover the base. Bending down she took an onion from the basket, and as she straightened up, the baby kicked suddenly. She let out a small cry, her hands instinctively dropping to her belly, as though this action would soothe her unborn child.

Hajir stood in the doorway, scrutinizing the younger woman as she added a measure of cardamom to the simmering pan. She was a tall, thin woman, her eyes small and hard like bullets. Muneerah could feel the woman studying her, but she didn't look up from her task. Her mother-in-law had a sharp tongue, and she was quick to use it. Soon the fragrant scent of spices drifted across the room and reached Hajir's nostrils. She sniffed her approval. "Did you fetch the lemons?" she asked with a withering look. Muneerah nodded her head. And then without further words Hajir turned on her heels and left the room.

Muneerah let out a small sigh. Every day from sunrise to sundown she cooked and cleaned and washed the clothes, taking care of her husband's every need. She tried to be a dutiful wife, but nothing ever seemed to please the older woman. What more could she do? Was she seen as little more than an unpaid servant, or a vessel for her husband's seed? She slammed the knife she was holding down onto the counter. As the anger descended, she could feel her cheeks burning. Pushing these thoughts to the back of her mind she continued preparing the meal.

They sat down to dinner at the table. She stole a sideways glance at her husband. He had the same build as his mother, yet his face was rounder, his eyes softer. "This is good, very good," said Ali, eagerly scooping up a handful of food, and pushing it into his mouth. He sucked greedily on his fingers, making loud slurping noises. When he was ready to talk again he turned his gaze to his mother. "The authorities really must do something about the foul stench coming from the city dump," he said. "It's disgusting! Why, I swear it gets worse every day. Only this very morning it drifted into my office," he declared, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "This is not acceptable. Not acceptable at all." He scooped up another handful of food and continued to talk. His mother listened closely, her thin frame tilted forward, as she hung on his every word. Muneerah ate little. While her husband put the world to rights, she sat in silence, her thoughts elsewhere.

The scene stirred in her memory. It had been another hot spring day. She was in the courtyard chatting with her sister, enjoying the cool, crisp breeze the evening brought, when her father summoned her inside. He smiled at his eldest daughter. He had good news he told her, very good news. At last he'd found her a suitable husband, a government employee in the city. The bride-price had been agreed, and she was soon to be married. Her father would make the first dowry payment on her wedding day, and the remainder would be paid later. It would be an excellent match. The union would be an occasion for great joy and celebration.

As her father continued she listened quietly. She had always known that one day she would be married to someone she didn't know, but now the time was finally here she suddenly felt afraid. She could hear the sound of her own breath but she could no longer hear his voice. She had an overwhelming urge to cry out, 'but father, I'm not ready for this, please don't make me do it.' But she said nothing of these things. When he'd finished making his speech, she thanked him for the wisdom in his choice, and closed the door behind her. Only late into the night, when she was quite alone, did she allow the tears to fall.

Muneerah rose to clear the table. Hajir glanced up briefly, but she didn't move to help. "Muneerah, it's very late, you must come to bed soon," said Ali, stifling a yawn as he pushed the chair back from the table. She nodded her head, and then gathering the remaining dishes she carried them to the sink. When she turned around a moment later, the room was empty. She could feel the hot tears prickling behind her eyes. How could she possibly feel so alone in such a small apartment she wondered? Was there nobody who cared about what she thought, what she felt? "Fool, fool, you blind stupid fool," she whispered to herself. "Did you really ever imagine it would be so different?"

The liquid moon bathed the room in pale light, and cast flickering patterns across the walls. She sat on the side of the bed, and studied her husband sleeping. He lay sprawled across the mattress, his eyes darting back and forth beneath tightly closed lids. His mouth hung slack, allowing a small line of saliva to escape freely from one corner. He stirred a little and then mumbled something in his sleep. She wondered what her husband dreamed. He flung an arm across the bed and then shifted onto his side. Finally he was still. Moving slowly, so as not to wake him, she lifted the covers, and lay down next to him. Closing her eyes, she pressed her face into the pillow, and waited for sleep to come.

She is breathing pure air, and the skies are blue, brushed by wisps of white cloud. Muneerah scans the horizon. In the distance she recognizes the crouched figure of her father, and she makes her way across the lush green paddy towards him. As she draws closer, he looks up and smiles and she notices the tiny beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. She hands him the dish of food her mother has carefully prepared that morning. He nods his head in appreciation, and then presses his unshaven face to her cheek. Wiping his brow with his forearm, he bends his head, and goes back to work.

Leaving the fields far behind, she sets off along a narrow track. From the corner of her eye she notices a small, dark snake basking in the sun, its scales glinting like sequins in the bright light. Upon hearing approaching footsteps it moves swiftly across the ground, and disappears into the deep undergrowth. Shielding her eyes against the blistering sun, she cuts a path through the mango-grove where the air is cooler. Muneerah walks in the shade of the giant trees, stopping now and then to watch their dancing shadows. She knows her mother will be expecting her home to help with the household chores. But life is slow in the village, and she feels no urge to hurry.

Nearing the river she hears the sound of children's laughter. Pulling up her sari she picks up her pace, her bare feet kicking up a trail of dust as she runs down to the water's edge. The sun reflects brightly on the glistening water, but the river-bank is empty. She stands for a moment, and then dips her toes into the cool, clear water, enjoying the cooling sensation on her skin. Wading deeper, she cups the liquid in her hands, and splashes it over her limbs. Suddenly she loses her footing, and slips beneath the surface. Muneerah struggles, but the water pulls her down, dragging her into its depths. The water tightens around her lungs, and she surfaces gasping for air. She can see the river-bank in the distance, but the river claims her, closing over her head.

Muneerah's eyes shot open. She sat up the bed, gasping for breath. She felt a foreboding, but when she looked around she immediately saw the familiar shape of her husband beside her. Praise Allah! It was only a dream. Suddenly she felt the warm liquid gush between her legs. As she leaned over to wake him, the first contraction slammed into her. "Ali, wake up! Wake up!" she cried, trying to rouse him from his sleep. "The child... the child is coming."

The baby was beautiful. She was a tiny creature, with a shock of black hair. Her daughter was only a few hours old, yet already her mother felt that she knew every wrinkle on her face, every hair on her head. Muneerah placed a finger in the palm of her baby's hand, and her daughter gripped hard. And then screwing her face into a small purple ball, she wailed like a banshee.

"It's a girl," Hajir sighed, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice.

"Yes... yes... but what can..." she heard her husband mumble, but his mother cut him off. She made an impatient gesture with her hand. "God willing, next time your wife will give you a son." Ali shifted his weight, nervously rocking from foot to foot. His head dropped sharply, and he stared down at his worn shoes.

Her father's letter arrived the following month. As he read it Ali's face had narrowed with anger. Without a word he tossed it onto the table, and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. As the door banged behind him, the single sheet of paper floated to the floor. Muneerah picked it up and began to read. Her father told of how her mother had been sick, and she had needed expensive medicine from the city. The recent floods had damaged the crops, and there was a shortage of food and work. The next sentence caught her eye, and she read it over again. 'I will not be able to make the final payment of the dowry.' Muneerah carefully folded the piece of paper, and slipped it into her pocket. Then covering her face with her hands she broke down and wept. She wept for the suffering of her family. And finally she wept for herself.

That evening they ate in uncomfortable silence. Her husband could barely conceal his rage, and yet he said nothing. Even Hajir managed to hold her tongue. As soon as she was able, Muneerah escaped into the bedroom. She leaned over the cot and stroked her daughter's hair. And then climbing on the bed she curled herself into a small ball. Through the paper-thin walls she could hear raised voices, and a slight uneasiness came into her mind.

"I've given him more than enough time, and still the bastard refuses to pay," said Ali, his voice filled with anger.

"The village girl and her family have no respect for you," hissed Hajir, her voice rising. "Another mouth to feed... and now this! Your wife, she is mocking you. She brings us nothing but trouble."

"Keep your voice down," Ali replied.

The voices lowered, and she was no longer able to make out the conversation. Finally the sounds faded. She waited for Ali to come to bed. As soon as she could discuss this matter with him in private, she felt sure that she would be able to put things right. She would beg her husband to be patient. She would tell him that her father was a good man. Her father was an honourable man. Yes, this is what she would do. Muneerah rehearsed the words over and over in her mind. But Ali never came. She was wondering what was taking him so long when she heard the front door bang. She buried her head in the pillow and closed her eyes.

She wades deeper into the water, splashing her skin with the cooling liquid. Suddenly the skies darken, and there is a deep rumble of thunder in the distance. The mood of the river changes quickly. Suddenly the water surges and she disappears beneath the growing swell. She surfaces gasping for air. In the distance she sees her father standing at the water's edge. He shouts something, but she is unable to hear him over the roar of the water. He holds out his arms, and she tries to move towards them. But once again the river takes her, closing over her head.

Muneerah sat up in the bed, her heart pounding in her chest. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw the figures of her husband and her mother-in-law standing in the shadows. "What's going on?" she asked, a shiver of fear running down her spine.

"Whore of the village, I want you gone! Take the child and get out of my house," Hajir said, spitting the words at her.

As Ali moved closer, she was unable to read the expression on his face. "For the love of Allah, what are you doing?" Muneerah whispered, her voice beginning to show the fear that she was feeling. Ali's face darkened. As he moved towards the bed he raised his hand. Muneerah cowered under the bedclothes.

Dhaka - 2004

The morning sun rose high in the sky above the city, warming the earth with its spiralling heat. The one-room shack was much like all the other squalid homes that crowded the back lanes. With no running water or sanitation, the only things in abundance were the mosquitoes that buzzed around incessantly. Muneerah got out of bed and crossed the room. The liquid-thick heat lay heavy in the air, and she could feel the beads of sweat beginning to form on the back of her neck. She picked up a small jug, and then taking a cup from the counter she poured herself a drink. As she sipped the tepid water, she looked out of the window. Already a small crowd of ragged children had gathered in the street, playing amongst the dirt and filth.

She turned away from the window, and went over to where her daughter was sleeping. Kneeling on the mat she gently shook the young girl awake. "Yeasmin, wake up," she said softly. The young girl raised herself up, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She was small and thin for her age, but the thinness only seemed to accentuate the large brown eyes that were framed by her oval face. She gave her mother a toothy smile and clambered out of bed.

Muneerah watched as the young girl scampered across the room. She worried about her daughter constantly. Only yesterday her neighbour had lost a child to one of the diseases that swept through the slums, swallowing their children like a hungry mouth that was never satisfied. She would have liked for her to go to school, but for now it was a daily struggle just to feed the two of them, and keep a roof over their heads. Yeasmin sat cross-legged on the floor and brushed her long dark hair.

"Child, come over here so I can finish that," she instructed. "Oh, and bring that little box from out of the cupboard. I think there might be something in there I can use to tie back your hair."

Her daughter skipped across the room and handed her an old battered box. Muneerah opened the lid and began to rummage through the contents.

"Who's that lady?" asked Yeasmin staring at a small photograph that was poking out of the side.

Muneerah pulled out the photo and held it in her hand. It was a little worn around the edges, but the image was unmistakable. She was standing in her wedding sari smiling shyly into the camera.Her voice faltered. "It's a friend... an old friend," she stammered. Her fingers tightened around the photograph, and it took every ounce of self-control not to crush it in her fist.

The memories she had tried to erase came flooding back. She shuddered as she thought of her husband. She could see him now, standing over the bed, the rage in his eyes, and the jar in his hand. And then ripping back the bedclothes, he unscrewed the lid, and hurled the contents into her face. As her skin began to tingle she cried out in pain. "Help me!" she screamed. "Please somebody help me!" But Ali pushed past his mother and quickly left the room. Hajir gave a satisfied smile, and then following after her son, she slammed the door behind her.

The acid burned deep. It melted away the layers of her skin like the sun melts the snow on a cold winter's morning. It seared away her hair, in places melting down to her skull. It ate into her cheek; an eye was gone. It burned her lips and blackened an ear. It stole her youthful beauty, and it almost stole her mind. For a long time even she could not stand the smell of her own putrid flesh. She had wanted to die, but she had lived. After the trauma came the grief. She cried not only to ease the pain in her body, but to ease it from her heart. And the dreams would come, and she would see her father standing at the water's edge holding out his arms. But she could never reach them.

The police had questioned both Ali and his mother about the incident. But Ali used his official contacts, and no charges were ever brought against them. Did she not have relatives who could come to the hospital to be with her the doctors had asked? Muneerah dropped her head. How could she bring such shame upon her family, upon her father? "No," she whispered. "The only family I have is my daughter." And Yeasmin laughed and Yeasmin cried. And Yeasmin needed her mother. And slowly she came back to the world.

"The lady, she's very pretty," her daughter said suddenly.

Muneerah felt a sudden surge of emotion. "Yes, she is... pretty," she replied, her voice faltering. Hurriedly she returned the photograph to the box and closed the lid.

"Will we see your friend again?" asked the small girl, gazing up at her mother.

She wasn't sure that she could speak, but after a slight hesitation she found her voice. "No... that will not be possible." Yeasmin accepted her mother's answer with a small nod of her head. As young as she was, there was something in her mother's tone that told her not to question further.

Bending down, Muneerah picked up an old canvas bag that that they used to collect the rubbish and rags they sold to earn their living. And then hiding her face beneath the veil she turned to the young girl. "Come along Yeasmin, it's time to go to work."

The streets were thronging with people hurrying, all trying to get somewhere. Muneerah placed a protective arm around the girl’s thin shoulder. The wind whipped up the dust and the debris of the city around them. Soon they were lost in the faceless crowds.