CHAPTER 2: BITTER REALITY
The morning sun had just begun to shine, slipping through the cracks of the small window in Saraswati's modest home. The air was still cold, leaving dewdrops clinging to the leaves outside. On a thin, worn-out mattress, she sat in silence, gazing at the innocent face of her sleeping daughter. Amara, her only child, slept peacefully, as if the world carried no burdens. But inside Saraswati's heart, waves of anxiety grew harder to contain.
Since her husband's passing two years ago, her life had changed drastically. It was not just grief she had to bear but also an ever-growing burden. She never imagined that being a widow would make people see her differently. Once, she had been the wife of a respected man, part of a small, happy family. Now, she was merely a woman without a husband, whose presence was seen as a threat by some.
Saraswati let out a deep sigh. She had to rise. She had to be strong. There was no time to wallow in sorrow. Carefully, she pulled the blanket off Amara's tiny body and got up. In the corner of the room, her mother, Nyai Sumi, sat on an old chair, staring blankly out the window.
"Mother, you're already awake? Let me make some tea for you," Saraswati said softly.
Her mother turned slowly. Her wrinkled face bore the marks of time, but her eyes still held a sense of resilience. "Did you sleep well, my child?"
Saraswati offered a faint smile. How could she sleep well when her mind was constantly plagued with fears of the future?
As Saraswati stepped outside to fetch water from the well, she noticed several pairs of eyes watching her. A few women washing clothes nearby whispered among themselves, their voices just loud enough to reach her ears.
"Poor Saraswati. So young, yet already a widow."
"Yes, but we still need to be careful. Who knows, she might try to steal someone's husband."
"Exactly! Women like that can be dangerous."
Those words cut deeper than the sharpest knife. Saraswati lowered her gaze, trying to ignore them, but their voices echoed in her mind. Since her husband's death, she had felt the change in how people treated her. Once, they were warm and friendly. Now, they whispered behind her back and cast suspicious glances in her direction.
Her heart sank. What had she done wrong? Was being a widow a crime she had to bear for the rest of her life? Just because her husband was gone, did she no longer have the right to live in peace?
She fought back the tears welling in her eyes. No, she must not cry. She had to be strong. Not for herself, but for Amara and her mother.
That day, Saraswati went to the market to buy daily necessities. She carried the last bit of savings her late husband had left behind. While selecting vegetables, an elderly man, Mr. Karim, approached her.
"Saraswati, how are you doing?" he asked kindly.
"Alhamdulillah, I am managing, sir," Saraswati replied, forcing a smile despite the heaviness in her heart.
Mr. Karim nodded. "If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask. We all want to help you."
Saraswati expressed her gratitude, even though she knew not everyone in the village shared Mr. Karim's goodwill. Some of the nearby vendors glanced at her with mixed expressions—some sympathetic, others judgmental.
After finishing her shopping, Saraswati walked home with weary steps. At a crossroads, she crossed paths with a young woman who used to chat with her frequently. But now, the woman merely glanced at her before looking away. Such behavior only reinforced the painful truth—her world had changed. It was not she who had changed, but the way people saw her.
That night, after Amara had fallen asleep, Saraswati sat on the veranda, gazing at the star-filled sky. She hugged her knees, seeking strength in the silence.
"Oh Allah, what should I do?" she whispered.
She knew she could not continue relying on the kindness of others. She had to find work. She had to stand on her own feet, no matter how harsh the world was towards her.
But how? What could she do with only a high school diploma and experience as a housewife? The question lingered in her mind late into the night.
Just as she was about to drift off to sleep, a soft knock on the front door startled her. Cautiously, she rose and opened it. Standing there was Rahmat, a longtime friend of her late husband.
"Sorry for disturbing you this late, Saraswati. I just wanted to make sure you're doing okay," Rahmat said gently.
Saraswati hesitated. She appreciated Rahmat's concern, but she also knew how quickly rumors could spread.
"Thank you, Rahmat. I'm fine," she replied briefly.
Rahmat nodded slightly. "If you ever need help, don't hesitate to ask. I know your situation isn't easy."
After Rahmat left, Saraswati sat back down on the veranda, staring into the darkness. He was right. Her situation was not easy. But she could not live in fear forever. She had to find a way out.
With newfound determination, Saraswati picked up a piece of paper and a pen. She began listing possible ways to earn a living. Sewing? Opening a small food stall? Taking up laundry work? Whatever it took to provide for Amara, she would do it.
The world might be unfair to her, but she would not let it break her. She would fight—not just for herself, but for her daughter's future.
For the first time in a long while, she felt a glimmer of hope that she would find her way.