amela
1.
“But perhaps you hate a thing and it is good for you; and perhaps you love a thing and it is bad for you. And Allah knows, while you know not.” (Quran 2:216)
Amela Begum was born in a village where the hum of train tracks was an inseparable companion. The rhythmic clatter of wheels on rails was her lullaby, the station her playground, and the scent of coal and metal the fragrance of her childhood. The train tracks, whose rhythm had once been as familiar as the beating of her own heart, no longer sang a lullaby, but a reminder of how small she had felt growing up in the shadow of her father’s wealth. Her father, Majid Sharkar, whom people called Zamindar, was the most affluent man for miles, his name whispered with reverence. Their home was the largest in the region, standing still and proud on sprawling lands, where the sun kissed the horizon, bathing the fields in a golden glow. Yet, despite his wealth, her father was a strange man. His love for Amela was as grand as his estate, but it was veiled in protection and control.
He imposed a condition for her marriage: no man was worthy of her unless he arrived on the back of an elephant, as grand and imposing as the legacy her father had built. This condition, extravagant and odd, became the cornerstone of Amela’s youth, shaping her dreams of a suitor who would one day arrive, towering and noble, upon the back of a magnificent beast they fondly called an elephant. As Amela grew, so too did her father’s peculiar condition for her marriage—a demand she had long accepted, then clung to, as though the arrival of this man on the back of an elephant could somehow fill the hollowness within her. She wondered, in moments of quiet, whether she was not simply waiting for a suitor, but for some grand gesture that might prove her father’s love for her had been as grand as his fortune.
Her future husband, who arrived as if summoned by a story she had told herself since childhood, appeared to her not only as the fulfillment of her father’s conditions but as a presence that was both startling and familiar. His beauty—tall, dark, and strong—was striking, yes, but it was the quiet power in his eyes, the tenderness that seemed to belong to a different age, that unsettled her most. She had dreamed of a prince, but here was a man, flesh and blood, and with him came a certain gravity she hadn’t expected. In that very moment, Amela believed that her destiny was as unblemished as the stories she had grown up with—a love story born of glory.
Their marriage, at first, was a dream—one that anyone could only wish for. Her husband, whom she had loved at first sight, treated her with tenderness. He was patient and attentive, asking for nothing but her companionship. It felt as though Allah had conspired to bring them together, and that nothing could ever come between them. Yet life, in its mysterious ways, always has more in store than we expect or than our human minds can foresee.
Amela soon realized that love, no matter how beautiful, can’t shield you from the realities of life. In the early years, their home was filled with laughter, but as time passed, an unspoken longing crept in—the desire for a child, for another pair of hands to hold, to care for. The laughter of children at family gatherings, the light-hearted banter of Nababarsha and Eid celebrations, began to press in on her like a tightening chest. Amela noticed the small, almost invisible way her husband’s smile would fade when a child was mentioned—an unspoken sorrow that lived between them, in the spaces where words could never reach. It wasn’t anger, nor blame, but a quiet withdrawal, like the slow extinguishing of light in a room filled with too much shadow.
It was a longing that grew louder with each family gathering, with each festival of Nababarsha or Eid, as the laughter of other children echoed through their home. The absence of a child became a quiet weight on her heart, an ache she couldn’t shake. They prayed earnestly. Amela visited doctors, consulted healers, performed rituals under the guidance of village elders, and whispered prayers in the quiet of the night. But with each passing month, the hope of pregnancy dissolved into the sorrow of disappointment.
Her husband never voiced his sadness or grief, not about the child or anything else for that matter, but it lingered in the silence between them. He never blamed her, never spoke a word of discontent, but his eyes told her what he could not say. Their love was as strong as ever, but the home they had built together began to feel incomplete, as though something urgent or important was missing—like oxygen. Their home, once filled with the soft echoes of laughter, had become a quiet space—too full of silence to breathe properly. The absence of a child, of a future they had once imagined, hung in the air, pressing down like the weight of a forgotten song. Amela would sometimes wake in the night, her husband beside her, and in the stillness, feel the overwhelming knowledge that something essential was missing—something so vital it could be held only in the space between them, in the smallest of glances, and in the silence of a shared sorrow.
2.
“And We will surely test you with something of fear and hunger and a loss of wealth and lives and fruits, but give good tidings to the patient.” (Quran 2:155)
A decade into their marriage, the distance between Amela and her husband had become a quiet river—unseen, but deep. Amela had watched her husband’s sorrow settle into his bones, his silences stretching between them like a shadow. It wasn’t anger that pushed her to this moment, but the unbearable weight of his unspoken grief, the quiet surrender of love left unfulfilled. That night, in the stillness of their home, Amela said the words she had avoided for so long.
“You deserve a family,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You deserve children, the happiness we’ve been denied. You should marry again.”
Her husband’s face, usually a bastion of control, crumpled before her. The grief that had been held back for so long spilled over, not in words, but in the raw, aching expression in his eyes. He didn’t speak at first, as though the weight of her words had taken the air from his lungs. Finally, with a voice thick with unshed tears, he whispered, “Amela, I want nothing but you. You are enough.”
His words were both a balm and a wound. She had always known his love was unwavering, but hearing it now, when she felt like she had failed him, made her heart ache with guilt. She realized that, in his eyes, she was everything—his sun, his moon, his entire world. Still, she couldn’t run away from the burden she carried—the belief that she had denied him the life he deserved.
That night, after hours of silent contemplation, Amela made a decision that would alter both their lives forever. In the stillness of dawn, before the sun had risen, she rose from their bed. Her movements were quiet, deliberate, as though she feared the sound of her own footsteps might break the fragile silence between them. She left only a short note, brief and inadequate—how could she explain the truth she could not yet grasp? The note seemed to shrink in her hand, each word too small to hold the weight of her departure. The first train left just as the sky began to pale, and she was gone.
In the city, Amela shed her name, her past, and the weight of all that had come before. She became a woman whose face held no history, whose voice held no trace of familiarity. The work was unremarkable—small, menial tasks that seemed to erase her from the world, bit by bit. But it was in this erasure, this absence, that she found a strange kind of peace. For the first time in years, she was no longer anyone’s daughter, anyone’s wife. She was just a woman, walking the narrow, crowded streets, free from the burdens of love, or guilt, or the impossible expectations she had once carried.
Her family, she assumed, believed her to be dead, and her husband… she didn’t know what he thought. Perhaps he had searched for her, perhaps he had moved on. Even when she disappeared into thin air, she knew in her heart he was the type of man who would never stop loving her. But life, in its boundless wisdom, gave her room to breathe. The years blurred together, each one folding into the next, like pages in a book she no longer read. The hard moments, the lonely nights, had softened into a quieter kind of existence.
And in that softness, Amela found a measure of peace—a peace born not of resolution, but of acceptance. She could never fully erase what she had left behind, nor could she forget the man whose love she had walked away from. Yet, in the absence of the life she had once known, she found something else—perhaps not happiness, but something that felt like it: a life untethered, a life without promises.
3.
“So verily, with the hardship, there is relief.” (Quran 94:6)
After many moons, now at seventy, Amela found herself at a train station once again. The clattering of the tracks, once a lullaby of her childhood, now seemed to reverberate through her bones. She wasn’t the young girl she had been—dreaming of love, waiting for destiny to unfold. The years had carved their marks, not just on her body but on her heart. Her hands, though still capable, were no longer as steady, and her once-clear vision had softened, not just in sight but in her understanding of the world. The station, that same space where she had once stood, seemed both distant and familiar, like a song whose words she could no longer fully remember.
Across from her sat a young woman, newly married, her eyes bright with that familiar, hopeful intensity—the kind Amela remembered having once, before life’s sharp edges had softened her optimism. The sight of her stirred something deep, a pang, perhaps, or a quiet ache that Amela didn’t fully understand. For a long moment, Amela merely watched, the weight of her own silence pressing down on her. The words she longed to speak felt both important and unnecessary—what could she offer this young woman, who had yet to learn the quiet burdens of love?
Finally, Amela turned to the young woman, her voice soft but steady, as if the weight of years had made her speech more measured. “Remember, life is beautiful, but it’s unpredictable. Don’t be afraid to follow your heart, even when it leads you to places you didn’t plan on. But know that there are moments when you’ll wonder if you’ve lost something along the way. It’s not always clear what’s worth keeping, and what’s worth letting go.” Her eyes lingered on the young woman’s face, searching for something—recognition, perhaps, or just the acknowledgment that her words had landed.
As the train pulled into the station, Amela’s gaze drifted across the platform, and for a fleeting moment, she saw herself again—a young girl, standing alone, her heart full of unknowable promises. The crowd around her blurred, as if she were watching through a glass, and the sight of her younger self stirred something in her chest. It was a quiet recognition, not of who she had been, but of what she had lost in the passing of time: that simple hope, that bright, unfounded certainty that the future could be shaped like clay in her hands. She smiled, but it was a smile both sad and grateful, as if she were finally learning how to make peace with her own becoming.
Amela, with small but firm steps, moved toward the exit. Her presence seemed to fold into the crowd, just another face among many, the story of her life now a distant echo—a life lived in full, yet still unfinished, still unfolding in the quiet corners of her mind. She wasn’t sure if she had truly found peace. Maybe it wasn’t peace at all, but simply the weight of all she had carried, now softened by time. She would never be free from what she had lost, but the burden had lightened in a way she didn’t know could happen. For now, that was enough.
~ October 2024
Disclaimer: This short story is inspired by a post from Gmb Akash on Instagram. Although it is rooted in real-life experiences, all characters and events depicted are entirely fictional. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely coincidental.
