Surely you are knowing this.”
“Go about your tasks,” Sister Kathleen said, realizing that the entire orphanage was avid witness to the scene. She raised one arm to scatter the audience. “Tula, Rabiah, take the washing down before the sun bleaches all the color away. Soma, Lota, take the little ones to the banyan tree and finish telling them their story. Sakti, Reva, you were supposed to be drawing water. Be sure to put the jars in the shade to cool for our supper. Habibah, Risha, Uma … all of you big girls, you have not finished hoeing the potatoes.” She shooed them all about their sundry tasks, rocking Amariyah in time to her orders.
“Now, little one, what shall I do with you?” She held the child away from her and was unutterably affected by the tears still rolling down the woebegone little face. “Never in all the time you have been with us, have you misbehaved!”
“My flowers (sob), my vege(sob)tables (sob) are all dead,” and the murmured words were bitter. “Nothing I can do will bring them back to life.” She opened her hands and displayed the limp and wilted remains ofher once thriving plants. “Why? Why did Lila kill them? They had done her no harm. She is an assassin!”
Sister Kathleen pressed her lips together, wondering why she wanted to cry, too. Crying was not an effective answer to any problem that she knew of. She was flummoxed by the fact that this was the first time Amariyah had wept. She was such a self-contained little body, diligent with her assigned tasks, willing to do anything required of her. She had been so good with the little ones when the fever struck, even deserting her garden during the emergency. Whatever had possessed Lila? Of course, the girl was older, starting her menses when, as every woman knew, females were more likely to be perverse. Especially the Bengali girls, who matured far too young, Sister Kathleen thought. Lila would soon be thirteen and all her thoughts were on marriage. The girl refused to even consider the alternatives now available to the young women of Bangladesh. Well, Kathleen thought philosophically, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink.
“Now, child, we will wash your face and hands and dry your tears.” She rose, trying to lift Amariyah to her feet, but the girl writhed out of her grasp.
Amariyah hunkered down and began tenderly gathering up the dead stalks and stems. “You must be going into the compost. You will be going with my love because you were rewarding me with your beauty and your strength. After death there can be life in another form. It is written.”
Sister Kathleen stared in surprise and watched as Amariyah finished collecting the remains and walked toward the efficient composting tank, the very welcome gift of some Ladies Group in England. Kathleen did not remember where, but the gift was much appreciated.
“When you are done, Amariyah, I will wash your face and hands.”
She heard a murmured response and rather thought it had to do with being able to wash her own self without help.
Sister Kathleen shook her head, wondering if, perhaps, she should have reminded the child of her manners. A reprimand right now was inappropriate. And, besides, Amariyah was one of the few girls who could be counted on for scrupulous courtesy. Father Salih and the Bahadur had both commented on her deportment. She watched a moment longer as Amariyah returned for another load of damaged plants, her expressionstill woeful, but the amazing tears had stopped. Sister Kathleen turned toward the infirmary where little shrieks suggested that Sister Epiphania was anointing Lila’s torn scalp. Sister Kathleen caught herself smiling. Lila deserved, at least in this small measure, physical and mental discomfort for such a random act of senseless destruction.
As the cool of evening settled in, Sister Kathleen had occasion to pass the spot where Amariyah’s garden had flourished. She halted, staring at the place that had been
“Go about your tasks,” Sister Kathleen said, realizing that the entire orphanage was avid witness to the scene. She raised one arm to scatter the audience. “Tula, Rabiah, take the washing down before the sun bleaches all the color away. Soma, Lota, take the little ones to the banyan tree and finish telling them their story. Sakti, Reva, you were supposed to be drawing water. Be sure to put the jars in the shade to cool for our supper. Habibah, Risha, Uma … all of you big girls, you have not finished hoeing the potatoes.” She shooed them all about their sundry tasks, rocking Amariyah in time to her orders.
“Now, little one, what shall I do with you?” She held the child away from her and was unutterably affected by the tears still rolling down the woebegone little face. “Never in all the time you have been with us, have you misbehaved!”
“My flowers (sob), my vege(sob)tables (sob) are all dead,” and the murmured words were bitter. “Nothing I can do will bring them back to life.” She opened her hands and displayed the limp and wilted remains ofher once thriving plants. “Why? Why did Lila kill them? They had done her no harm. She is an assassin!”
Sister Kathleen pressed her lips together, wondering why she wanted to cry, too. Crying was not an effective answer to any problem that she knew of. She was flummoxed by the fact that this was the first time Amariyah had wept. She was such a self-contained little body, diligent with her assigned tasks, willing to do anything required of her. She had been so good with the little ones when the fever struck, even deserting her garden during the emergency. Whatever had possessed Lila? Of course, the girl was older, starting her menses when, as every woman knew, females were more likely to be perverse. Especially the Bengali girls, who matured far too young, Sister Kathleen thought. Lila would soon be thirteen and all her thoughts were on marriage. The girl refused to even consider the alternatives now available to the young women of Bangladesh. Well, Kathleen thought philosophically, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink.
“Now, child, we will wash your face and hands and dry your tears.” She rose, trying to lift Amariyah to her feet, but the girl writhed out of her grasp.
Amariyah hunkered down and began tenderly gathering up the dead stalks and stems. “You must be going into the compost. You will be going with my love because you were rewarding me with your beauty and your strength. After death there can be life in another form. It is written.”
Sister Kathleen stared in surprise and watched as Amariyah finished collecting the remains and walked toward the efficient composting tank, the very welcome gift of some Ladies Group in England. Kathleen did not remember where, but the gift was much appreciated.
“When you are done, Amariyah, I will wash your face and hands.”
She heard a murmured response and rather thought it had to do with being able to wash her own self without help.
Sister Kathleen shook her head, wondering if, perhaps, she should have reminded the child of her manners. A reprimand right now was inappropriate. And, besides, Amariyah was one of the few girls who could be counted on for scrupulous courtesy. Father Salih and the Bahadur had both commented on her deportment. She watched a moment longer as Amariyah returned for another load of damaged plants, her expressionstill woeful, but the amazing tears had stopped. Sister Kathleen turned toward the infirmary where little shrieks suggested that Sister Epiphania was anointing Lila’s torn scalp. Sister Kathleen caught herself smiling. Lila deserved, at least in this small measure, physical and mental discomfort for such a random act of senseless destruction.
As the cool of evening settled in, Sister Kathleen had occasion to pass the spot where Amariyah’s garden had flourished. She halted, staring at the place that had been
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