The Road

My dear Ahmad,

When we set out from the schoolyard that morning the heat seemed to have gathered itself into a thin, bright sheet that lay over the city like a veil. The walls of the old hostel were still warm from the night’s fire, and the girls clutched their bundles of cloth as if the fabric might hold the world together. I could feel the weight of the iron key that had opened the gate for us still on my palm, a small reminder of the place we were leaving. We walked out onto the road that ran past the river, the water whispering beneath the low arches of the ghats, and the city’s sounds fell behind us in a muffled murmur.

The first day we moved at the pace of the slowest child, not because we were afraid but because we carried more than our own bodies. Beside me, Fatima had a sack of rice that rattled with each step, the grains shifting like tiny stones. Beside her, Karim held a tin of dried lentils, the metal humming faintly when the sun struck it. The youngest, little Rukhsana, clutched a bundle of dates wrapped in a yellow cloth—her only possession, the taste of which would become a comfort in the evenings when the sky turned amber and the road seemed endless.

We stopped at a well near the edge of the village, where the water was cool and the air smelled of earth after a recent rain. I bent down and drew water into the empty copper pot I had taken from my mother’s kitchen. The pot was heavy, its handle worn smooth by years of use, and the water sloshed against the sides, catching the light. We drank in the shade of a lone neem tree, the leaves rustling above us, and the children laughed quietly, their voices barely rising above the wind.

At noon we paused under a crumbling stone wall that marked the boundary of a field. The sun beat down with a relentless heat, and the road ahead stretched out, a ribbon of dust that seemed to swallow the horizon. We shared the rice, the lentils, and the dates, each bite taken slowly, as if we could stretch the nourishment to last longer. I remember the way the rice stuck to my fingers, the lentils feeling like small pebbles in my mouth, and the dates turning sticky on my tongue. We ate in silence, the only sounds the distant clatter of a train on the far railway and the occasional call of a bird from a tree we could not see.

When the sun began its descent we found a narrow lane between two abandoned houses, the walls covered in vines that crept up like old fingers. We laid our blankets—thin pieces of muslin that had once been curtains—on the ground, and the children curled up against each other for warmth. I sang a lullaby my mother had taught me, the words half-forgotten, but the melody stayed in my mind, a thread that bound us to the home we had left behind. The night was cool, the air carrying the scent of jasmine from a garden we passed earlier, and the distant murmur of a river seemed to keep watch over us.

The second day began with a thin mist that rose from the fields, dampening our clothes and making the road slick under our feet. We moved more quickly, perhaps because the heat that had marked the first day was replaced by a quiet urgency that settled in our chests. The children’s steps were lighter, though their faces bore the same solemn line that had been etched onto them at the start of the journey. We passed a small market that had been abandoned, stalls overturned, the wares scattered—copper pots, cloth, a few broken glass bottles. I gathered a piece of copper that had fallen from a broken pot; its weight was reassuring in my hand, a reminder that even broken things could still be useful.

We stopped for a brief rest near an old bridge, its arches dark with soot from years of passing carts. The river below sang a low, constant song, and we could hear the faint echo of a boatman’s voice from across the water, calling out names in a language we could not understand. I took a handful of water from the river, letting it run through my fingers, feeling the cold bite of it, and offered it to the children. They drank sparingly, as if each drop were a treasure. We shared the remaining lentils, the rice, and the dates, but the portions were smaller now; the journey had taken more than our legs—it had taken our appetite for anything beyond the simple sustenance.

By late afternoon we reached a small village that seemed to have been abandoned long before us. The houses stood with their doors ajar, the shutters hanging loosely, and a single goat wandered aimlessly through the dust. We entered one of the houses, seeking shelter from a sudden wind that rattled the shutters. Inside, a cracked wooden table held a bowl of water that had collected from a leak in the roof. We drank, and the water was warm, tasting of stone and the faint scent of oil lamps that no longer burned. I placed my copper piece on the table, the metal catching what little light filtered through the broken windows, and the children gathered around it as if it were a talisman.

That night, as we lay on the floor of the deserted house, a sound drifted through the cracks in the wall—a low, rhythmic thudding that seemed to come from the road beyond. It was the sound of a distant crowd, perhaps a procession, perhaps a group of men moving in formation. The children fell silent, their eyes wide, listening to a world that moved beyond our small circle of fireflies. I whispered a prayer, my voice low, hoping it would reach the ears of those we could not see.

The third day broke with a thin veil of clouds that threatened rain, but the sky stayed clear. We walked in a line that had become a habit, each step measured, each breath counted. The road grew flatter, the dust less thick, and in the distance we could see a line of trees that marked a change in the terrain. The children’s faces were streaked with sweat, their hair clinging to their foreheads, and they carried the same bundles, though now the rice sack was lighter, the lentils reduced to a few handfuls.

At noon, we paused near a solitary tree that stood alone on a rise, its branches reaching like arms. Fatima knelt and pulled a small bundle of herbs from the ground—something green and bitter that the old women in the village used to make tea. She boiled water in a tin pot we had taken from the school kitchen, and the steam rose in thin ribbons, carrying a faint scent that reminded us of home. We drank the tea, its bitterness sharp on our tongues, and it seemed to settle some of the ache that had been building within us.

It was then that the sound of a distant gunshot cracked the air, a sudden, bright crack that seemed to echo off the hills. For a moment the world held its breath. The children froze, eyes darting toward the direction of the sound, then turned back to the road. We continued walking, the cadence of our steps unbroken, as if we could outrun the echo of that noise. Later that evening, as the sun sank behind the trees, we realized that two of the children were no longer with us.

Rukhsana, the youngest, had slipped from the line while we crossed a shallow trench that cut across the road. Her small feet had found a gap in the mud, and before we could reach her, the trench widened, swallowing her footing. She disappeared into the darkness, her thin voice calling for help that was already too far away. The other child, a boy named Aamir, had lagged behind when a sudden shout rose from the road ahead—a voice that was not ours. He turned to see a group of men moving quickly through the dust, their faces hidden beneath scarves. He tried to keep up, but his foot caught on a broken piece of pottery, and he fell, his arm scraping the stone. The men passed, and when we turned back, his small hand lay still on the ground, his eyes closed as if he were merely sleeping.

We found his body there, half-covered by a thin sheet of mud, his mouth open in a silent gasp. I knelt beside him, the copper piece cold against my palm, and for a moment I thought of the river we had crossed weeks before, its waters carrying away the dead leaves of autumn. The road had taken from us two of the eleven, leaving a space that could not be filled by any amount of rice or lentils.

The loss was not spoken aloud; the words seemed too heavy to place upon the wind that brushed our faces as we resumed walking. We carried the bodies as best we could—Fatima held Rukhsana’s small form against her chest, the rest of us shouldered Aamir’s thin frame. The road seemed to tilt under the weight of grief, the dust rising around our feet as if the earth itself were trying to conceal what we had become.

We buried them beneath the lone tree, its roots tangled in the soil, the earth soft from the recent rain. I placed the copper piece on top of the small mound, letting the metal catch the last light of day. The children stood in a circle, heads bowed, the silence louder than any shouted lament could ever be. I whispered a prayer that I could not fully articulate, a prayer for the two souls who would now travel a different road, one that I could not follow.

When night fell, the stars appeared above us, their cold light indifferent to the sorrow below. We ate the remaining dates, their sweetness a stark contrast to the bitterness that lingered in my throat. The rice and lentils were gone, the few grains we had left scattered among the roots of the tree. We slept on the ground, the cold stone beneath us a reminder that the world would continue, even as we mourned.

In the morning, the road stretched ahead, a thin line of dust that seemed to beckon us forward. The remaining nine of us rose, our steps slower now, each footfall a quiet acknowledgement of those we had lost. The weight of the journey pressed on our shoulders, not just in the physical burden of our bundles but in the invisible load of memory. We moved past the place where we had buried the copper, the metal glinting briefly as the sun rose, a small, stubborn point of light against the gray of the road.

We continued, the rhythm of our walking now a measured cadence that marked the passage of time, each mile a reminder of what had been taken and what we still carried. The landscape changed gradually—fields gave way to scrub, the air grew drier, and the occasional distant chime of a bell from a village we passed reminded us that life went on elsewhere. The children spoke less, their voices hushed, as if fearing that words might disturb the fragile peace we had found in the quiet moments between breaths.

I kept the copper piece in my pocket, its cold surface a constant against my thigh. When the sun was high, I would press it gently, feeling the metal’s steadiness, and I thought of the bridge we had crossed at the start, the water beneath it moving inexorably toward the sea. In that way, the road seemed to have its own bridges—moments where we were forced to leave something behind, to let go of a piece of ourselves so that we might continue.

We walked three days in all, the road unspooling beneath our feet like a ribbon that could not be cut. The food we had taken with us dwindled to nothing but the memory of flavor; the rice, the lentils, the dates—each had become a story we could tell only to ourselves. The only things we still possessed were the clothes on our backs, the copper piece in my pocket, and the names of those we had lost, whispered softly in the evenings when the wind rustled the leaves.

Now, as I sit in my modest room, the letters scattered on the table before me, I think of the road and how it shaped us. It was not a grand highway of triumph, but a simple, dusty path that tested us with hunger, with loss, and with the quiet certainty that we would have to keep moving, even when the world seemed to hold its breath. The road taught me that survival is a matter of small choices—when to eat, when to rest, when to hold a child’s hand a little tighter. It taught me that grief, when spoken in silence, can become a part of the journey itself, a weight that we bear without ever fully understanding its shape.

With all the affection a teacher can hold for a pupil, Zainab