1. It Was Nearly Evening

It was nearly evening, even for an American girl who liked to push the curfew minute off. The prayer calls had gone wavering in their uneven melody across the sunset land of piled dhal and cracked fields. The dim of the finished sunset was especially beginning to be felt on the brick path. Through the coconuts and date palms I could see square light splatting the pond and field behind the Union building, our mansion in a village, home to a dozen Americans. A large field, larger than it looked, lay between me and that well-lit edifice, but the warmth of a lighted place on a dark night could already be felt.

I was not ready to go in yet, however. Having pushed my neighborly calls off until the cool of the day, I had experienced that spurt of energy before the absolute deadline that the procrastinator lives for and by which I accomplished most of the worthy things I did in that land.

I liked the lively feel of the Bengal village in the dark when the peasantry uncurled themselves from their siesta beds and ventured out for a social evening, and I was in no hurry to be early back in the protective American household. Nor did I worry for my safety. I was known and loved by name and face two kilometers in every direction, and I did not really believe anyone would harm me. (…though I realized this was a very boring idea. In general, foreigners in Bangladesh prefer to believe that they are living on the verge of attack. Missionary Stories with the Millers, you know.)

Yet as I swung along the rough cobbled brick road, I was uneasy. I cast glances over this shoulder and that, my ears sharpened in painful sensitivity. Where was he? Was he hiding out of sight? I surveyed the empty wooded areas, reflecting at the multitudes they secreted. The land looked empty, yet it was one of the most overpopulated countries in the entire world. How did these people contrive to hide in plain sight? Where was he?

The whisper and split-split-split of footfalls… behind me… beyond the bend… was it rain? My shoulders twitched from the suspense, the sensation of being followed. My feet tried to break into a run, but I knew if I ran, I would panic. Was he there?

Scsss-scsss-scsss… he was there. I hurried. Scsss…scsss…scsss… My own flip-flops scuffed faster. He was coming… right behind me… almost… one-two-three… I spun around.

The almond shaped eyes glowed like somber embers, and his posture drooped, arms limp at his side. He looked reproachful, the whites of his eyes still.

“Sidor.” I shook my head at him. He paused and partially turned, his body half-cocked, silhouetted against the red brick path, his head tilted away, but the eyes did not move. Reproachful. He was so full of reproach.

I laughed at him, and putting my hand on my veil, I backed away before turning and walking on. I whipped around again, just in time to catch him in dead run. He froze in his tracks and shifted sideways in that curious gate of his. He was so skinny. His ashy little knees and elbows, knobs of dust in his wide-mouth shorts and t-shirt, looked like saplings with a sack inverted over them.

Sidor was born the night of the cyclone Sidor, that awe-ful night when so many hundreds died, and from that, he got his name.

-to be continued.