The Need for a Reminder
The drone was gone. The hope it had briefly kindled was a cruel, phantom limb, an ache in a place that was now empty. The silence on the rooftop pressed down on Anja like a heavy stone, broken only by the shallow, steady rhythm of Sami's exhausted sleep. He had cried himself into a fitful slumber, his small chest rising and falling under the torn blanket.
She scanned the endless water for the hundredth time that day. Nothing moved. The emptiness made her bones ache. It was a physical weight, a pressure on her soul.
"I can't," she whispered to no one, the words escaping before she could stop them. "I can't do this anymore."
Her hands shook as she covered her face. The weight of keeping them alive, of watching Sami grow weaker, of manufacturing hope from the thin, grey air—it was crushing her. She felt herself cracking like old wood in the sun. A sob, hot and ragged, caught in her throat, and she swallowed it down hard. It felt like swallowing broken glass.
"No," she said aloud, her voice stronger, a command to herself. "Not yet. Not like this."
She needed something. A reason to keep fighting. Something stronger than the gnawing, acid fear that ate at her every moment. She needed an anchor in this endless sea of despair.
The Photograph
Anja's fingers fumbled with the clasp on her belt pouch. The small waterproof bag held everything precious they had left. Inside, wrapped in oiled cloth, lay their few treasures from the old world. She pulled out the photograph with careful hands. The edges were soft, the colors faded to muted browns and blues, but the faces looking back at her were still clear. Ma and Papa, standing proud in front of their home.
The house seemed to glow, its walls painted a bright ochre, warm as sunshine. Along the bottom, Ma had painted a simple, repeating pattern of white jasmine flowers. "Guardian angels," Anja whispered, tracing them with her finger. She could almost hear Ma's voice, light and musical. "They watch over us, beta. Always."
She remembered Papa patting the doorframe and smiling. "A home isn't just walls, Anja. It's the love inside them. It's the stories we make together." Beside the house stood his kitchen garden, a riot of green—neat rows of chili plants and climbing gourds. "A man who grows his own food can survive anything," he used to say, his hands always dirty but his smile always bright.
Anja pressed the photograph to her chest, closing her eyes, willing herself back into that other world. "We'll make new stories, Sami," she promised the sleeping boy. "We have to."
A Living Sonapur
Suddenly, Anja wasn't on the rooftop. She was ten years old again, standing in the market square with Ma. The memory was an explosion of color, sound, and smell that made her heart race. Bolts of silk hung from stall awnings like waterfalls of emerald green, sunset orange, and shimmering sapphire blue. The air was a story told in scent: one step brought the warm, sweet smell of boiling jaggery for candy; the next, the sharp, sneeze-inducing itch of chili powder; then the deep, earthy perfume of turmeric. A blacksmith's hammer rang out from a side alley, a steady clang-clang-clang, a rhythm track for the laughter of children chasing a cloud of startled pigeons.
She remembered Ma's eyes, sparkling with mischief as she stood before the fish vendor's stall, her clever words turning a simple transaction into a performance. "Ismail-bhai," Ma had said, her voice full of theatrical disappointment as she eyed a glistening silver fish. "This poor fellow looks so sad. Did you not sing to him when you pulled him from the water?"
Old Ismail had thrown his head back and laughed, a deep belly laugh. "Ah, Samira-ji, you have a sharper tongue than my filleting knife! For you, a special price! But only if you promise to give this sad fish a happy home in your curry."
"A good bargain is like a dance," Ma told Anja later, her eyes twinkling as they walked away, the fish wrapped in a cool green leaf. "And you must never let your partner lead."
The memory shifted, and the market faded. Now it was evening, and their small home glowed with the warmth of the cooking fire. The rich, layered smell of Ma's fish curry—coconut, tamarind, and chili—filled every corner. She was outside with Papa, watching the setting sun paint the sky in fierce orange and deep purple, the colors reflecting in the calm river until it looked like liquid fire. Against that blaze stood the mangrove forest, a dark, tangled fortress of roots and leaves.
"More than trees, little one," Papa murmured, his voice full of a quiet respect. "That's our fortress. Our living wall." He rested his hand on Sami's sleepy head as the boy leaned against his leg. "See how their roots twist down into the water? They make a maze that breaks the waves before they can reach us. The city engineers build with concrete, and their walls break. But the mangroves, they know how to bend without breaking. They stand against the strongest tides and make a home even in the darkest mud."
His voice grew softer, more serious, a lesson meant to take root in her own mind. "That forest is our shield, Anja. Not made of brick or stone, but of wood and leaf and root. It breaks the storm waves. Its roots hold our soil together. We must help it stay strong. We protect it, always. In its strength lies our survival."
The Jarring Return
A harsh cough shattered the memory like breaking glass.
Anja's eyes snapped open. Sami's small body was shaking beside her. The beautiful, sunlit past vanished instantly, blown away like smoke. The silks and spices were gone. The laughter and music faded to nothing. The phantom warmth of her mother's hand disappeared, leaving only the cold seeping up from the flood below. The sweet scent of Ma's curry was replaced by the stench of stagnant water and rot.
"This photograph," Anja whispered, looking down at the faded image. The smiling faces seemed to mock her from another world, one so bright and alive it might have been a dream. "It feels like a gravestone."
Sami stirred, his forehead hot against her arm. "Ma?" he mumbled weakly. "Is that us?"
"Yes, my love," Anja choked out, her voice thick. "That's us. Before."
But even as a fresh wave of grief crashed over her, something else stirred deep inside. The memory of Ma's sparkling eyes. The memory of Papa's quiet strength. A good bargain is a dance. The mangroves know how to bend without breaking.
Sami's eyes fluttered open, a spark of interest breaking through the haze of illness. "The mangroves... in the mud?"
"Yes," she whispered, her voice finding a new, harder resolve. "Papa said even in the deepest darkness, there's a place to make a home. Their lessons aren't just memories, Sami. They're instructions."
The grief was still there, sharp as broken glass. But instead of drowning her, it was becoming an anchor, a connection to the strength that flowed in her blood.
Refocusing on the Present
The strength that filled Anja now was different. It was cold and hard, like metal forged in fire. "The past is a beautiful country, Sami," she said, her voice firm. "We can visit it. But we can't live there."
With steady hands, she tucked the photograph back into its waterproof pouch. The clasp clicked shut with a sound of finality. "This isn't goodbye," she whispered to the image. "I'm not forgetting you. I'm keeping you safe. I'm using you."
She turned her full attention to their pathetic island. The tide of desperation still rose around them, but now she had a rope to cling to. Not just the pain of loss, but the lessons of strength. Ma's cleverness in a world of scarcity. Papa's resilience against an unstoppable force.
She looked at their shelter, a flimsy lean-to of salvaged tarp. The wind, which had been a constant, terrifying enemy, was now something to be bargained with. A good bargain is a dance. She spent the next hour repositioning the tarp, using a piece of fishing line to lash one corner to the chimney stack, creating a steeper angle. It wasn't perfect, but now the wind flowed over it, rather than tearing at it. It was a small change, a tiny victory, but it was hers. It was an act of creation in a world of decay.
The present still loomed with all its dangers. But for the first time in days, Anja felt ready to face it. She was no longer armed with just fear and false hope. Now she carried something more powerful—the wisdom of her past, forged into a tool for the present.