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John Singer Sargent, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons |
AUTHOR: NAVAL LANGA
Tina
Except for Tina, all subjects in my life are dead.
Not all of them lie in graves, of course—though some do—but they have been cut from my life so thoroughly that they might as well be shadows from a dream I can’t quite remember.
When I came into this city—my city now—Tina was one and a half years old. She was still small enough to curl against me like a kitten, still light enough that carrying her didn’t make my back ache. Her hair was fine and pale, catching the light as though spun from sunlight itself.
I have never been beautiful in the way women in movies are beautiful—the kind of beauty that makes a man stop mid-step or lean out of a bus window to whistle. No. My face is too ordinary for that, my figure too unremarkable. Yet I have never been invisible either. There is something about me—or perhaps about my circumstances—that draws the eyes of strangers.
When I go to the market, the young men at the tea stalls glance up from their cups. The older men look too, though they try to hide it behind casual stretches and meaningless coughs. Some women look at me with sympathy, others with suspicion. Then there are those who widen their lips into that strange almost-smile, the kind that says, I know something about you.
The shopkeeper where I buy rice, the washerman who irons my blouses, and the blacksmith who once fixed the broken lock on my trunk—they all greet me as though they have a stake in my story.
I am not a politician. I am not on any council or committee. But I am recognized. People I have never spoken to will raise a hand in greeting when I pass.
Why?
The answer is simple. I am an unwed mother.
Tina is not the child of a legally married couple. She was born without the blessing of any ceremony or signature. In a small town like ours, that is enough to make you into a walking scandal. Or worse—into a curiosity people cannot stop circling.
In me, they found an oddity they could talk about without ever having to understand.
Ten and a Half Years Ago
It was December. Midnight. The kind of darkness that presses against your skin. The wind was bitter, sliding under my clothes and raising goosebumps along my arms. My body, damp with nervous sweat, generated its own feverish heat.
Fear ran in my veins like a second bloodstream.
I had tied my hair back into a tight knot, so firm that the skin on my forehead felt pulled. I didn’t want a single strand falling into my face—not tonight.
The city did not care about a lone woman on the road. They had seen worse and ignored worse. But I cared. My eyes kept flicking to every shadow, every doorway.
I turned the corner near a closed grocery shop. The cobblestones were slick from an unexpected drizzle earlier that evening, and I stumbled, catching myself just in time. A car roared past, flinging up a splash of dirty water that hit my skirt and shawl. I bit back a curse.
A policeman leaning against a lamppost groaned at the speeding vehicle, then looked at me. His eyes were round and dark, unblinking like an owl’s. I adjusted my shawl, tried to look harmless, and even managed a small domestic smile. He tapped his cane against the ground. I nodded at the cane as though it were a polite exchange.
The building I had come for was up ahead—dark blue, its paint peeling in patches. A weak bulb on the electricity pole outside cast a sickly yellow light over the porch, revealing a few rusted cans, crumpled newspapers, and windblown dust.
The ten-minute walk from the station felt like an hour. My nerves thrummed like stretched wire. I glanced around. In daylight, the neighbours greeted me cheerfully—Hi, Sheila Ma’am—but tonight I was not Sheila Ma’am. Tonight, I was here for something I couldn’t speak of.
The key was already in my purse. I didn’t know exactly how it had ended up there, only that it was now my lifeline. The lock squealed as I turned it, the sound too loud in the stillness. It hadn’t been opened in weeks.
I slipped inside, shutting the door behind me. No lights. My gloves fit snugly over my fingers as I moved in darkness; I knew them like the lines on my own palm. I had lived here for five years—each creak of the floorboards was familiar.
The walls breathed memories at me. The velvet wall piece I had embroidered hung on the far wall, dusty but still rich in colour. I turned away from it. Tonight was not for remembering.
The Man
He was not my husband. Not legally. But for five years he had been the man I lived with.
He had promised marriage, but marriage was always “later.” There was always some reason: money, family, or timing. He had a thin moustache and a hand that could be gentle in public and hard in private.
When I became pregnant, he didn’t react with joy. He measured. He calculated. He decided to keep me, but as something owned, not as a partner.
For five years, I endured—telling myself it was for the promise of a family, for the security of a home. Until the night he told me to leave. No shouting, no drunken slurs—just cold words and a push toward the door.
“If you ever come back, I’ll kill you.”
He gave me nothing from the bank account I had helped fill. Nothing from the cupboard where I kept my jewellery. The only thing he allowed me to take was Tina.
The Cupboard
The cupboard stood against the wall like a sentry. My key slid in with shaking precision. The hinges creaked open to reveal a small box of cash and a heavy paperweight carved from stone. Both went into the flat purse strapped to my belly.
In the corner drawer, I found my gold—two rings, a chain, and four bangles. They had been mine before him, gifts from my parents. I swept them into the purse without hesitation.
If I had been alone, perhaps I would have left them. But I wasn’t alone. I had a daughter with hair like sunlight and eyes the colour of deep water. I had promised myself she would have a future.
I waited until morning sounds began—the milkmaid calling out, the rumble of bicycle tires on the road. Then I left, blending into the light as though I were just another early riser.
The Train
Tina was still asleep when I picked her up from where she lay. She curled into my shoulder, her breath warm on my neck.
At the station, the smell of tea and coal smoke wrapped around us. She stirred.
“Mom, where are we going?”
I had no answer. My only plan was “away.” I bought milk pouches, an empty bag, and a towel—because travellers should have luggage, even if it’s only for show.
When the train pulled away, I held her in my lap and kept my hand over the purse that held our future.
A New Place
I stepped off the train in a town I didn’t know the name of. The air smelled of fried snacks and wet earth.
I found a room to rent at the back of a crumbling building. The landlord didn’t ask questions, but his eyes followed me when I counted out the rent.
Work was harder. People wanted to know where my husband was. I learned to say, “He’s away,” and let them fill in the rest.
I took whatever jobs I could—washing clothes, cooking, running errands. Some paid barely enough for food. Some tried to pay in ways I refused.
At night, after Tina fell asleep, I would sit by the window, looking down at the street—men drinking tea, women carrying water, and children chasing each other barefoot. No one here knew me. That was both a relief and a kind of loneliness I carried in my chest.
The Years Rolling On
Months became years. I found steadier work—cleaning offices in the mornings and tutoring children in the evenings. The tutoring paid less but gave me something I’d been missing: the respect of being called “Ma’am.”
Tina grew, her legs long and quick. She learned to ride a bicycle on the cracked pavement outside. She would come home with dust on her face and joy in her eyes.
By the time she was eight, I had saved enough to rent a better apartment—small, but with our own kitchen. I bought yellow curtains and a wool rug. For the first time, it felt like we had a home.
The gold and the paperweight from that night lasted years. I sold the jewellery piece by piece when I needed to. The paperweight I kept hidden.
Today
Tina is twelve now. She is fast on her bicycle, sharp with her words, and quick to laugh. She has her father’s jaw but none of his cruelty.
Our home is modest but ours, bought with years of work and the last of the gold. The paperweight still sits in the back of my cupboard, not because I need it but because it reminds me of the night I took back my life.
I still feel eyes on me in the market, but now I raise my hand in greeting without wondering what they think.
Sometimes, I hear about her father. Living in another country, debts unpaid, with a wealthy widow. I feel nothing.
I am not a married woman. I am not a widow. I am simply Tina’s mother.
And that is enough.
THE END
