Cox's Bazar, Bangladesh January 2012 Inside Our House Our house, made of bamboo chopped by Baba's bare hands, sits on a hill with other houses just like ours. The roof is crinkly blue plastic, noisy in the wind, hot in the afternoon sun. Rain drips through its holes, making dirt puddles on the ground. Inside, we have a single room for the four of us. Mama and Baba's sleeping mat covers one corner. Close by, Mama's silver pot and Baba's old spit cup, stained red from his betel leaf. Khaled stores a cricket bat in his corner. Next to it, on the floor, is my brother's blue notebook. He tucked it in the waistband of his longyi and brought it all the way from Burma. What's mine is a stool that holds my special blanket, Nani's gift to baby me. It's torn and frayed, but when I brush it against my skin on cool winter nights, me and Nani are together again, cheek to cheek. My stomach twists when I think about what little made it here with us. But things don't make a home. Family does, even those still in Burma. Nani and Nana do, even though they are gone. Eggs Our eggs go plop-plop into water, bubble and mist as they simmer in Mama's silver pot. When they're ready, she spoons them out and sets them in my bucket. Our livelihood lies between these brittle white shells. My job is to sell as many hard-boiled eggs as I can to beachgoers in Cox's Bazar. Each oval brings money to my palm and food to the bellies in my family. Salt Last night, Baba said, "If you sell all your eggs, Samira, we can buy extra salt to keep." He was squatting on the floor, wrapping coconut, fennel, and nuts in betel leaf. It's his favorite treat. A spiral of joy rose in my belly. Salt crystals transform Mama's dahl. Beneath my crossed legs, the prickly straw mat suddenly felt smooth. A bucket of eggs turns into bundles of taka turns into pinches of salt turns into mouthfuls of joy. I send out a wish to sell all my eggs. Come extra hungry to the beach, tourists! Scoot Low Every morning, a narrow milky stream of drip-drop pouring cha tumbles from high to greet me. This is how Mama pours it. Moments with her at dawn bathe our day in sweetness. Baba is the first to leave. Shrimping is early work. Next, Khaled, to clean dishes and tables for the café at Seaview Hotel. Mama kisses me on the cheek. "Stay safe, Samira," she says. I'm the last to go. Low, low I scoot, zigzagging down our sneaky steep hill. My walk is filled with sky, wrapped in pearly indigo air, crisp and still, and birds chirping every morning. Knowing I step past the woods to meet a wide stretch of golden-gray sand. The beach goes beyond where I can see. Khaled says it's the longest in the world! Café doors creak open. Outside, whining packs of stray dogs beg for food, waiting for scraps that miss the rubbish. Fishermen throw out nets for their daily catch. The sea, sparkly in the morning sun, breaks in little waves near the shore. My eyes follow their slow, gentle peeling. My ears tune in the gentle roar of water tumbling on sand. It sounds like water lapping at a boat, like the one we boarded to cross the river when we left Burma, just me, Khaled, Mama, and Baba, and Nani and Nana. The others stayed behind: Hasina Auntie, Jamal Uncle, my cousin Shoba, and my best friend, Sahara. It's been three months since the river tossed our boat, our chests sinking, stomachs plummeting. Water can be dangerous and beautiful at the same time. For now, I stay as far away as I can. Excerpted from Samira Surfs by Rukhsanna Guidroz All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
