THE BROKEN HEART [ONGOING]

1

Rain poured heavily on Mr. Khan, a skinny Indian man and his fifteen-year-old daughter Najma, who were seated under the umbrella near their trolley full of fruits. “Fruits! Come buy a fruit cheap! cheap!” Mr. Khan yelled.

“Papa, no one is coming to buy today,” Najma said, looking up at her father.

Mr. Khan turned to face her, forcing out a smile. “They will, lets keep calling for them,”

“When papa? Even yesterday it was quiet?” she sounded a little upset.

“Give it time Najma, they will be here,”

“This isn’t fair, the Naidoo’s sell weary, costly fruits but people buy from them and we sell fresh cheap fruits and no one buys from us,”

“Najma! Don’t speak ill of the Naidoo’s, they are good people,”

“Sorry papa,” she softly said, looking down at her feet in shame.

“Now keep calling for more customers,” Mr. Khan ordered.

Najma nodded. “Fruits! Come buy fruits cheap! cheap!”

A group of teenage boys suddenly appeared, talking and laughing. Najma moved the dark hijab around her short round face closer to her face, trying to hide herself from the boys when she recognized the group of teenage boys were from her school. Najma wasn’t like the other children around Baroda. Her complexion was darker, all thanks to her mother’s genes. Her mother wasn’t light like the other woman around. This had made her the centre of bully. Dark Indians weren’t accepted in the society like light Indians. Mr. Khan was even abandoned by his own family for marrying his wife, who later passed on after giving birth to Najma.

“Oh, look if it isn’t the muddy girl and her father,” one of the boys spoke so loudly that Najma could hear. Her heart shattered as tears brimmed in her hazel eyes.

He was Ali, the class president, which she liked. She would sometimes day dream of him and her running down a garden of sunflowers, away from everyone but deep down she knew it was never possible.

The other boys laughed at what Ali had said. “Hey you children! Get lost!” Mr. Khan yelled. The group of boys quickly scattered and ran up the quiet street, laughing. “I’ll break your bones when I see you again!”

“Papa,” Najma softly said, holding his skinny arm. Mr. Khan turned to face her broken-hearted daughter. “It is okay.” Forcing out a smile.

“Najma…”

“You don’t have to fight with fools because…”

“You’ll end up like them,” Mr. Khan completed the phrase.

A phrase he had taught to her daughter when she was a child, when ever she came back home crying, telling him that children at her school had made fun of her complexion. “You still remembered?”

She nodded. “Yes, I will never forget your teachings papa,”

He smiled. “Let’s pack and go home,”

* * *

Rain poured heavily on Mr. Khan, a skinny Indian man and his fifteen-year-old daughter Najma, who were seated under the umbrella near their trolley full of fruits. “Fruits! Come buy a fruit cheap! cheap!” Mr. Khan yelled.

“Papa, no one is coming to buy today,” Najma said, looking up at her father.

Mr. Khan turned to face her, forcing out a smile. “They will, lets keep calling for them,”

“When papa? Even yesterday it was quiet?” she sounded a little upset.

“Give it time Najma, they will be here,”