Allah always has a plan for the patience

 Golapi Alo 

MIST ID: UR7YO Intended Age Group: 14+

The dull green walls were littered with large posters of the labeled parts of the female reproductive system. It was definitely fitting for a patient room in an obstetrician office. I waited patiently in the rolling stool near the computer, mesmerized by the flitting images of greenery that played in a loop on the screen of the office computer. 

“Good morning, Mr. Chowdury. How are you doing? Where’s your wife?” asked Dr. Kassenoff without lifting her eyes from the stack of papers in her hands. Her body language was relaxed, but her face poorly masked her unease; it seemed as though she was trying her best to maintain her composure. That was enough to make me instantly swallow my questions. 

“Good morning, Dr. Kassenoff. I am good. I take her to her brother’s house before I come here,” I carefully exclaimed. I made sure that I stood up straight before doing so. “I thought that both of you would be present to hear the chorionic villus sampling test results,” Dr. Kassenoff said with a frown, rustling through her papers again. I said, “I can pick up the results and take it over to her brother’s house and tell her. You can tell me right now.” 

“That is fine, but I had firmly requested both of you to attend because the results came out positive for Down syndrome. I wanted to discuss the future steps,” Dr. Kassenoff said with her eyes now locked onto mine. She went on about the results, but I could only focus on her lips meeting and parting. I was struggling to stand any longer, so I fumbled for the stool. 

“Are you sure? The results can be false,” I managed to croak through the drying of my throat. She reaches towards me with the papers from her hand. The papers were an unusual pink color. Sickly and garish. A sore to the eyes. It didn’t look right contrasting with the green of the room.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Chowdury. They are correct for the majority of cases,” she replied. My heart dropped deep into my stomach, and I sank into the cushion of the stool. My silence was my only response. 

“I’ll give you a moment,” she whispered as she quietly made her way to the door. “No. I’m telling my wife now. I need to go home.” 

I waved her off, stood up with great difficulty. Even as I left the office, my arms were limp at my sides. Envelope in one hand and an open letter in the other. 

“Sir, what in the world do you think you’re doing?” A microphone blared from the booth of the train station. Red-faced and puffed up, the man looked right at me. I realized I swiped my MetroCard too slowly for the machine to read, but I was too dazed to even notice it. “I’m sorry,” I answered as I stumbled towards the train, going up to the platform. 

My awareness returned as I walked into the air-conditioned train cart. Quickly, I shoved the obnoxiously pink paper into the back pocket of my slacks. No one else should see the shame brought upon my family. 

I quickly plopped into the nearest seat. My elbows dug into my knees as my chin rested on my palms. How can I go home like this? What can I possibly say to her? Rubbing my eyes open, I realized I must have dozed off. A girl was pressing her pink toy into the curve of my fist. She had a flattened face, these slanted-up almond eyes, and a shorter than usual neck: all features I had noticed in the pamphlet about Down syndrome that Dr. Kassenoff had. What would be an otherwise endearing interaction, worsened my panic.

“This is —Ditmas Avenue,” announced the train conductor peering out of the front window. With my lungs still weak and struggling, I bolted out the train cart. Only then did I notice that the girl’s toy was still in my hand. Holding on the gum-strewn, wooden bench of the platform, I was struggling to breathe even more. 

As a simple taxi driver, my greatest aspiration was to leave the world with something that would make it better. Preferably with my name, but now, loke ki bolbe ? No one will see me in 1 the light again. Just imagine how difficult raising a child of such low mental capacity would be. 

Rokeya’s brother’s house was only 3 blocks from the stop, miraculously that’s where I got off. I reacted minimally to the excess pleasantries offered by my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. I was simply in a rush to take Rokeya home and tell her the news. She seemed happy playing with her nephews and had forgotten about the appointment entirely. But the sun was setting, and it couldn’t wait any longer. 

We returned home shortly, giving me enough time to think about my words carefully. I sat her down on the bed. 

“Rokeya, the results for the test were positive for Down syndrome,” I said reaching out with the pink slip. I stood as still as I could for her to absorb what I had just said. She couldn’t understand most words on that pink paper aside from “test” and “positive”, and that was enough for the tears to begin clouding up. 

“We should definitely abort this child, Rokeya. It’s too much responsibility. Does it look like we have the money to care for a child like this? We barely have money to get by,” I argued adamantly. 

1‘What will people say?’ (Bengali)

“I want this child. My firstborn. This child is a miracle. This is what Allah Subhanahu Wa Ta'ala willed upon me,” she hoarsely declared. Her cheeks glistened with tears, she balled up the pink slip in her left hand. Struggling to speak, her quiet whimpering turned into heavy sobs. 

“But you are not thinking rationally. I know how long we’ve come to get to this point, but we can’t possibly give him a good life. He won’t be happy,” my voice was rising. Am I supposed to pretend I can be a good father to this child? 

“Keeping this child is rational. Allah Subhanahu Wa Ta'ala has shown me in a dream that I would be receiving a light as a gift. The light was an unusual pink just like this paper,” Rokeya murmured. An uncomfortable silence followed, only to be broken with accusation. 

“You know what? You’re thinking of what people will say about our child. You’ve always been like this,” snapped Rokeya. With every word that she uttered, it became clear that she didn’t understand just how difficult it would be to rewrite the norms of society. 

“Are you done with your lecture? Because I didn’t bring you to this country for you to talk back to me and make decisions by yourself.” Slamming the door behind me, I sprinted down two flights of stairs and out onto the streets of New York. 

The sky paused between day and night, creating a rosy pink blotched by scattered bleach clouds. Taking a deep breath, I allowed what Rokeya spat in my face to run its course. I kept walking until I heard the crossing guard whistling at me to wait for the light. 

Arriving between Church and Mcdonald Avenue, I noticed the hordes of desi men huddled around the paan stands. And there stood the Greenhouse Restaurant. I refuse to go home

and eat food prepared by her. I admit, the food wasn't all that good, but I didn’t need good. I needed good enough. 

The doorbell tinged as I pushed nudged the door open and let myself in. Someone grabbed my shoulder. 

“Assalamualaikum , Kabir! It’s been so long, brother. How are you and sister-in-law?” 2 the man with a light stubble exclaimed. 

 It took me a few seconds, but I realized it was Dulal. Rokeya and I had met him and his wife while trying for a baby. It was comforting to see another couple who looked like they were going through the same things as us. 

“Wa’alaikum salam , Dulal. We’ve been well, alhamdulillah . How are you and your 3 4 wife? Is the baby on the way?” I asked a bit more obstinately than I had intended. His smile fell and his eyes drooped. 

“We’re still trying for a baby. How about you?” he responded. I didn’t want to tell him that we had a baby on the way. I mean I didn’t want Rokeya to give birth to a child we would not be able to raise. 

“Yeah. We’re in our first trimester, alhamdulillah,” I replied. I didn’t mean to compare our circumstances. His face slightly turned glum for a second before he brought it back to a smile and shook my hands in delight. 

“Masha’Allah, brother. Let me buy you some rosogollas in celebration,” he exclaimed. He surged forward to the counter, but the twinge of sorrow couldn’t be hidden from his voice. 

2‘Peace be upon you.” (Arabic) This is a general form of greeting between Muslims. 

3‘Peace be upon you, as well.” (Arabic) This is the reply to the phrase mentioned before. 4‘Praise to be to God’ (Arabic).

“You don’t have to do that for me! Let me buy you some since it is my child.” I pushed forward, and with a few rounds of back-and-forward banter, he gave in and I paid for our dinner. 

“Dulal, a friend of mine asked for some advice for this process. He was asking me if I would keep a baby if it was diagnosed with Down syndrome. I replied no immediately. It wouldn’t even be able to do things properly, might as well not make it suffer,” I rambled on without realizing I had given too much away. 

“Hold on a minute. Just wait. You would abort a child because you assume they won’t live up to your standards?” he interjected, his spoon-clad hand frozen in mid-air as he stared at me in disbelief. 

“Yes. They won’t be able to look after me or even look after themselves after I pass. What would the community say? Oh, Kabir’s son is sick and they knew that before giving birth, but still brought the child into this world. It’s an embarrassment,” I huffed in a single breath. It got difficult to breathe again. The customers sitting next to us were starting to stare in curiosity. I buried my face in my hands. 

“It’s alright, Kabir. I just want you to tell your friend that he should consider keeping his child because it will all be okay in the end, in shaa Allah . Nowadays, there are many 5 opportunities for a person with Down syndrome. They are able to work at jobs and be self-sufficient. Fate will take over, regardless of your standards." He softly urged while placing his hand on my shoulder. He understood. 

5‘God-willing’ (Arabic)

It was getting late, so we decided to part ways before it got too dark outside. As I advanced towards my apartment building, I felt something tug on the fabric of my pants. It was difficult to see what was holding me back because the streetlight right above my head appeared 

to be broken. I fumbled around in my jacket’s pockets for my phone, only to feel a small flashlight in my left one. I took a sharp intake of air before shining the light near my leg. To my relief, it was just the pointy edge of a tree guard. That was when I held the flashlight up to the moonlight. 

It was the toy that the girl from the train pressed into my hands. The metal body of the mini flashlight itself was pink. Oddly enough, the light beaming from the flashlight itself was the shade of pink comparable to that of the result paper itself. 

The sun peeked over the many clouds in the sky, I stepped out of my apartment building. I zipped up my coat as I proceeded down the familiar intersection of the avenues. I was headed for the nearby park to get some fresh air before running the many errands I had reserved that day. As I slipped through the gates that were left ajar, I found myself enveloped in the stillness that surrounded the park. It was too early for anyone to be at the park anyway. I chose to sit on the bench in the center of the park; on a cold day like this, I decided to bask in the little sunlight that was offered. Legs crossed and hands in my pocket, my eyes followed the twists and bends of the metal jungle gym. 

“Afra! Don’t ride your tricycle into the park! We have places to go!” a voice called from the entrance of the park, getting closer by the second. I instinctively turned around to see who it was at this early hour of the day.

“Mommy, I go play now?” A different, more high-pitched voice pleaded. It wasn’t long before the owners of the two voices arose from the shrubbery that was blocking my view of them. It was a girl around the age of three with a sparkling, pink bow in her hair on a sparkling, pink tricycle racing ahead onto the rubber flooring of the park and her mother chasing after her. She was unusually fast, but that was not what drew me to her. Her slanted-up almond eyes seemed a little too familiar when she looked into my eyes. 

It was the girl from the train two months ago. 

I frantically searched all of my pockets to reassure myself that I had brought the flashlight with me today. Rest assured, it was snug in the left pocket of my slacks. I always brought it with me, but now I don't need it anymore. 

The little girl’s mother had just caught up to her and began to gently reprimand her for the chase that she caused. The girl didn’t seem to be listening, though. She was intently observing me making my way to them. Her mother soon mirrored the girl’s gaze as I got closer. “Hello, do you need anything?” interrogated the mother with alarm. 

“I just want to say thank you for giving this to me that day. I’m stronger now and you can have it back.” I responded as an answer to her question, trying my best to speak in proper English. But it was an answer for the girl who intriguingly peered at the pink flashlight that I was now handing to her. 

She smiled knowingly.

Written Statement 

As a creative person, I enjoy associating things with color to envision its true essence. In Golapi Alo, it was exciting for me to be able to put knack of mine into use for the purpose of the audience to understand the shifts of mood in my piece in a greater sense. I decided to showcase my individuality through the title of the piece itself, which means “Pink Light” in Bengali (my native tongue). I thought it would be interesting to intertwine my love of seeing the world more colorfully, and my identity as a Bengali-American to come about the title. This culture of “loke ki bolbe” which means “what will people say” inspired this piece because it is so often that desi uncles and aunties perpetuated this system. Hence, they are the ones who are villainized for maintaining the existence of this practice of giving relevance to societal standards. Therefore, I wanted to paint a scenario in which the audience is able to empathize with the “classic brown uncle” in terms of how the system was formulated in the first place. This system, itself, is clearly not a tangible structure, but rather a mental and cultural construct used to make people feel inferior to the standards of the community. 

To begin, the different gradients of the color pink is used to both signify the unborn child and the intensity of the emotions experienced by the narrator throughout the story. The color pink first makes its appearance in the story, when it clashes with the green room to indicate that the slow dispersion of pink into the narrator’s green life is what begins to muddle everything. The choice of color was important because pink and green are complementary colors, which mix to make a brown that correlates to the feelings of bewilderment he endured at the moment. The concept of light is introduced later in the passage by Rokeya, the narrator’s wife, through the proclamation of a dream. In her dream, the light is of the same pink color, further explaining that

the pink light represents the child. The flashlight that is given to the narrator in his state of confusion and detachment from reality alludes to a higher power that would be watching to make sure that everything that would occur would occur for the betterment of his future. The flashlight is purposely used as the toy that the girl gives to the character to draw a connection between Rokeya’s dream and Allah (SWT)’s protection of his fate. On that note, the audience comes to know that the girl’s name is Afra, which also has importance to the overall story. Afra is a name of Arabic origin meaning “whitish red”, showing that she was chosen to be the vessel of the message because she also has Down syndrome and her name literally translates to the word ‘pink’. Lastly, the narrator’s broken english, seen in his conversation with the obstetrician is a stylistic choice to show that the narrator is not fluent in English because the conversation is between him and an English speaker. However, the rest of his inner thoughts and dialogue follow the rules of English grammar and conventions because it is supposed to show the distinction between his comfort speaking English and Bengali. This distinction was necessary to accentuate the fact his speech reflects his conflict with the Western culture of being indifferent to what others think. 

Throughout Golapi Alo, I attempted to capture how holding premature standards for how our lives should be led can cause us to forget that we all have a certain destiny that we cannot change regardless. Trusting the process, especially when being faced with a test of faith, is difficult because we feel unguided. It is even more difficult when the whole community is watching our supposed downfall and creating premonitions of us based upon one publicized event in our life. However, Allah (SWT) always manages to bring us closer to Him in instances that we cannot even fathom because it is part of the unforeseeable future. Likewise, Kabir

refuses to accept this part of life because he does not believe that it will bring any good, but he slowly begins to understand that although he may be in charge of his freewill, there is a power out of his reach who controls his fate.