Birth of Hope

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Historical Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

A story about a young Indian girl from colonial times. It follows simultaneously the story of the liberation of a nation from it's colonial oppressors and the birth of a child also born from the lust of the colonials.

Crouched in the corner of a dingy, fire-lit wooden cottage, staring with a look of exhaustion, at the cottage’s lone window being bombarded with heavy and gnarled-looking branches was a tender-looking Indian girl named Shehara. Her extensive crop of hair was as black as night and her skin were as golden as daylight. Her skin had also acquired a smooth and translucent glow that only amplified her already immense beauty. She looked and was in fact no more than sixteen. However, even under her velvet night-gown, the fertile curves of a large, bulging belly could be effortlessly seen.

For the past eight months, she had laboured under the demands of a tiny being growing rapidly inside her stomach, all the while regretting about the educational opportunities that had once been presented to her as temptingly as a delicious sticky date pudding, lost on the chilly Ganges river of eight months before. .....


“Stop it!” she shrieked as she felt the flesh of the foreign, bizarrely-coloured man delve into her own. “Please...” she pleaded, her eyes now welled with tears. “Only a little longer, sweetheart, oh yeah how do you like that” replied the white man, keen not to let the chance of a beautiful young native girl come to pass without satisfying his lustful desires. Besides, he felt, he was the colonial master; he had every right to do as he pleased with the natives.


Now nine months later, one morning, the luscious the fertile village of Sarkhand was full of rolling green hills covered by rows and rows of vibrant and neatly manicured flower beds. Its fragrance was as beautiful as the most desirable goddess, freshening and relaxing the nose of every villager of Sarkhand as it had been for the past thousand years. Weaving in and out of this most intricate network of hills were lush and abundant clusters of rainforest, occupied by dense and damp jungle by the riverside and charming and lofty palm trees. However in close proximity was the barren and dull army camp that had been established by the foreign colonisers. Its countless grains of dust filled the nostrils of the villagers on windy days and the blast and blare of their violent and dangerous guns engendered cries of pain and fear in all the village infants.

Down by one of the small village farm plots by those lush jungle plants that followed the course of the river, worked the young and expectant girl named Shehara. She worked tiresomely, helped along by a profusion of mainly female relatives who sticked close-by as a result of her condition. Abruptly, her job of hoeing the vegetables was interrupted amongst an atmosphere of high-pitch screams from her relatives as she was whipped once again by the foreign village chief. “Why are you so slow, it should only be taking half the time to hoe a garden of this size”, the chief bawled in a rumbling, deep voice, “Don’t you know there are hungry children in Europe waiting for these vegetables sent over there?”

“Please sir” pleaded one of the villages timidly and almost on the verge of tears, “Can’t you see she is with child”.

“Do you think that’s of anyone’s concern”, scorned the chief “what really matters is that there are people in my country who need to be fed, so hurry up and here’s another one in case you forget” and with that chief slammed his whip hard onto Shehara’s deep scarlet and permanently scarred bosom.

There was a long silence as the chief left and the scene at the farm calmed down once again. “Shehara, just go, relax, you’re in deep pain, child” urged an elderly woman croakily, dependant on her wooden and crudely created walking-stick, breaking the silence, “It’s not good working this hard, as heavily with child as you are......... I hardly worked when I was pregnant with your mother, but of course.....” she reflected sadly staring despondently at the sunny horizon and the sight of the barren army camp it contained “they weren’t here, those days”. “That must’ve been a long time ago” responded Shehara teasingly as she decided to take some time off in the forest. Her grandmother simply scowled after her.


There was a secret locale in Sarkhand hidden away from all but two of its villagers. It was resplendent, a picturesque Garden of Eve with grasses and trees as green as an emerald. A lake in the background completed this visual banquet, its water a beautiful turquoise blue that sparkled like a diamond under the gleam of sunlight.

A young man was sitting against a large tree here, under the shady foliage of its overflowing branches. He was smartly dressed in a black suit and appeared to hard at work, concentrating upon the bright red pamphlet held between his two hands. He was aroused however, by the sweet harmonious tones of a girl’s voice as Shehara called out brightly “Hello Bihar”.

“Hello” replied the young man, who now stood up from the tree and ambled towards Shehara. As they embraced, Bihar delicately placed his hands around the large yet supple curve that was Shehara’s belly. As his hands proceeded to soothingly stroke her swollen abdomen, Shehara experienced a beautiful sensation as her heart became filled with tenderness; the blessed feeling of femininity, no matter what this baby’s origins, she was fulfilling her role as a woman. Bihar’s mind seemed to be tuned to a similar frequency, “It doesn’t matter with whom, this life I feel stirring inside you now, was conceived, this will always be our child”. “I know, I know” whispered Shehara half-exasperatedly yet half-amusedly, for Bihar had expressed this sentiment many, many times before, but she still loved him for his great commitment to her. No matter, even if she mutated into a piece of mouldy bread, he would still love her.

Helped along by Bihar, who meticulously hung on to her hip, she tediously- owing to her condition- sat down beside Bihar, curiously looking on at his red pamphlets.

TO BE CONTINUED. Please comment.


Submitted: June 29, 2011

© Copyright 2023 Shehara. All rights reserved.

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