Sumaiya, Umaiya, and the Promise of Swapnopur -Ziarul Islam

The village was called Swapnopur because people said dreams rested there at night like birds on quiet trees. At dawn the river shimmered like a silver ribbon and the azan from the small mosque floated across fields of rice. Sumaiya woke before the sun. She listened to the soft call and felt her heart steady. Her sister Umaiya still slept beside her with one hand curled like a question. Sumaiya whispered the words she had learned from her mother. Bismillah. Today she would begin with faith. Today she would act.

They were sisters born close like twin stars though a year apart. Sumaiya was the elder. She carried thoughts like lanterns. Umaiya was the younger. She carried courage like a drumbeat. Their father had taught them to read by the light of a kerosene lamp. Their mother had taught them to care for others by example. When the father passed away one monsoon night the village cried with them. Life grew tighter. Yet Swapnopur kept breathing.

That morning the school bell rang like hope struck against iron. The sisters walked together along the mud path. The air smelled of wet earth and mango leaves. Children laughed and ran. Some teased each other. Some carried worries older than their years. Near the banyan tree they saw Rakin standing alone. His shoes were torn. His eyes were down. A group of boys whispered and snickered. Umaiya slowed. Sumaiya stopped.

“Come with us,” Sumaiya said. Her voice was calm.

Rakin looked up. “They say I smell like fish,” he muttered.

Umaiya took his hand. “Then they should learn the smell of courage,” she said. “My mother says Allah loves clean hearts.”

The boys laughed again but quieter. Something in the sisters’ eyes made space. Rakin walked with them. The path felt wider.

At school their teacher spoke about a sentence written on the blackboard. Amra sobai manush hobo. We will all be human. The chalk letters looked simple yet heavy. The teacher asked what it meant. Hands rose. Words fell. Sumaiya thought of the path and Rakin and the quiet courage of holding a hand. Umaiya thought of drums.

That afternoon the river swelled. Rain fell like a promise and a threat. The old footbridge groaned. People rushed. A rumor spread that the bridge might break. The market would be cut off. Medicines would not come. Fear ran faster than rain.

By evening the bridge cracked. A plank fell with a cry. The river roared. Swapnopur gathered on both banks with lamps and umbrellas. Someone shouted for help. A child had slipped near the edge. Sumaiya felt her chest tighten. Umaiya kicked off her sandals.

“Wait,” Sumaiya said.

Umaiya smiled. “I can swim.”

She jumped before fear could argue. The water swallowed her then released her like a wave that had chosen a heart. She reached the child and pushed him toward a rope someone threw. Arms pulled. Cheers rose. Umaiya climbed out shaking and laughing. Sumaiya wrapped her shawl around her. The rain eased.

That night the sisters sat with their mother. The lamp flickered. The mother pressed Umaiya’s wet hair. “Faith without action is a bird with no wings,” she said softly. “And action without faith forgets why it flies.”

Sumaiya looked at the dark window. She felt the sentence from school settle into her bones.

The next days were busy. The bridge needed fixing. The elders argued. Money was scarce. The sisters listened. They visited homes. They spoke to shopkeepers. Umaiya talked with fire. Sumaiya talked with patience. They reminded everyone that the market fed all mouths. That the school needed books. That people were people.

One afternoon a man refused help. “Why should I give?” he said. “No one helped me when my roof fell.”

Sumaiya bowed her head. “I am sorry,” she said. “Help us now and we will help you next. Allah sees what hands do.”

The man looked away. Umaiya placed a small coin on his table. “This is from us,” she said. “Not because we are rich but because we believe.”

The man’s eyes softened. He added a note. It was not large. It was enough.

They organized a day of work. Youth came with ropes and planks. Women cooked rice and lentils. The imam came and made a short dua. Children sang. The bridge rose again stronger than before. When the first basket crossed the river people clapped. The sisters stood aside. Their hands were muddy. Their hearts were light.

Trouble did not end. It never does. A sickness came with the heat. Coughs echoed. Fear returned. Medicine was needed. The clinic was far. Umaiya wanted to run. Sumaiya wanted to plan. They did both.

They wrote letters. They called the town doctor. They asked the imam to announce a care circle after prayer. Youth volunteered to clean homes. Hands washed hands. Soup traveled in pots. The sick rested. The doctor arrived on a bicycle with dust on his shirt. He smiled at the line of helpers. “This village breathes together,” he said.

One night Sumaiya sat by the river. The moon traced a path. She worried. Could two sisters carry so much. Umaiya sat beside her and hummed a tune their father loved. “Do you remember when he said be brave and be kind,” Umaiya asked.

Sumaiya nodded. “He said bravery without kindness breaks people.”

Umaiya skipped a stone. “Then we will be brave kindly.”

The next test came quietly. A new boy arrived from another place. His name was Musabbir. He spoke differently. Some children mocked him. Words cut deeper than rain. Musabbir stopped coming to school.

Sumaiya felt the old ache. She and Umaiya walked to Musabbir’s house. His mother opened the door with tired eyes. The sisters sat on the floor. They listened. They did not hurry. They invited Musabbir to walk with them the next day. Umaiya promised to race him. Sumaiya promised to read with him.

At school the teasing began again. Umaiya stood in front. “Say it to me,” she said. Silence fell. The teacher came. The sentence returned to the board. Amra sobai manush hobo. The class read it together. The words sounded different now. Like a promise spoken aloud.

Days passed. Swapnopur learned small habits. To greet with peace. To ask before judging. To act when faith whispered. The sisters grew. Sumaiya learned to speak at meetings. Umaiya learned to listen when anger knocked. They prayed when tired. They laughed when afraid.

On the day of the village fair the sky cleared. Colors bloomed. A stage stood near the banyan tree. The children performed a short play. Sumaiya and Umaiya were asked to speak. The crowd gathered. Faces young and old shone.

Sumaiya stepped forward. Her voice was steady. “We learned a sentence,” she said. “It says we will all be human. Being human means seeing pain and moving toward it. It means believing and doing.”

Umaiya followed. “Faith is not only words,” she said. “It is hands that help and feet that run and hearts that forgive.”

The imam nodded. The teacher smiled. Rakin waved from the front with clean shoes. Musabbir stood beside him. The river flowed. The bridge held.

As the sun set the azan rose again. Swapnopur breathed. The sisters stood together. Sumaiya felt gratitude. Umaiya felt fire. They whispered a prayer. Guide us to be better humans. Help us choose action with faith.

Night came. Dreams rested on trees. And in Swapnopur two sisters slept knowing that being human was a journey walked every day with courage and care.