The fields stretched out before Bibi like a green ocean, rippling in the soft afternoon breeze. She sat on her charpai, the wooden legs sinking slightly into the dry earth beneath, her back propped against the rough-hewn trunk of a tree. The charpai, woven with thick cotton ropes, had worn down over the years, much like Bibi herself. But it still held her as she sat, as she had every day, waiting.

She had been waiting for years now. Her son, Gurmeet, had left for the city with a bag slung over his shoulder and promises in his mouth—promises of a better life, of returning soon, of not forgetting his home or his old mother. The seasons had turned, and the village had changed, but Gurmeet hadn’t returned.

Every day, Bibi sat there, watching the narrow dirt road that cut through the fields, hoping to see her son appear any moment. As time passed, hope began to fade like the colours in her old dupatta, but she clung to it stubbornly, as if letting go would mean losing him forever.

The village had stopped asking about Gurmeet after the first few years. People had a way of moving on, of letting go of the lost. But Bibi couldn’t. She couldn’t turn her back on the idea that one day, he would run down that road to her, just as he used to when he was but a boy.

Her days were long and silent, punctuated only by the distant clatter of carts, the calls of women gathering water, and the rustling of leaves overhead. 

Until the girl appeared.

Manpreet was different from the others. The first time she came, she stood awkwardly at a distance, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her dupatta, her eyes cast downward, too shy or too ashamed to meet Bibi’s gaze. She didn’t say a word, just stood there, waiting, much like Bibi herself.

It wasn’t until the third or fourth day that Bibi acknowledged her, lifting her chin slightly, and inviting her closer with a simple, tired glance. Manpreet hesitated before walking over, her footsteps slow and unsure.

“Sit,” Bibi had said quietly, gesturing to the empty charpai next to hers. Manpreet had sat down without a word, her body tense, as though the weight of the world was pressing down on her shoulders.

They sat in silence for a long time, staring at the fields. The swaying crops seemed endless, a soft, hypnotic dance under the sun.

After a while, Bibi spoke. “You come here every day.”

Manpreet nodded. “I…” her voice barely a whisper, “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Bibi understood. Everyone in the village knew Manpreet’s story. The girl had been engaged to a boy from a nearby village, a match arranged by her parents. But before the wedding, whispers had started circulating—rumours of her being with child; and not by her fiancé. The village, in its usual swift cruelty, had turned against her. The engagement was broken, she was cast aside, her family name tarnished, and an outcast in her own home.

For days, Manpreet had wandered the village like a ghost, her eyes hollow, her steps unsure, until she found Bibi sitting by the fields. And now, she came every day, seeking something Bibi wasn’t sure she could give.

“What do you wait for?” Manpreet asked one afternoon, breaking the usual rhythm of silence.

Bibi’s eyes stayed on the horizon. “My son.”

The younger woman shifted slightly, her fingers tracing the fraying edge of the charpai. “When will he come?”

Bibi sighed. “I don’t know.”

There was a pause, and then Manpreet asked, “What if he doesn’t?”

Bibi’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had asked herself that question many times, but it never made the waiting any easier. “I will still wait,” she said quietly.

Manpreet nodded, as though she understood. Maybe she did. Her waiting was different, but it was waiting all the same—waiting for acceptance, for forgiveness, for some sense of belonging to return to her life.

“Does it make you angry?” Manpreet asked suddenly. Her voice was tentative as if she wasn’t sure whether she should speak the thought aloud. “Waiting like this… for someone who might never come back.”

Bibi thought for a moment, her face calm but her eyes revealing a flicker of something deeper—something unresolved. “Sometimes. But then, I remember… he is still my son. He must have his reasons; reasons I can’t know.”

Manpreet looked at her with furrowed brows. “But how can you forgive him? After all these years?”

“There are many things I may never understand,” Bibi said softly, “but when you’re a mother, anger can’t replace love. The waiting hurts, yes. But hating him would only make the pain sharper.”

Manpreet’s eyes filled with tears, but she quickly wiped them away. “I don’t know if I could ever be that strong. If my child leaves me one day, I think I would break.”

“Maybe we don’t have a choice,” Bibi replied. “Strength and love isn’t something we choose. It’s what’s left when everything else is taken from us.”

Manpreet stared at the fields in silence. “I’ve only ever felt judged for what I carry. I don’t know if I could love something the world sees as a mistake.”

Bibi reached out and placed her hand over Manpreet’s. “The world is always quick to judge. But the world doesn’t know what you know. It doesn’t feel what you feel. You carry a life, not a mistake.”

As the days turned into weeks, the two women began to speak more, their conversations slow and cautious, like the hesitant blooming of a flower after a long drought. Bibi would tell Manpreet stories of Gurmeet as a child—how he used to run barefoot through the fields, how he would bring her wildflowers, how he dreamed of making something of himself in the city.

“He was always so full of dreams,” Bibi said one day, her voice thick with pride and sadness. “I thought he would make it.”

Manpreet listened quietly, her hands resting on her growing belly. Sometimes she would talk about the baby, though not often. The village had made her feel as though it was something to be ashamed of, but here, with Bibi, she allowed herself moments of quiet hope. 

“Do you think,” she asked one evening, as the sky turned pink and gold, “that the baby will be okay? That I’ll be okay?”

Bibi looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time. There was so much pain in her eyes, but there was also strength—a kind of resilience that only came from enduring more than one’s fair share of heartache. “You will be okay,” Bibi said, her voice firm. “And your child will be, too. The two of you will be fine, no matter how hard the world tries to wither you.”

Manpreet smiled a small, tentative smile. It was the first time Bibi had seen her smile, and it warmed something deep inside her—a place that had been cold for far too long.

As the months passed, Manpreet’s belly grew, and with it, so did her visits to Bibi. The village still gossiped, still whispered behind her back, but she no longer flinched when she heard their voices. Sitting with Bibi by the fields, watching the sun rise and fall over the horizon, she had found something she hadn’t known she was looking for—a kind of peace.

One day, as they sat in their usual spot, Bibi looked at Manpreet and asked, “Will you name the child?”

Manpreet hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’ve been thinking… Gurmeet. For a boy or a girl.”

Bibi’s breath caught in her throat. The name hung in the air between them, heavy and full of meaning. She looked away, her eyes filling up to the brim, as she stared at the fields. For a long time, she didn’t say anything, and Manpreet, sensing the weight of the moment, stayed silent as well.

Finally, Bibi whispered, “Maybe… maybe that’s a good name.”

The wind rustled the crops, and the sun touched the horizon, casting long shadows over the earth. Manpreet reached out and placed her hand on Bibi’s, her touch light but reassuring. And for the first time in years, Bibi didn’t feel the need to look toward the road.

They sat together, two women bound by loss and loneliness, but also by something more—something unspoken yet understood. And in that moment, under the fading light of the day, Bibi allowed herself to smile.

As the sky darkened, Manpreet stood up and said, “I’ll come tomorrow.”

Bibi nodded, watching as she walked away, her figure slowly disappearing into the distance. And for the first time in years, Bibi felt something shift inside her. 

Maybe her son would never return. Maybe some waits were endless.

But in the empty space inside her, there was no longer only silence. 

There was hope.