Georgia Higgs
Aix-en-Provence, France
2024, Junior, Creative Writing

I had woken up today believing it would be just like any other day. But, in reality, it was the day that would change my perception of the Earth for the rest of my life. I know that I am sitting on an uncomfortable school chair, and I feel the sharp edges of a school desk pressed up against me, but I am not aware of them. I am far away in a land only reachable from my mind, the surrounding murmurs becomes twittering of birds, the occasional ring of laughter turns into the crash of a magnificent waterfall. I am not present in the classroom, and that is why at first, I do not believe what I perceive out of the corner of my eye. Past the rowdy students turning around in their seats, and the impatient teacher towering above them menacingly, through the glass of the one window to the outside world, the usually celeste sky burned scarlet like a raging inferno. The sky was on fire.

An ear piercing scream fills the air like a knife slicing through the buzz of the morning chatter. My legs turn to jelly, yet I feel myself walking towards the window. But then the red turned to black as my eyelids fell shut.

*

“A total of 7,606 fires[1] have burned 2,936,955 acres in the state of California, this year.” Miss Brown says as she explains to us what had caused the cardinal sky this morning. My mouth drops in shock like they describe in books – I can’t help it. “Has anyone else experienced climate change before?” Mala raises her hand, her chocolate brown doe eyes stare up innocently as a lock of inky hair falls to shield her olive skin. The class stare at her in amazement; Mala never speaks.
“In Pakistan,” she stammers.

“Can you tell us about it?”
“I woke up late like every day, the liquid-gold sunlight seeped past my eyelids, my sheets twisted together in sweat. The familiar waft of spices brought a smile to my face, I forced myself up and walked into the kitchen. I told my grandparents I was going to Uncle Abdul and Aunt Samina’s house, and I shouted them a goodbye as I slipped into my sandals. My great grandparents owned a large plot of land, and when they died it was shared equally with all their children, which was in turn given to their children, my aunts and uncles. I ran through the sweltering heat as fast as I could to get to next doors, to see my cousins.

“Mala!” Zoya greeted me with her signature grin and Ali, the youngest, ran up to hug my waist. Mohammed[2] stood a few paces behind, but I saw the ghost of a smile dance on his lips. The day flew by, and soon it was time for the dinner meal, an important evening that took place three times a week. The whole family arrived one by one, carrying plates of traditional Pakistani dishes until thirty of us were sat around one long table and the room smelt of more spices than you can count. We finished eating late and went outside to play in the darkness of the night; this is the only time we could go outside because of the heat. We ran down to the river where we always went, throwing off our shoes to paddle in the crystal water, giggling as we splashed each other. After a while we layed in the grass, watching the stars gleam in the vast sky. Grandma came to check if we were okay and sat down beside us. She showed us the lotus flowers sitting daintily on the surface of the water and whilst she reached down to pick some, the boys restarted the game of tag. She took the delicate flowers in her gentle hands to make Zoya a flower crown. I watched in awe as she weaved them in and out of her long silky hair. One fell out and Zoya laughed, shaking her head so much that they all came crashing down. Grandma smiled weakly and Zoya ran away to chase after Mohammed. I looked up at her frail face lit up eerily in the moonlight and watched her eyes sparkle.

“Would you like a crown, Kashmala?” she asked me, her voice a delicate whisper in the night. I nodded eagerly and sat patiently as she began to loop the dainty pink flowers into my hair.

“These flowers are called kanwal[3],” she told me, “They grow only by the river. They look beautiful on you, Kashmala.” I beamed shyly. “Your name means necklace of flowers[4], you know, I’m so glad your mother picked such a beautiful name – I wish people wouldn’t constantly shorten it.”

I slept peacefully that night. At the end of the summer, we were leaving to come here, to America. It was few days before Eid, so she gave me my present; small pink flowers threaded onto a silver chain. “A necklace of flowers, for my beautiful Kashmala,” she said.

Miss Brown had never seen the class so quiet and attentive, she and all the students sat mesmerised by Mala’s words.

“Five months ago, we went back to visit Pakistan for the summer holidays. The river had disappeared because of the drought.” Her voice cracks but she continues calm and collected. “It was as if all the joy of my town, the life of it, had been sucked away. There was barely enough water for them to keep living there, without the river to sustain them, and my grandmother died of heatstroke. Only a year had passed since we left and there were no longer any crowns, any river, or any kanwal.”

*

The next day our teacher lets us outside. The rest of the class and I gather handfuls of daisies and dandelions from beneath the blood coloured sky, whilst Mala sits alone, “unnoticed” like she used to be. We sit around her in a circle, and before she understands what is happening, we start making her a flower crown. When we have finished, she looks at herself in the reflection of the window and sighed contently.

“Do you like it?” I ask her.
“I love it. Thank you,” she whispers looking up at me with big brown eyes. She pauses, and then makes sure everyone can hear her and says three simple words, “We must fight.” And I say, “We will.”

Works Cited

[2] Names found on forebears.io
[4] Stated by hamariweb.com
[1] As of September 9, 2020, kids.kiddle.co
[3] Translation by rekhtadictionary.com

Share Gallery

Kashmala’s River