angel with a black heart
Childhood memories often fade like mist, but the stories my grandmother told remain etched in my mind. She spoke of angels whose hearts were as pure and beautiful as their faces—beings sent by God to heal the wounds of the world.
But among those golden tales, there was always one darker thread: the story of the "Black-Hearted angel"
Grandmother used to say that as breathtaking as she was, her heart was made of cold, black stone. She lived in eternal shadow, avoided by everyone because even her reflection brought a chill. To my grandmother, she was a nightmare. But to me, for some reason, she was a tragedy. Loneliness is the world’s most cruel cage—its bars are invisible, but they crush the soul all the same.
For years, she was just a myth to me. A ghost from a bedtime story. Until that one rainy evening changed everything.
January 31st
The sky wasn't just raining; it felt like it was weeping. A heavy downpour had turned the streets of the city into a ghost town. I stood near the gates of Anand Pratap College, clutching a black umbrella. My long hair was damp, and behind my calm face, I was losing my patience.
I took a deep breath of the earthy petrichor and started walking. I stopped further down the road to wait for an auto-rickshaw. The world was silent, save for the rhythmic drumming of the rain.
"I wish someone would just turn off this rain. I hate it," I muttered to myself.
That’s when I saw her.
She stood right in the middle of the road. Even in a crowd, she would have been impossible to miss. She was stunningly beautiful, but her large eyes held a profound sadness—though, deep within that darkness, a tiny flicker of hope remained. Her thick, black hair cascaded down her back like a silken serpent. She wasn't hiding from the storm; she was embracing it.
Her arms were outstretched as if she wanted to catch every falling drop in her palms. Her face was tilted toward the grey sky, eyes closed, feeling the rain against her skin.
A shiver ran through me. “Her eyes... they look just like mine,” I whispered to myself. “But she is different. So different.”
Suddenly, the girl turned her head. Her gaze locked onto mine. There was a plea in her eyes, a silent scream for something I couldn't name. My heart hammered against my ribs so loudly I could hear it in my ears. Just as I pressed my hand to my chest to steady myself—
"PHUAAANNNN!"
A loud horn blared. An auto-rickshaw screeched to a halt right in front of me, blocking my view. I blinked, distracted for a split second. When I looked back across the street, she was gone. The road was empty. Only the rain danced on the cold concrete. It was as if she had never been there at all—a mere trick of the wind.
The girl—Tara—didn't stay in the rain for long. She quickly climbed into an auto-rickshaw, gave the driver an address, and the engine roared to life. She glanced back once, but the street was hollow. A strange restlessness settled in her chest.
Halfway through the journey, she signaled the driver to stop. Keeping her umbrella tight against the wind, she hurried into a small cake shop. Minutes later, she emerged with a small cardboard box and climbed back into the vehicle.
The ride ended at a narrow, muddy lane. At the end stood an old two-story house—weather-beaten and weary, its walls scarred by time. Tara climbed the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway. She propped her wet umbrella against the doorframe and stepped inside.
Setting the cake box on the dining table, she glanced toward the balcony.
"What are you doing out there, Dadi?" she asked with a soft smile.
A raspy, elderly voice drifted back. "Look at these puppies down there, Tara. The poor things are shivering in the rain. They’re freezing."
Tara frowned with concern. "You shouldn't be standing out there in the cold."
Her grandmother turned around, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Nothing is going to happen to me, Tara. You know that, don't you?"
Tara sighed and poured herself a glass of water. "I know, but please, just come inside."
The old woman walked over, her eyes filled with the wisdom of a lifetime. She studied Tara’s face closely. "How was your day? Did something happen... something that wasn't supposed to?"
Tara paused, the glass halfway to her lips. She lowered her gaze. "Nothing special. Why do you ask?"
"Just a feeling," Dadi whispered. "You look like you're lost somewhere else."
Before Tara could reply, a violent pounding shook the door. A shrill voice screamed from outside, "Hey, Tara! Open up!"
The peaceful moment shattered. Tara rushed to the door and pulled it open. Her aunt stood there, face twisted with bitterness.
"If I don't come begging for it, you’ll never pay the rent, will you?" the aunt snapped, hands on her hips.
Tara kept her eyes down. "It's not like that, Aunty. I was just about to bring it to you. Let me get the money."
As Tara went inside, the aunt began peering greedily into the house. Dadi stepped in front of her, shouting, "Hey! What are you staring at, you witch? Stop hounding my girl!"
But the aunt didn't react. It was as if Dadi wasn't even there. She continued to look around until Tara returned and placed a few notes in her hand.
"This is all I have for now," Tara said softly. "I'll give you the rest next week."
The aunt licked her thumb, counted the cash, and made a face. "Honestly, if you weren't family, I’d have kicked you out long ago." She muttered a few more insults and stomped away.
Tara closed the door, her heart heavy. Dadi fumed in the corner. "I’m going to teach her a lesson one of these days!"
Tara forced a small smile. "Forget about her, Dadi. Let’s cut your cake. I have to get to work soon."
Dadi’s eyes grew misty. "You bought a cake for my birthday?"
Tara nodded. She carefully placed the cake on a small table in the hall and lit a single candle. Then, she picked up the plate and turned toward the wall.
On the wall hung a large, framed photograph of her grandmother. A withered flower garland draped over the frame. The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.
In a trembling voice, Tara began to sing:
"Happy Birthday, Dadi... Happy Birthday to you..."
Her voice broke. The words caught in her throat. A single tear escaped her right eye and traced a path down her cheek.
Suddenly, she felt a familiar, gentle weight—as if a loving hand had been placed on her head. Her grandmother's voice brushed against her ear like a soft breeze.
"There are enough people in this world to make you cry, my child... at least don't cry for me."
Tara quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She took a deep breath, looked at the photo, and smiled through the pain.
"Happy Birthday, Dadi."
With one soft breath, she blew out the candle.
