"Mam, your child was born dead," said the nurse, her voice like frost on glass—brittle, sharp, and final. Suhana screamed in labor, drenched in sweat and prayers, but her pleas were swallowed by the coldness of that verdict. The lie weighed heavy, carried on bribe-lined lips. In truth, the baby was alive—but not fair.
Rajmohini, Suhana's mother-in-law, tall and graceful with porcelain skin and hollow traditions, gazed at the newborn's dark skin and saw not a blessing, but a curse. Her pride, built on centuries of fair-skinned hierarchy and caste-bound arrogance, could not digest this deviation. She did not hold the baby. She didn't even glance twice. Instead, she wrapped the child as one would a forgotten sin and dropped her into a village well—silent, unmarked. No one saw. No one spoke. Only the gurgle of water swallowed the betrayal whole.
Rajmohini paid off the nurse and doctor, hands trembling with self-righteous rage. "Say she was stillborn," she ordered. "A black child born in our house is an omen." The hospital staff, greedy and gutless, obeyed. A death certificate was forged before the child even had a name. Suhana, still half-conscious from the delivery, kept whispering, "Let me hold her… just once…" but no one allowed it. When she heard the word "dead," something inside her cracked—not a scream, not a break—but a quiet rupture. After years of being mocked as baanjh—infertile—by Rajmohini, this birth had been her salvation. Now it was her curse again. She didn't shout or weep; she simply dimmed. Her soul flickered. Her body moved, but she was no longer alive in the way the world measures life.
Suhana became a silent presence in the house. She didn't laugh. She barely ate. Her eyes rarely blinked. Her husband, devastated but weak-willed, could never bring himself to question his mother's claim. Within two years, he died of a heart attack, leaving Suhana alone in a home that had never embraced her. The family now consisted of Rajmohini, her son's widow Suhana, her younger son's family, and two arrogant grandsons who treated Suhana like a living ghost. The house remained beautiful—polished tiles, chandeliers, expensive linen—but inside, it stank of prejudice and quiet sins. Meanwhile, unknown to them all, destiny had conspired to keep its balance.
By miracle—or mercy—the baby Rajmohini discarded did not drown. A group of nuns passing by the forested well heard faint cries from the deep. Sister Catherine, a nun known for her fearless compassion, climbed down herself against everyone's warnings and pulled the baby out—breathing, gasping, shivering. They took her to the church and named her Noor, for she was dark-skinned but radiant like morning light breaking through stained glass. Her skin was earthy cocoa, her long brown hair flowing to her knees. But it was her eyes that captivated everyone—brown, wide, innocent, and shimmering with something that looked very much like divinity. From the beginning, the white pigeons of the church flocked to her, as though she carried a pulse of peace.
She never caged them. She never even tried. The pigeons sat on her arms, nestled in her lap, circled above her when she prayed, sensing that this girl had come from death and brought back light. Noor spent her childhood planting sunflowers in the gardens behind the chapel. When she smiled, they seemed to bloom brighter. She loved the feel of soil, the scent of water, the thrill of new life. She sang hymns while working in the garden, and the pigeons cooed like a choir. The nuns often found her talking to trees, praying in corners, eyes closed, tears rolling silently. She spoke to God not with demands, but with gratitude. "Thank You for saving me. Let me serve You," she whispered.
Her heart belonged to the Divine. She dreamt of wearing the white robes of Sisterhood, of dedicating her life to faith and service. She grew up calling the nuns her mothers—Sister Catherine, who had saved her, was her guardian angel. Sister Mary was soft-spoken and brushed her hair. Sister Rose taught scripture, while Sister July taught her to bake. Noor's life was gentle but full—books, chores, prayer, laughter. Yet even in that warmth, she sometimes sat alone in the rose garden at dusk, wondering where she had truly come from. She didn't remember the well. But some nights, she dreamt of cold, dark water and a lullaby that didn't exist.
At twenty-two, she was ready to take her final vow, to become a full nun and devote her life to the church. Everyone was proud, yet one soul remained conflicted—Sister Catherine. She loved Noor more than any child she'd ever raised, and the thought of that radiant girl spending a life in pale robes, bound by rules and silence, broke her heart. "There's more to your soul than sacrifice," she whispered once while braiding Noor's hair. "The world is waiting for your colors." Noor smiled politely but didn't answer. Her heart was calm. She believed this was her path.
But not everyone agreed. The church's head, Sister Vaalark—a stern, aging woman with a steel heart and haunting eyes—had already seen Noor's potential. "She will succeed me," she announced one morning during prayer. "She has been chosen by the Divine." Vaalark was rigid, traditional, and powerful. Her word carried weight in Rome and beyond. She never smiled, yet treated Noor like a sacred relic. Noor, for her part, obeyed—graceful, humble, soft-spoken. Yet something fluttered inside her whenever Sister Catherine looked away sadly, whenever the pigeons flew too far, or whenever she stood alone before the crucifix and asked God, "Is this truly all You want for me?"
She loved God—but something in her longed for life. She prayed, yes, but also danced when no one was watching. She stitched flowers into her robes when Sister Rose wasn't looking. She laughed louder than nuns were supposed to. She had memorized the stars and knew which pigeon was missing without counting. Sometimes, after evening prayers, she would sit on the rooftop and sing into the wind, as if calling out to something—or someone—she didn't yet know existed. And somewhere, deep in the silence of stained glass and incense smoke, a different story began to stir.