NADIA – The Proposal No One Wanted to Say Out Loud

I have been blind since birth.

Doctors at the government hospital in Dhaka called it "congenital blindness." My family called it a curse from Allah that had followed us all the way from our village in Barishal.

But while everyone else saw only darkness, I built an entire universe inside my mind. From the time I was twelve, a small NGO in Mirpur brought audio lessons through their Shobdo Shiksha programme. I absorbed everything they gave me.

First the Quran — not just recitation, but deep tafseer. I listened to explanations of Surah An-Nisa again and again, the chapter that speaks so clearly about justice between wives. I learned the conditions of polygamy, the weight of fairness, the rights and responsibilities. I cross-referenced Hadith, historical context, and the examples of the Sahabiyat until the verses lived inside me.

Then came worldly knowledge — the history of Bangladesh's independence, the writings of Begum Rokeya, women's rights across the world, even basic philosophy and current affairs from BBC Bangla audio. My mind learned to weigh things carefully: culture against faith, expectation against justice. I could spend hours in silence, turning ideas over like smooth river stones.

If I weren't blind, I know I could have done something meaningful with this mind.

I would have fought for HSC exams. I might have reached Dhaka University for Islamic Studies or Literature. Perhaps I could have become a teacher of tafseer on radio programmes, or written articles about how our society twists religion. My voice could have reached other girls like me.

But Dadi never saw any value in it.

Every evening, when the Maghrib azaan floated through our tiny Mirpur flat, mixing with the smell of frying begun bhaji and the distant horns of CNGs stuck in traffic, Dadi would click her tongue and say, "What is the point of filling her head with all these audio lessons and Quran tafseer, Rehana? She can't sit for real exams. She can't write papers or attend university lectures. All that sharp mind is wasted on a girl who will never have a proper future. Better she stops dreaming big and accepts the life Allah has written for her."

My brothers, Karim and Arman, would agree from the next room. "Ammu, stop wasting money on those USB drives. Who will marry a blind girl whose head is full of books she can't even see? It only makes her restless and difficult."

I learned to stay quiet. To move like a shadow through the house, memorising every creak of the floor so I wouldn't give them another reason to sigh.

When my Abba was alive, he protected that small light in me. He would gently answer Dadi: "Ma, Allah gave her this mind for a reason. Knowledge is light, even when the eyes are in darkness." He would sit with me on the narrow balcony after Iftar in Ramadan, describing the sky and the kites so I could almost picture them. His words made me believe my thoughts could still soar.

Then Abba died of a sudden heart attack two years ago.

On the day of his janaza, the moholla filled with people in white. But after the mourning period, when the smell of incense still lingered, the weight fell fully on me. Dadi's words grew heavier.

"See? All that education brought her nothing. She remains a burden. No decent rishta will come for a girl like this."

Marriage proposals — already rare and painful — almost stopped.

Only shameful ones came. A distant cousin who was "also not perfect." A fifty-year-old widower in Savar needing a caretaker. Each time, the family spoke in the next room while I pressed my ear to the thin door, heart aching.

"She is blind... what man wants a wife who debates tafseer instead of living simply?" "All that knowledge, yet no real future. Who will carry such a responsibility?"

Then silence. Then Ammu crying harder.

So when Rahim's mother, Mrs. Ayesha Khan, visited our house last week, the small sitting room grew thick with shame and desperate hope.

It was a humid Thursday evening. The ceiling fan fought uselessly against the sticky heat. I sat on the old floral sofa, cane across my lap, listening to the clink of teacups, the rustle of expensive silk, and Ammu's trembling voice.

Earlier, while braiding my hair with shaking fingers, Ammu had whispered, "It is a good family, Nadia. The man is thirty-two. He owns a construction company. His first wife... she can no longer have children. They lost three babies. Doctors say it is impossible now."

My blood turned cold.

"They are not asking for talaq. The first wife will stay. You will be the second wife... only to give them an heir."

The words sat heavy inside me. My mind immediately turned to Surah An-Nisa, to the warnings about justice. But I stayed silent.

"What if the first wife hates me, Ammu?" I whispered, voice breaking. "What if she sees me as the one who came to take the motherhood she lost? What if Rahim only comes to me when he wants a child and treats me like a stranger otherwise? I have studied these verses, Ammu. I know what fairness in marriage should look like... but what if this house cannot give it?"

My Khalamma tried to comfort me, but even she sounded unsure.

Ammu wiped her tears with the edge of her saree. "We don't want to force you, beta. But your brothers are getting married next year. We cannot keep you here forever as a burden. This may be the only rishta you will ever receive."

Burden.

That word had lived with me since the day we buried Abba.

I pressed both palms to my stomach, sick with fear. Terrified of stepping into a house still mourning three lost babies. Terrified of a grieving first wife. Terrified that my mind would only make the loneliness sharper. Terrified that after the child came, I would be forgotten again.

But most of all, I was exhausted. Exhausted from nineteen years of pity. Exhausted from knowing how bright my mind could have been. Exhausted from being the reason Ammu cried at night.

In the end, I agreed.

Not because I wanted this life.

But because I was too tired to keep carrying the shame.

The visit to Rahim's apartment in Gulshan felt like stepping into an unknown grave.

The lift smelled of air freshener and wealth. When the door opened, sandalwood incense, old books, and faint jasmine oil wrapped around me. I sat on their luxurious sofa, cane folded on my lap, mapping the space through sound and scent. The soft hum of the AC. The gentle clink of a silver spoon as Sana poured tea. Her voice was polite when she asked about my audio classes. She never mentioned my eyes.

Rahim's voice was low, tired, carrying a weight I couldn't name.

I spoke only when I had to, my voice small.

"I... I know what this arrangement means," I said quietly. "I will do what is needed."

Inside, my heart twisted with questions I didn't dare speak.

Now, hours later, I sit alone in my mother's small Mirpur flat. The neighbour's TV is playing a loud Bangla drama. A distant Isha azaan drifts through the window along with the smell of frying fish from the next building. My palms are still pressed tightly to my stomach.

I am going to be a second wife.

And I am terrified of what that house — and my blindness — will do to me.

But what confuses my heart most is the tiny, forbidden warmth I felt when Rahim's low, tired voice said my name... and the quiet question that keeps circling in my mind like a Surah I cannot stop reciting:

Could a mind like mine ever find even a small place in a home already so full of grief and silence?

Author's Note If this chapter made your chest tight... you're not alone 😭❤️ Nadia carries a beautiful, sharp mind inside her darkness. Sana is breaking. Rahim stands at the edge of an impossible choice.

Tell me honestly:

Who are you feeling for the most right now?Are you scared for Nadia, or still fully Team Sana?Which line hit you hardest?

Vote if this chapter touched you ⭐

Thank you for walking through this painful journey with me 🖤