The Angel of Water

Short Story: ‘The Angel of Water’

In the heart of parched Khuzestan, where the heat steals your breath and power cuts come every day, a child sets her only possession beside her bed each night before she sleeps: a yellow plastic cup, cracked.

Raha prays in her small child's voice:

‘God, when I wake up in the morning, please let my cup be full of water… like the children on television.’

But at night her father walks for kilometres with a black water container on his shoulder, hoping to bring back a few drops from a distant tanker or a river turned to swamp. His arms tremble with exhaustion, but he says nothing. Her mother, too, silently sets the containers beside the kitchen and thanks him with a look.

In the morning, before Raha wakes, her mother fills the cup with cloudy, muddy water. With an innocent smile, Raha picks it up and says:

‘I knew the angels came last night…’

Her mother turns away so that Raha will not see her tears.

One hot summer day, the school asks every pupil to bring a bottle of mineral water. Raha has no bottle; she puts her little cup in her bag instead. When she takes a sip in the schoolyard, her classmates laugh:

‘That isn't water. It's river mud!’

Raha fights back tears and says softly:

‘But for us, it's life…’

That afternoon, her mother falls ill. The village doctor says, ‘It's the contaminated water,’ and writes a simple prescription. He, too, knows the illness will return.

That night, Raha sits beside her mother's bed, fills the cracked cup, and says:

‘Mum, the angels will bring you good water tomorrow. Just wait…’

In the days that follow, the temperature reaches fifty degrees Celsius, and the power goes out. The cooler stands silent; a foul smell fills the house. Her father returns with another container, his legs shaking. He sits on the step, picks up the plastic cup, and says in a broken voice:

‘I'm a man who couldn't bring his children a single cup of safe water…’

From the room comes the sound of Raha quietly crying:

‘Dad, I know the angels will bring me real water one day. I'll wait…’

The house falls silent. Only the wind moving through the withered palms recalls that this land was once a land of water and life.

The next morning, Raha once again sets her cracked cup beside the bed. She closes her eyes and says softly:

‘God, if the angels are late, that's all right. I'll wait. Only… I wish Mum could smile tomorrow, too.’

And in the darkness, a father sitting in the corner of the room weeps without a sound. He knows that no angel is on the way, and there is no water for tomorrow. All that remains is an empty cup and a dream that she fills each morning with a child's smile.