The Tap

What was that theory? If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound? Well, Rabia was thinking of a similar one: if a girl is buried under rubble, can anyone hear her scream? The answer, it seemed, was no.

How long had it been? While drifting in and out of consciousness, with no light to judge the passage of time, it was impossible for Rabia to know how long she’d been trapped. But at least she was alive. And life meant hope, didn’t it? Rabia contemplated shouting again, but she didn’t know if she could make a sound.

She closed her eyes and thought of her village. The village she loved. The village in which a few months ago they’d all been so happy. But that was before the river had swallowed up their rice fields and they’d had to move to Savar, in sprawling Dhaka, to find work.

A tap.

Her parents and sisters—Rabia was certain they’d all be looking for her. Her father had once saved her from drowning in the river, and now it seemed she was drowning again. Only this time it wasn’t in the waters of the Dhaleshwari, it was amidst the dust and ruin of the Rana Plaza building.

It had all happened so fast. The power had cut out. The roar of the generators was followed by the ground suddenly shaking. Girls had started to scream. They all ran for the exit, but Rabia hadn’t moved. She was behind on her quota. She hadn’t dared leave her bench, in case her supervisor Umad saw her. She couldn’t take the risk, not after last month. It was ironic that now for the first time since missing her March targets, she couldn’t feel the scars on her back. The pain of a few belt marks was insignificant; now, she was trapped under four stories of rubble. At least she wouldn’t have to finish this month’s quota.

A tap.

After lying in one position for long enough, the body becomes numb. But when you don’t even know what position you’re in, it’s impossible to tell where your limbs begin and end. All Rabia could be sure of was that her right hand was still clasped tightly around the garment she had been sewing when it happened. And her left foot was inches from something sharp if she stretched her toes. How far had she fallen? She didn’t know.

A tap.

Had the whole building collapsed, or just a few floors? Thousands of women had worked in the structure; her friends, her co-workers—her precious sisterhood. Now and then she thought she heard their voices, but as time had passed, they’d fallen silent. Rabia didn’t want to guess why. Perhaps, like her, they too thought no one was listening.

Rabia squeezed the garment in her hand. Its cotton was somehow soothing. Its softness contrasted with the hard, sharp edges all around her. If she could only pull the cloth up to her face. She loved the smell of the finished clothes she made, and she had been proud of every single item she had sewn. She liked to imagine the person who might wear one of her creations. Was the item, she was currently gripping meant for a pretty blonde girl in London? Or a handsome American man? Western clothes were so confusing!

The workers always laughed at the items they made, especially the underwear. Western girls, it seemed, were a lot bigger. They had invented stories for each garment, guessing who it might eventually belong to. Rabia always wondered if the wearers ever thought of them; the girls who made their clothes. The girls that worked ten hours, six days a week making their clothes. Would those owners have heard of them now? Would Rabia’s own story have made the news in London? Would they even care in all those places? Would the customers in those fantastic shops— Primark, Zara, Topshop, H&M, Mango —want to help find her?

A tap.

Was it a tap? Was it a touch? Every now and then a drop of water fell from somewhere on to her face. The drops would then disappear, but she managed to twist her head so that they began to trickle to her mouth slowly.

A touch again. A tap. Rabia suddenly felt the touch, but at first, she didn’t know what it was. It wasn’t clear where she could feel it if indeed she had felt anything at all. It had felt like a touch, though! Was it just water? It was warmer than that. It touched her again. Was it her other foot? A harder tap.

She felt it that time. A jolt of life went through a limb she hadn’t felt in hours, days. Her foot, then her toes, were touching, being touched by something. It wasn’t something—it was someone. Another tap. Two, three, four, a rhythm.

“Hello?” Rabia whispered, uncertain she’d even made a sound. “I’m here!” Another tap on her foot.

She moved her left foot to remind her body of the new sensation. She felt the same familiar, sharp pain. She twitched her right foot and tapped her toes in response. A tap came back. One, two, three. Three, two, one tap came back. A rumbling sound, then dust fell on her face. Please keep in touch, Rabia thought. Keep in touch. Don’t stop touching. The tap stopped, an eternity passed. The touch felt harder and became a squeeze.

The squeeze became a hold. The hold became a hand. The hand squeezed tightly. The appearance of the hand was followed by a shining, brilliant light. Blinded, Rabia screamed out. The light became a voice. The voice became a heavenly chorus.

“We’ve found another… but, she’s alive, alive!” The touch became salvation.