Walking the Knife's Edge - By Maryam Hamza

Written By: Maryam Hamza

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Maryam Hamza presents a compelling short story titled "Walking the Knife's Edge." This narrative dives into the complex world of family dynamics and personal courage, exploring themes of loyalty, societal expectations, and the search for truth. As a participant in this esteemed competition, Maryam showcases her ability to craft a story that resonates on a deeply human level, capturing the struggles and triumphs of her characters with precision and empathy.

About the Work

"Walking the Knife's Edge" is a poignant exploration of familial duty, societal pressures, and the inner strength required to confront harsh truths. The story is imbued with a sense of tension and emotional depth, as the protagonist navigates a world where silence often reigns over justice. Through vivid imagery and a keen sense of place, Maryam Hamza creates a narrative that is both gripping and thought-provoking, challenging readers to reflect on their own perceptions of right and wrong.

Walking the Knife's Edge

Original Submission by Maryam Hamza

Walking the Knife’s Edge

“Get your brother more milk rice.”

Wasana hesitated with her hand raised to her mouth.

Aachchi clucked her tongue, but her brother was already pushing back his chair.

“Let’s go. I’m late for practice.”

Aiya got to his feet and left through the back door. He hadn’t bothered to take his schoolbag.

Their grandmother scowled at Wasana as if she was to blame for his surliness. Her brother had chosen the seat furthest from them at the table, next to the only window where the wooden shutters were closed.

She washed her hands and plate, smiling at the maid when she protested. Then, running to her room, she checked to see if her long plaits fell neatly, smoothing down her spotless white school frock.

Wasana paused as she left her room. Aiya would get into trouble with the schoolmaster without his bookbag. And Thaththa would hear of this latest classroom misdemeanour in no time.

She shuddered, then squared her shoulders and stepped into her brother’s room. It smelled…strange. The bag hung from the back of his chair, next to a desk that was too neat for a schoolboy. There were no posters on the wall or clothes scattered about the floor, nothing to give the space a soul.

She stepped into the room gingerly, tempted to hold her breath. Her head felt heavy, and the meal she had eaten turned in her stomach. She didn’t want to be here.

Something scraped against the tile as she walked over it. Wasana stepped back, staring.

She was almost at the desk, standing between her brother’s bed and the old-fashioned armoire.

Wasana wasn’t sure how long she stared.

Then she turned and walked out of the room, school bag forgotten.

*

Two things made Wasana’s chest clench as she walked down the front steps of their bungalow. Suraj was behind the wheel of their car. And her brother was sitting at the back, his sports gear piled next to him, taking up the rest of the seat.

Wasana paused by his window, trying in vain to see if there was space for her. He pointed at the passenger seat, not looking at her. She gulped the crisp morning air that carried a faint whiff of jackfruit. Suraj nodded to her as she got in, his hands tight on the wheel. He didn’t meet her eyes.

As they sped through the family estate, the silence in the car felt sickly, as if something sweet were rotting in the trunk that they all refused to acknowledge it.

As much as she tried to focus on the golden-green plantations rolling by the window, she couldn’t help noticing the tautness of the boy beside her. He was leaning away, as if afraid that one broad shoulder would accidentally brush hers.

Wasana bit her lip against the sting of tears in her eyes. She hadn’t seen him for almost a year. But it was at that moment she realized how much she missed the warm smile that used to set his cinnamon-brown eyes aglow.

I must have done something, she thought, her shoulders curving inward. Or maybe he’s realised how boring I—we are, now that he lives in the city.

Her thoughts ran on, deep into the sweet shade of the forest beyond, where she and Suraj had pretended to be Veddas, scavenged for hidden treasure, or read books in companionable silence. He was three years older than Aiya and four years older than her, but he had never seemed to resent her tripping at his side.

Until now.

It was when the door slammed that Wasana realized they had stopped, and she was alone with Suraj in the car. His father, Narendra Uncle, was Thaththa’s estate manager and right-hand man. There was nothing strange about his driving them to school when Punchi Hewa was busy.

Yet, Wasana’s palms felt clammy. She didn’t think her father knew Suraj was back from university, or he would have mentioned it. Maybe they had met this morning, and Suraj wanted to surprise them.

Only, why was he so stiff and silent? Why—

“Wasana?”

She flinched. His voice was gentle but warped by the distance he was still determined to keep between them.

With a “thank you” that felt like choking down a rambutan whole, Wasana nearly tumbled out of the vehicle.

*

The sun beat down on her desk, picking on the sickening green of its peeling paint.

She was holed up in a random classroom waiting for the school day to begin, trying to get lost in a book.

And failing.

Wasana caught her reflection in the window. The girl who stared back at her was dark-skinned with wide eyes and a forgettable face.

Suraj had once said her eyes were the bright, orange-brown of tamarind. Boys made strange observations, especially those who relished words like tamarind pulp.

Aachchi was always nagging her about whitening cream and staying out of the sun.

“Don’t read so much. Your cooking is shameful. Girls these days have forgotten their duties.”

Serve the men.

Her brother and father were worshipped like idols. Wasana’s value was in submission; serve silently, look fair and sweet.

She tried not to resent it. Getting up at the crack of dawn without complaint, giving way to her brother’s whims, Aachchi always sided with him, whether he was right or wrong.

It would have been different if Ammi were alive. Her mother had been soft in all things, but unyielding in her love for her children. A love that wasn’t blind or tainted with favouritism.

Wasana smiled as she remembered the bicycle she got for excelling in her exams when she was eight. Thaththa had wanted to get Aiya one, but their mother had shaken her head.

“I promised them a bicycle if they work for it.”

Aiya had sulked, and Aachchi had been furious. Wasana had learned how to ride a bicycle.

A girl passed by the window, jolting Wasana from her reverie. She was walking towards the washrooms. The sun bleached her long, brittle hair. Her braids were unravelling.

Wasana’s dreamy eyes grew sharper with focus.

The girl was walking with strange, sharp, jerky movements.

Wasana tore her eyes away. The clock on the wall above the blackboard read seven sharp. Half an hour before school started. Wasana tried to get back to reading.

The pages were golden-brown and mildewed. They smelled heavenly. The book was Suraj’s. A Sinhala-translated Nancy Drew, she had yet to return. The words seemed to expand and contract, the sunlight smearing their outlines red.

When the bell rang shrilly, Wasana jumped. Her eyes were still on the page, but she had read nothing. As she headed to class, she glanced towards the washrooms.

Something in her knew that the girl was still in there.

That she would be for a long time.

*

You are not Nancy Drew.

Wasana tried to laugh at herself.

Still, her hand trembled as she pushed the creaky door to the washroom.

It was empty, none too clean. Wasana had always taken pains to avoid it. Most of her friends preferred the newer, cleaner washrooms close to the staff room.

Yet, that morning, the girl stayed in this dismal place for over an hour. Wasana had stopped outside after the first period. Soft sobbing had leaked through the cracked door.

It was now twenty minutes till the school day ended. The teacher had given Wasana a tired nod when she asked to be excused for a bathroom break.

There was one mirror on the wall, heavily discoloured with whorls of rust.

The tiles were cracked, the walls stained. Yet Wasana kept standing there, even as her head spun, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the single, flickering bulb. There was a single skylight, so grimy that it only let in a murky trickle of sunlight. Wasana stepped closer to it, following an unnameable instinct.

The paint peeled off the walls in patches as if gouged by claws. Wasana followed the paltry stream of light to the floor, then stepped aside, releasing a breath she didn’t know she had held.

Next to the shaft of light, not touching it, were writhing shadows.

Wasana squatted, the muscles of her legs felt liquid, yet she managed to keep her balance.

At the point where the peeling wall met cracked tile was a drawing done with a black felt pen.

Wasana felt a pit open in her stomach.

It was a caricature of a girl wearing a wide smile. Every part of her body, from head to toe, was violated by knives. The longest one pierced through her chest, a bleeding heart poised at its tip.

Each knife had a name, neatly written beside it. Betrayal. Loneliness. Fear.

Shame.

*

“Wasana!”

Suraj’s voice came from a vast distance. A ray of sunlight travelling through many leagues of dark water.

Wasana lifted her head, meeting Suraj’s gaze in the rearview mirror. The intensity she saw there brought her back to herself. That was when she noticed they had stopped. Suraj had left the track and driven into a thick copse of trees.

Fear coursed through her.

Suraj wouldn’t—

“I need you to listen to me.”

She could do nothing but nod.

“Stay in the car. I’m going into the field. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

She froze, still locked in his gaze.

His eyes softened slightly. “Don’t be scared. There’s something very important I need to check. Neither of us must be seen.”

“Like…like in the forest. The games we used to play.”

Wasana didn’t know what she was saying.

Suraj suddenly dropped his gaze, a strange expression twisting his features.

“No,” his voice was thick with something that made Wasana’s entire body clench. “I wish this was a game, Wasana.”

He left her, disappearing into the trees. Wasana watched him until he was swallowed by the long stalks of maize.

Try as she would, Wasana could not get enough air into her lungs.

She had been so relieved upon realizing that the back seat was free that she hadn’t immediately registered Suraj’s explanation that Aiya was going home with a friend.

Wasana also remembered the sharp edge of the young man’s voice when referring to her brother.

This time, the sickening fear spurred her to action. She needed to know where he was going with that dark certainty in his eyes.

Wasana opened the car door quietly, taking deep gulps of fresh air before following the path Suraj had taken.

She was light-footed, and when she reached the maize, she bent as he had.

She had just spotted Suraj, crouching amid the thick, intertwined stalks, when she heard the growl of an engine. A road ran close to the edge of the plantation.

His eyes flashed a warning when he spotted her, but she had already dropped to her knees.

It was a white van, a familiar one. It had their school logo stuck on the back.

Wasana’s heartbeat grew deafening in her ears.

The van stopped a few paces away. The door rolled open.

The silence was almost complete, except for the sound of the engine. So, when the gravel crunched, Wasana started.

Someone was walking down the road towards where the van stood idle.

Wasana craned her neck to peer from behind a sheaf of maize.

It was the girl she had seen before; her uniform was crushed, her white shoes stained brown. One sock straggled down her ankle.

Wasana stared at the brittle, unravelling braids. The sun was beating down on a lifeless face with blank eyes.

The girl paused in front of the open van door.

Wasana could see the fine tremors in her frail shoulders. Her fists were clenching and unclenching.

There was a smear of ink across one finger, made by a felt-tip pen.

Someone grabbed her by the arm, pulling her into the vehicle.

A hand clamped over the girl’s mouth before she could make a sound.

Suraj was fiercely whispering something, but Wasana couldn’t hear it over the roaring in her ears.

The hand was familiar — large, pale, and rough.

Her eyes did not leave the van as it sped away. It took the girl with it.

And her brother.

*

A girl and a boy sat on the forest floor.

This was how they had always been as children.

But they were no longer children.

Suraj was silent, his long legs stretched before him. Wasana stared up at the golden shards of light glinting through the trees.

“Why?” Her voice wasn’t her own. It was as if someone had ripped it from her throat, tearing it to shreds.

“I don’t know.” He was looking at her now, tears swimming in his eyes. Wasana wished she could cry; maybe then the excruciating weight in her head and chest would ease.

She had told him about the girl, seeing her early in the morning. What she had drawn on the wall.

As she’d spoken, she had remembered how often her brother left early for sports practices, how little he was at home even on school days.

She had thought he was avoiding their father, who always picked on him.

Aiya didn’t pass his exams; he couldn’t care less about running the estate. He wanted to become a famous sports player. He wanted to leave this village and never look back. Wasana had never imagined he would wreak so much destruction before he did.

“They are hurting her.” Her voice sounded harsh, even to her own ears.

Suraj leaned his dark head against the trunk behind him, drawing a deep breath.

“I know…but there has to be physical evidence of what they’re doing.” He averted his gaze from hers. “There is also a chance that it’s not what we…think.”

Shame.

The word shrivelled like ashes before her eyes. Wasana didn’t know exactly what she thought, but she had read enough news reports for her skin to crawl.

“Why doesn’t she fight back or ask for help…?”

“I think they’re blackmailing her.” Suraj ran his hands through his wind-tangled hair. “I tried to find out about her, Wasana. She’s new here, from a village smaller than ours. Her family is in want of money.”

“We need to go to the police,” Wasana choked out.

At this, his eyes flashed with warning. Wasana flinched, both at his expression and his beauty.

“There’s no we. You’re staying out of this.”

Wasana shut her eyes, fighting the urge to scream. The futile anger made her want to gather up the dirt scraping her palms and fling it in the eyes of those monsters.

His voice softened. “There have been rumours — that’s why I came back. But they’re covering their tracks too well. No one will believe us.”

Wasana remained silent, not trusting herself to speak.

Slowly, Suraj got to his feet. He moved like an old man, bowed by grief, despite the vitality of youth thrumming through his tall, broad frame.

“And after all your family has done for ours—” He averted his gaze from her, mouth trembling.

“I can’t make such accusations without proof.”

*

“You need to be careful, putha.” The old maid’s whisper blended with the wind.

Wasana sat still on the sandstone step, a large plate of raw rice balanced on her knees. Normally, she grumbled when Aachchi commanded her to destone rice, but today she had found the repetitive task soothing.

Wasana didn’t want to think.

Mary Amma’s skirt tickled her cheek, forcing her to look up into worried, age-filmed eyes.

“Why, Mary Amma?”

“Suraj has grown into a handsome young man. You aren’t small anymore. You were alone with him today on the way back from school.”

Wasana set the platter down, dusting her hands. It felt like red ants were crawling under her skin.

It was always the girl who was accused.

If only she knew—

“Don’t be angry with me, Wasana Putha. You are both good children, but people don’t understand that. Even the close ones.”

Something tightened in her chest.

“Did someone say–” She stopped herself before she completed the question burning her tongue .

Did someone say something to Suraj?

The maid grabbed the rice from the step as the first raindrops pelted down. Wasana didn’t budge. The thick blanket of grey sky felt like a refuge. But it wasn’t real. Nothing could be safe or familiar after what had happened that day.

“Your Thaththa was told that you two were getting too close. That you were more than just friends.”

Mary Amma twisted around as if she expected to find Wasana’s grandmother hovering in the doorway.

The kitchen was empty.

“I think he spoke to Suraj’s father about it.”

The storm was now within, her heartbeats thundering until they pounded in her head.

“Who told him that…we were more than friends?”

Somehow, Wasana already knew.

“Your brother.”

Wasana made a wild sound that cackled like laughter. But she couldn’t breathe, and her eyes were burning.

“Don’t be angry with me, Wasana,” the maid repeated softly. “You’re the only reason I’m staying in this house.”

Just as the first tears overflowed, the sky erupted.

But the thunder wasn’t loud enough to drown out her grandmother’s scream.

*

“Lakmal!”

Wasana, alone in her room, couldn’t get Aachchi’s shriek out of her head.

Neither could she unsee the blood spattered across her father’s shirtfront and staining his hands.

Thaththa hadn’t said a word as he had pushed past his mother, walking to the master bedroom with his stealthy, purposeful stride. He was a tall man, fair-skinned and handsome like Aiya. Suddenly, all Wasana wanted to do was run.

The men in this family were treated like gods. She was beginning to see how it had warped them.

At dinner, Wasana’s father had looked directly at her from the head of the table, his eyes moist and face hard.

“Has anyone said anything to you about your brother?”

“No, Thaththa.”

“What? Is someone saying bad things about Aiya?”Aachchi’s face was fiercely drawn into a scowl.

Lakmal chewed his food slowly and deliberately, still looking towards his daughter.

“If anyone tells you anything at all, come to me. Understand?”

“Yes, Thaththa.”

“I will deal with them as I dealt with that good-for-nothing lout who dared say a word against my son. I will put them in a coma.”

“Lakmal! You didn’t—”

“I was defending myself. My family.” Suddenly, his eyes had grown soft on Wasana’s.

“Your Ammi would never have tolerated anyone who tried to mess with you or Aiya. I won’t let anyone slander our children.”

*

Ammi.

Wasana cradled the worn grey blanket in her arms, sobbing.

It was her baby blanket, one her mother stitched. She couldn’t go to sleep without it.

Once, when she was seven, she had left it outside, and it had started to rain. Her parents had been outstation and Aachchi forbade her from going out to get it.

But Aiya sneaked out and got it for her. He had known she would be up all night without the soft folds holding Ammi’s scent.

Shame.

How could I think this of my own brother?

Aiya isn’t guilty.

Ammi would want me to protect him, not to believe lies against him.

There has to be another explanation for the van and…the girl.

But—

Wasana dropped the blanket and padded to her brother’s room.

She didn’t dare switch on the light. But she knew where it was.

She knelt, grabbed it with the inside of her sleeve, and stumbled back to her room.

Wasana dropped to her knees once again, shaking her head so violently that her braids collapsed around her shoulders.

The hairpin was twisted at an odd angle, and wound around its tines were strands of dark, brittle hair.

She had to destroy it—bury it.

Even if it also meant killing something in her forever.

*

Whispers shivered through the schoolroom

Wasana, who normally loved losing herself in the intricate tangents of her thoughts, wanted to crawl out of her skin.

Mrs. Munaweera, their Geography teacher, was twenty minutes late.

This was unprecedented.

So were the policemen she had seen stride into the principal’s office that morning.

The door was flung open, and a prefect stood on the threshold. Wasana had always admired Kamali Akki’s grace and refinement that went perfectly with her glossy hair and smooth skin.

Standing at the door, swaying slightly, she was almost unrecognizable. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her faultless skin was unpleasantly splotched with angry colour and streaked with tears. Her nose was running.

“Wasana!”

The white van.

It belonged to Kamali’s father. A terrible thought struck her as those red-rimmed eyes found hers.

Had Kamali been in the vehicle that day?

Wasana dug her nails into her palm. A part of her was calculating if she could make it to the window. Would the jump kill her?

Would it matter?

Kamali was in front of her, her mouth was moving. Her upper lip was shiny with sweat.

No, please. I don’t want her near me. Get her away. Get her—

“Did you hear what I just said?”

Kamali grabbed her violently by the shoulders, spittle flying into Wasana’s face.

“That slut’s saying that our brothers raped her.”

Wasana pushed Kamali from her so hard that the other girl fell back against the desk next to hers.

Then Wasana bolted outside and threw up.

*

Aachchi despised her for falling sick at this crucial time.

Mary Amma waited on her as if she were five years old again with a bad case of dengue.

As she drifted in and out of delirium, she whispered a single question to the greying head bent protectively over her.

“Mary Amma… do you love Aiya?”

The first answer was, “As much as I love my own son.”

Then, “He…he took his first steps holding on to my finger.”

After that, “He has your mother’s laugh. Many times I have wished he would laugh more…”

And later, the worn old head rested against her pillow as the maid wept bitterly.

“That little boy. How—how could that be my little boy?”

After she had coaxed and cried, Wasana was given vague details that felt like figments of her fevered mind.

They had arrested Aiya and five other boys on his team.

The girl, after her mother had gone to the police, had been checked at the General Hospital.

What they found was horrifying.

The doctor had blackmailed her to shut her mouth, accusing her of trying to frame the boys.

Mary Amma’s niece was a nurse. She had been there in time to prevent the girl from taking her life.

Something in Wasana snapped.

Ammi had been a doctor at the General Hospital.

As she lay in the darkness, listening to her faithful maid’s laboured breathing on the pallet next to her bed, Wasana knew.

Her mother would never let a girl feel so alone that her only way out was to kill herself.

Not even to protect her son.

*

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere close by, don’t worry.”

Mary Amma leaned her ekel broom against the garden wall.

“It’s going to rain.”

Wasana smiled, her throat tightening.

“I have to, Mary Amma.”

Her sickness had turned almost overnight, leaving her feeling dry and brittle.

Aachi was staying in town to be closer to Aiya. Wasana didn’t know where her father was.

He hadn’t come to see her.

There were rumours about a labourer found dead near their estate, dragged into a ditch.

Wasana had just reached the tree line to the west of their house when she heard panting behind her.

She turned to find herself folded into the thin, encompassing arms of the old maid.

“Come home with me, Wasana.” She let the girl go just as quickly, wiping her tears on the edge of her blouse. “Stay with us, we’ll take care of you.”

Wasana shook her head slowly.

“I will keep you safe, don’t worry. God is with us, my daughter.”

Mary Amma’s God. Wasana had always known Him through the quiet devoutness and unwavering strength of her second mother. She felt an undefinable affinity toward Him.

“How do you know he is with us?”

“Because He is always on the side of those who make this world better for others.” Mary Amma’s eyes had sharpened.

Almost as if she knew what Wasana was about to do.

“But why does He allow bad things to happen to us?”

Mary Amma’s tears were like warm rain.

“We are given the choice. God gives us guidance to follow. It teaches us to live a life that is beautiful and fair to everyone. But He allows us to go our own way. There is wisdom in this for those who believe in the Hereafter, where all wrongs are made right.”

Wasana drew in a breath of the cold air, heavy with the promise of a downpour.

I have chosen my way, she thought.

*

Wasana took the long route, through waves of rice paddy and dusky citadels of emerald forest.

She didn’t want to be stopped on the road and questioned about her brother. Or worse.

As she cut through the last paddy field before the main road, the skies opened.

Wasana tucked her bag under her arm, searching for the nearest cover. A small house stood on a sloping hill that rose from the lake of paddy.

She took a stumbling step towards it, then thought better of it. She made for the canopy of trees behind her.

Someone grabbed her elbow, pulling her gently but firmly.

Wasana’s heart leaped to her throat. First, out of alarm, and then—

Suraj was racing with her up the hill that led to his house. A choked laugh like a sob tickled her throat.

He instantly released her when they reached the verandah, turning to her with his arms crossed.

Though his eyes were trained down, a dark flush spread across his cheeks.

Belatedly, Wasana realized how dishevelled she must look with her hair streaming behind her, drenched from head to foot.

She rarely let her hair out of its prim braids, and she remembered that Suraj had once told her that he always felt like drawing her when she did. That she reminded him of a warrior queen from the past.

Wasana nursed that ember of strength.

“You’ve chosen a fine day for a walk.” His eyes were still fixed on her slippers. “Where are you going?”

“The police station.”

His head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Why?”

“I…I found something. In his room.”

Suraj was suddenly very close to her, the heat from his long, lean body rising like a wave against her skin.

“Give it to me, I’ll take it.”

“No.”

“Please. Wasana—” Suraj reached out to touch her shoulder, then dropped his hand. “Your family will not forgive you.”

“If I don’t do this, I will never forgive myself.”

He stared hard at her.

“Then I’ll come with you.”

Wasana shook her head adamantly, tears flying from her eyes like tiny diamonds.

“Wasana,” Suraj bent his head, trying to coax her to meet his gaze. “We have evidence. They can’t deny the truth now.”

“If Thaththa hears you’re involved, he’ll…he’ll hurt you.”

“I’ll always be grateful for what he has done for my family, but I can’t stay silent. And I won’t let you do this on your own.”

“Suraj, I can’t—”

“Not you. Us.”

He smiled at her suddenly, warm and without barriers. “From now on, it will be us.”

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is an international platform celebrating exceptional talent in the literary arts. It brings together writers from around the world to showcase their unique voices and creative expressions. This competition is dedicated to promoting diverse narratives and fostering a global community of writers, encouraging participants to push the boundaries of storytelling.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Maryam Hamza for her moving short story, "Walking the Knife's Edge." Her participation in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 highlights her exceptional storytelling abilities and her courage to address challenging themes. We look forward to seeing more of her inspiring work in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.