It’s my first time back in seven years, Dadu. Everyone has been asking me about my winter plans and all I talk about is how excited I am to be back in Bangladesh – to ride a rickshaw again, to wear my kameezes every day, to eat lychees, roti, deem, and bhortha for breakfast, to go shopping with Sadia Apu, and to speak Bangla with our extended family, both your side and Ammu’s side of the family. Your apartment was always the first destination after arriving, Dadu. This time we went to Baji and Nana’s.
I couldn’t sleep at all on the plane. I went through my camera roll, looking for the last picture I took with you. December 29, 2018. You were putting coconut oil in my hair, massaging my scalp with such force, but it didn’t hurt. Your fingers were soft on my head.
I felt ready to be back in Bangladesh after so many years, seeing all the Chachas and Chachis, eating real Desi food. The last time you saw me, I wasn’t even a teenager yet! Now I’m almost twenty.
Yet, as I landed in Dhaka, I couldn’t shake this feeling swirling in the pit of my stomach. It was churning, but it wasn’t hunger. Maybe it was a hole.
The first few days passed. I stayed with Ammu’s side of the family in Gulshan. It felt nothing like staying with you in DOHS, Dadu. I got through my jetlag and Baji overfed me. I know you would’ve done the same. But even with three meals everyday, chai in the afternoon, it wasn’t enough for me. Something still felt hollow in my stomach.
On our way to Sadia Apu’s holud, we drove past your apartment. It’s being renovated. It’s funny, that pit in my stomach started to fade.
There were pictures of you everywhere in Sadia Apu’s apartment. All this time in Bangladesh and I still hadn’t seen your face. Your long hair, hazel eyes, gold saris, and beautiful, soft smile. I had almost forgotten.
Samima and Noorjahan came to Sadia’s wedding. Did you know I cried when I saw them? Samima’s all grown up now. Noorjahan looks exactly the same. She reminds me of you, Dadu. She has the same quiet demeanor. She is attentive to everyone in our family, especially Ammu. She fed me as I got my mehndi done, like how you did when I was five. I wasn’t that hungry anymore.
On our last day in Bangladesh, I visited your grave. There were some purple flowers budding above you, Dadu. I wish I had some fresh flowers to give you.
Abbu recited a few surahs, we prayed for you. Did you hear me?
I said that I wish you were still here. I miss being in Bangladesh with you, seeing it through your eyes. I miss your apartment and watching Bengali dramas with you in your living room. I miss that sandalwood scent that lingered behind you wherever you walked. I miss the sound of your Bangla. I always spoke better with you. Did you know that I’ve worn your opal ring every day since the day you left?
After visiting you that day, I felt that hunger disappear. I like to think it was because I was closer to you than I had been that whole trip, my first time being that close to you since I was twelve.
Returning home to America, I realized how different these days visiting Bangladesh had been. Special, yes, but different no less. I still feel that twinge in my stomach sometimes. Maybe it will never go away.
“Belated Momtaz Hyder (23 December 1947 – 26 March 2021). A homemaker, a peacemaker, sublime in demeanour, beauty in abundance, a soft-spoken guardian struggled all her life to protect her home, her family, her dignity. May Allah (SWT) Protect her soul, grant her Janna and eternal peace, Ameen.”
