Parents Belong to No Separate Caste-

My wife never had the good fortune of receiving the love and affection of my parents. She regrets it deeply. Whenever the subject comes up, she pouts like a teenage girl, hurt and resentful, and says, “My father used to tell me that once I had a father-in-law and a mother-in-law, I would forget him. Perhaps that is why I was never destined to experience the love of another set of parents!”

Seeing her mother sulking, my five-year-old daughter, Charu, jumps into her lap and asks in her innocent little voice, “Oh, Daddy! Am I not a mother? Tell me! Come on, tell me, Daddy!”

I gently pinch my daughter’s cheek. Hoping to lighten my wife’s mood by pointing to our little girl, I lean close to her ear and whisper, “See, Sumu? Your mother has returned to us in the form of our daughter. If you give me the green light, perhaps I can try to bring her father into our lives, too. What do you say? Ha ha!”

My teasing makes Sumati’s face turn crimson with embarrassment.

“Oh, stop it! You never miss a chance to act silly, do you? Hee hee!”

In this respect, Sumati and I have quite a lot in common. Neither of us has any parents left. At least Sumu had her father for some years. But two years ago, during the month of Ashar, he took to his bed. He did not live to see another Ashar. He passed away into the next world.

Sumu had lost her mother at a very young age, after her father had already had two sons. Her father showered her with extraordinary affection, and she had been devoted to him from the very beginning. His excessive indulgence eventually overshadowed the importance of her education. As a result, she failed her Secondary School Certificate (SSC) examination three times.

Eventually, her father chose an auspicious moment during the bright fortnight of the lunar month and arranged her marriage to a newly appointed BSc teacher at a semi-government Dakhil madrasa in their village. He had a special affection for the young man, who was almost an orphan.

That teacher was me—Biren Majumdar, BSc.

While my father-in-law was alive, he regularly sent us various gifts during religious festivals. Last time, however, there was nothing. During Durga Puja, I practically insisted that Sumu visit her father’s house. But the perfunctory hospitality she received from her brothers left her so disheartened that she returned the very next day.

I cannot make her understand that parents cannot stay with us forever.

Before we knew it, the eighth day of the Dol Yatra festival approached. Beneath the old banyan tree beside my father-in-law’s house, rows of goats were gathered for ritual sacrifice.

On one side, the worship of Goddess Shitala began.

“Om Namami Shitalam Devim Rasabhastham Digambarim…”

On the other side, Sumu sat on the veranda of her father’s room, wiping her eyes with the corner of her sari. I watched from a distance. I said nothing. A part of me wanted her to cry—to let the pain that had accumulated inside her heart finally find its way out.

One evening, I slung my bag over my shoulder and set off for Dhaka. The education board had asked me to collect some secondary examination answer scripts. It was a good arrangement. The work brought a little extra money into our household.

As I began my journey, Sumu followed me along the uneven village road, carrying Charu in her arms. She walked almost halfway along the route. She did this every time I left home.

Every few moments, she would call out from behind me, “Hey, Charu’s father! Keep your mobile phone switched on, all right? Sit beside the window. Be careful on the way!”

I smiled to myself at her concern. Eventually, I moved farther away and waved goodbye. Gradually, their faces grew indistinct in the distance.

I reached Dhaka in the morning. After spending the entire day at the education board’s office, I boarded a local bus with the bundles of answer scripts. I planned to spend the night at a friend’s house in Mirpur. By then, the afternoon was already drawing to a close.

As the bus reached Farmgate, an elderly man settled into the empty seat beside me. With his eyes closed, he repeatedly drew in a deep breath and then exhaled heavily through his mouth. He looked exhausted.

When I took a closer look, I recognized him. He was none other than our beloved teacher, Shafik Sir.

I greeted him with a smile and introduced myself. It took him a little while to gather his thoughts. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened with astonishment, and a broad smile spread across his nearly toothless face.

“Are you that Biru?”

“Yes, Sir.”

His eyes fell on the bundles of examination scripts beside me.

“So, you have become a teacher! Wonderful! You have done well!”

Sir removed his thick-lensed spectacles and gently ran his hand over my head. His hand was trembling.

For a brief moment, I felt as though my father had returned from heaven.

With a smile, Sir asked, “Do you know anything about the others?”

“I see them on Facebook from time to time. Piyas is in Germany now, Sir. I think Ratan has completed his FCPS and become a senior doctor. Bakul is a magistrate. Goodness, how often he used to get beaten by you when we were children! Ha ha ha!”

Sir closed his eyes and sat quietly for a while. He looked like an ancient sage absorbed in meditation.

We exchanged pleasantries, and as we chatted, I learned that he had come to visit a niece in Rajabazar.

When I asked why he had travelled alone at his age, he replied,

“Your aunt is no longer alive. You remember Ibnat, don't you? My son. He lives in America now. He has become a very successful doctor. My daughter-in-law is a doctor, too. They have settled in Washington. Wait, let me show you my grandson.”

With a beaming smile, Sir took his mobile phone out of his pocket. On the screen was a beautiful photograph of a boy who looked about six or seven years old.

Gently stroking the screen with his finger, Sir said, “His name is Arafat. I hear he has inherited quite a bit of my nature. Like grandfather, like grandson! Ha ha ha!”

“Do you keep in touch regularly?”

“What are you talking about? He is my only son! Of course we keep in touch. We have a video call every single day. If my grandson cannot talk to his grandpa even for one day, he cries so much that he turns the whole house upside down. He doesn't understand much Bengali, though. Still, blood has its own pull!”

I asked, “Do you live alone in Dhaka?”

“Not exactly. I have someone who looks after me. A woman comes by to cook, wash clothes and clean the place. I live quite comfortably. You know, I had bought the plot of land long ago. I have built a beautiful house there—a two-storey house.”

“But travelling alone at your age, enduring the strain of local buses—it seems rather risky, Sir.”

Sir laughed.

“Why are all of you always after this old man? Ibnat bought me a car and left it here the last time he visited. But I hardly go anywhere. What's the point of paying a driver to sit around doing nothing? So I've rented the car out. I like living this way. Of course, if my son and daughter-in-law found out, they wouldn't leave me in peace! That's why I slip out on these little adventures without telling them. Ha ha ha!”

Sir could not stop smiling.

“I am really happy to hear that, Sir,” I said.

Looking a little embarrassed, he replied, “But I cannot take you home with me just now. A relative's daughter is getting married in Agargaon, and they have insisted that I attend. I will have to stay there for a few days.”

“Please don't worry about that, Sir. I'll come and visit you another day.”

To put him at ease, I showed him photographs of Sumati and Charu on my phone. The moment he saw them, Sir burst into tears of joy.

“What a beautiful daughter you have, Biru!”

“Why don't you visit your poor student's home one day, Sir?” I asked.

Sir sighed.

“Do I still have the freedom to travel around as I once did? I am old now. Besides, my son and daughter-in-law worry terribly about me. The other day, I fell asleep without taking my medicine, and they scolded me so much! Sometimes I deliberately do things like that. Their affectionate scolding is the only treasure I have left in this old age. Ha ha ha!”

I found myself gazing at Sir's serene face. It felt as though I had met a beloved member of my own family after countless years.

Nearly a decade and a half had passed.

Once, my family and I had lived in Mirpur, Dhaka. My father ran a seasonal clothing business. He would bring second-hand winter clothes, along with belts, from Chattogram and sell them in Dhaka.

One day, while transporting a pickup truck full of merchandise, he met with an accident and was crushed beneath the vehicle. He died there.

Besides my mother, I had an elder brother and a sister. That same year, as though unable to bear the pain of losing her husband, my mother seemed to follow the path he had taken.

One evening, pressing a hand against her chest, she said, “Biru, my dear, I feel terribly strange. Something doesn't feel right.”

We thought it was gastric pain and gave her some medicine. Barely ten minutes later, my mother was dead.

Fortunately, my elder sister had already been married by then. My brother-in-law worked making jewellery at a jewellery shop in Savar.

A little later, I joined my brother in our father's business. There was simply no way for me to continue my education under those circumstances.

After I had been absent from school for nearly a month, one of my teachers came looking for me. He took responsibility for ensuring that I could continue my studies.

That teacher was Shafik Sir.

After I passed my SSC examination, my brother left me alone at our ancestral home in the village and went to Mumbai, where he found a job at a restaurant. I had heard that one of my paternal cousins was living there as well.

About a year later, my brother married the daughter of a distant relative of ours in Kolkata. These days, he occasionally visits with his wife and children. He stays for a couple of days and then leaves again.

But I did not give up.

I enrolled in a college in a small town. I worked as a daily labourer at people's shrimp farms. I tutored students.

Gradually, the old ancestral homestead where I had once lived alone became the site of a modest, single-storey brick house.

Yet, far behind me, I had left countless friends from Dhaka, countless well-wishers, the bitter and sweet memories of my childhood, and the teacher I loved so dearly—Shafik Sir, who had looked after me like his own child for five long years.

When the bus reached Agargaon, Sir stood up. He could barely move his feet properly, and his body trembled. I held his hand and helped him get off the bus.

After saying goodbye, Sir stepped down, wiping away his tears. By then, night had fallen, and the bus had already started moving again.

Looking through the window, I saw Sir standing at the bus stop. He wiped his spectacles with the edge of his panjabi, then walked unsteadily towards the nearby pavement and sat down.

The following afternoon.

I was sitting in a small room. Two single beds stood on either side. An elderly man of about seventy sat on one of them, his head bowed.

I knew him well.

Once, he had owned a small plot of land. He had dreamed of building a beautiful house there. But the house was never built. He sold the land to finance his son's education in America. The understanding had been that once his son returned as a successful doctor, there would be no shortage of money to build such a house.

His son had indeed returned—but not entirely. After a short stay, he had settled abroad permanently. He married there and had a child.

Back home, his elderly father lived in a rented apartment. There were a few relatives who occasionally offered him hospitality for two or four days, but none of them ever seriously considered taking full responsibility for him.

But how much loneliness can a human heart endure in the final years of life?

The man who had once provided shelter over the heads of thousands had now lost everything and found himself without a home of his own.

The old man's name was Shafikur Rahman.

My teacher.

Sir raised his head and looked at me.

“Were you following me last night?”

I could not find the right words to answer.

Sir smiled and said, “My son left me here the last time he came. I speak to them once a month. He sends money and considers his duty fulfilled. I keep waiting for a glimpse of my grandson, just to see his face with my own eyes. Most of the time, I cannot even see him. He is either at school or asleep. My heart aches with an emptiness I cannot describe.”

He paused for a moment.

“Please forgive me, Biru. I told you so many lies.”

Sir turned his face away. It was a simple, almost childlike attempt to hide his tears.

I could not think of anything to say. Could a few words of consolation ever ease such pain?

Noticing my silence, Sir gave a faint smile.

“Now that you've come here, do you want to repay me for everything I did for you, Biru?”

“Even if I wanted to repay you, Sir, I could never do so. I am Hindu. But you were the one who taught me that parents belong to no separate caste.”

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around his feet.

Sir pulled his feet away.

“Go away. Don't come here again. I am fine here.”

Late in the afternoon, I left alone. Sir sat there once more, his head bowed as before. He did not even turn around to look at me as I departed.

The Agargaon bus stop was not very far away. I turned and looked back.

There stood a four-storey building painted red, with a large signboard bearing the words: Probīṇ Hitaiṣī Sangha—an association for the welfare of senior citizens.

Quite a number of people lived there. In the eyes of many, they were people whose usefulness had supposedly come to an end—burdens weighing down their families.

Those whose love had once filled their courtyards with laughter and joyful commotion now sat yearning for affection, searching silently for their lost past as their eyes wandered towards the distant horizon.

I swallowed a deep sigh and turned away. Then I sat down on the pavement, stretching out my legs.

I had no idea how long I had been sitting there.

A little distance away, a rickshaw stood waiting. Beside it was Shafik Sir, holding a small trolley bag and looking straight at me.

Weeping, I called Sumu.

“Sumu, I'm bringing Father home with me.”

Sumu already knew everything. I had told her the night before. Charu had been sitting nearby when I spoke to her.

Sumu told me that our daughter had already written something on a piece of paper:

“If you can read this, it means you can see. You're not old at all, do you understand, Grandpa?”

How extraordinary! The little girl had grown up to be just as eccentric as her mother.

When she heard that I was bringing Sir home, Sumu was startled. Then she said,

“I've emptied the prayer room and cleaned it thoroughly. I've bought a prayer mat, too. I've hung a picture of the holy city of Mecca on the wall. When I have a living deity in my home, what do I need clay idols for? Stop crying now. May God bless your journey. Hurry up and come home.”

Evening was approaching. We would return to Bagerhat by the night bus from Sayedabad. The journey would be long, with the added strain of crossing the Padma River by ferry.

The rickshaw moved slowly towards the bus stand.

Sir began recounting stories from his schooldays, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. I listened in astonishment.

Without letting him notice, I occasionally leaned against him and gently touched his arm. A profound sense of purity filled my heart.

I was almost certain that the touch of my late father, who now rested in heaven, would have felt exactly the same.

Author: Md Iftekhar Hossain Nur

Source: Collected from the Facebook account named “Nilabhro Ar Nilamborir Golpo.”

Translated by: FB Stories Team

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