It’s kind of ironic that I am supposed to write about my twelfth birthday. For starters I did not have a birthday party. I remember a few days after my birthday, well, I can still visualize the day as if it happened only yesterday.
On the twenty second day after my birthday, my father’s condition suddenly worsened . We were playing outside completely unaware what was happening inside the house,until I heard a loud scream. We rushed inside, my Dad was on the bed trying to say something to my brother, who was holding my Dad’s hand and telling him not to go. After a few minutes all was quiet,my eldest brother was on his way to get a doctor,by the time he came with the doctor, my Dad stopped breathing.
The doctor examined my Dad and said , “I am sorry, it’s too late!” My brother asked him how much was his fees.
He looked at him and said, “I do not take money from a dead man.”
Our home was a scene of sadness ,my Mom was crying and reading the Qur’an , my sister kept crying and said, “I am so sorry I wasn’t home when he died, I couldn’t say goodbye to him.”
We were numb we did not understand what death meant, I and my younger siblings did not realize it was final, Our Dad will never come back.
Then my brother wanted to know from our mom, what should we do next. My mom wanted us to leave the place and go to Bangladesh our original home.
The preparation took six months. We left Rawalpindi by air. We stayed in Dhaka for a few days and went to my maternal grandpa’s village. We lived in his house for almost a year, my eldest brother went to Comilla a small town to buy a house for us to live.
We moved to Comilla which became our permanent home.