My mother never traveled by plane. The farthest journey she ever made was Barishal-Dhaka-Barishal. She was always amazed at how much I traveled. She would simply say, “You are like a bird—here one moment, gone the next.” Indeed, after leaving Barishal, I was never able to stay with her for long periods.
My mother never had any desires. She never even developed them. Since my father was not around, she was too busy carrying the burden of our household to think about anything else. She never went to a cinema hall to watch a movie, never dined in a restaurant. She never read a novel, recited poetry, or watched a play on stage. I rarely saw her wearing a colorful saree or jewelry. I deeply disliked her widow’s attire. I would buy her sarees and jewelry and insist that she wear them. One day, she told me, “The earrings you bought for me—give them to your wife. She will be beautiful.”
She didn’t know how to turn on the radio to listen to music, nor did she ever try. She never held a TV remote in her hands. As a child, I noticed that sometimes, when a song played on the radio or TV, she would pause, as if a particular line had touched her. She rarely spoke her feelings—she was quiet and reserved.
One day, out of nowhere, she asked me, “Do you write? You receive so many letters. Who writes to you?” One day, a girl came to see me. She said she had read my writings. My mother smiled and said, “I will find a wife like her for you.”
One day, she said, “Play that song for me again.” I asked, “Which song?” She replied, “The one that goes, ‘Have you ever seen the defeat of life…’” I played the song for her. Tears welled up in her eyes.
She was very reluctant about having her picture taken. She believed it was a sin. Still, I would take her photos—she couldn’t stop me. She would say, “You will be punished for this.” I would reply, “Let it be.”
She often struggled with using a mobile phone. She couldn’t always place it correctly against her ear. Towards the end, when I called from Canada, I couldn’t hear her properly. Someone beside her would say, “Hold it properly, Jasim can’t hear you.” She would smile shyly and say, “I don’t understand, son. Don’t be upset with me.”
My mother never used the internet, never took a selfie, never knew what Facebook or Instagram was. She only sat beside me in a car once and took a ride around the streets of Dhaka…
Toronto, Canada
