Towards the end of Ramadan, I feel terrible!
This is the time when people go shopping.
I go sometimes too. I roam around clothing stores. Occasionally, I check out a few clothes.
I run my hand over the fabric. How soft it is! The color is nice too. It would have suited my mother so well.
The shopkeeper keeps praising the quality of the fabric.
“This is made of fine thread. You’ll feel very comfortable wearing it.”
I sit there holding the fabric for a long time. But in the end, I don’t buy it! Tears well up in the corners of my eyes. I stand up to leave. The shopkeeper probably senses something.
He calls from behind, “Brother, take the fabric. I’ll give it to you at cost price.”
I keep walking. I never look back. I slip my hands into my pockets. My wallet is full—several thousand taka notes.
Besides cash, I also have three cards with me, with which I could buy products worth lakhs.
Back then, we used to live in a tin-roofed house in Jatrabari. My father was a clerk in a government office. His salary was very little. On top of that, he had to send money to the village.
During Eid, my father would buy me new clothes. But he couldn’t always afford to buy something for my mother.
One year, towards the end of Ramadan, my father took us out—just me and my mother.
My mother rarely went out. That day, she stepped out at my father’s request.
I saw a big shopping mall and really wanted to go inside. I asked my mother. She spoke to my father and convinced him.
We wandered around the mall, looking at different things. My mother went into a store and browsed through several fabrics. I felt like she had found something she liked. But she didn’t say anything. After all, she knew my father couldn’t afford it.
We stepped out of the store. The shopkeeper called after us. My father said, “That fabric was nice! Should we take it?”
My mother replied, “No, it wasn’t that good. The color seemed a bit off.”
The shopkeeper kept calling, but we didn’t go back.
I didn’t understand it then, but now I do—she actually liked that fabric.
I walk into a store selling Panjabis. I look at the ones for older men. One Panjabi catches my eye. I feel like buying it!
It would have suited my father so well. He had never worn such a fine Panjabi in his life!
With his meager salary, he struggled to cover my education and our household expenses. How could he ever afford such an expensive Panjabi?
I studied hard and got admitted to Dhaka University with excellent results. My father was overjoyed! When he heard my admission test results, he bought ten kilograms of sweets! Whoever he met, he handed them sweets and shared the news of my success.
My father had so many dreams for me.
But just a year after I got into university, he passed away!
I had just attended two classes at university. There was a two-hour break before the next class. I was sitting in the field when my mother called, her voice trembling.
“Come home quickly,” she said. That’s all she could manage before breaking into sobs.
My heart clenched painfully. My vision blurred. I rushed home. My friend Sohel, realizing something was wrong, came with me.
When I got home, I saw my father covered in a spotless white cloth. My mother just stared at me with empty eyes.
After my father’s death, I somehow managed to continue my studies with his pension money and some earnings from private tutoring.
Once I finished my education, I had no desire to get a job. I had seen my father struggle. A salary is never enough.
I started a business with a portion of my father’s pension and some money from my mother’s jewelry. Surprisingly, my mother supported my decision. She was happy about it.
After a lot of effort, I finally got my business running. But the very next year, in the middle of Ramadan, my mother left to join my father.
I don’t buy the Panjabi. I walk out of the shopping mall.
My manager has called. I can’t talk inside the store.
I step outside and take the call.
“Rais, tell me,” I say. My manager’s name is Rais. He’s around twenty-five or twenty-six, a very capable guy.
“Sir, I’ve done the calculations. According to the Islamic Foundation’s estimates, our zakat for this year is five lakh thirty thousand taka.”
I don’t buy clothes with my zakat money. Every year, I give the full amount to a single family.
I want at least one family to stand on their feet every year—so they don’t have to wander from store to store, unable to buy clothes, missing their loved ones.
