I myself grew up covered in mud. In a way, I was scattered in a crowd of many people. I didn’t know how to bathe with soap regularly, use shampoo or toothbrush. I used to go to the hairdresser in the evening. I went to school wearing sponge sandals. I didn’t have more than one or two shirts and pants. I went to class soaked in the rain and sunburned. I didn’t even have an umbrella. The wet clothes would dry on me. I didn’t have a fever. My whole body would ache. Once, the president of the school’s managing committee threw me out of class. I went home crying. My mother said, “Why are you coming from school? I didn’t say that I didn’t have proper clothes. I was telling you that I was running a fever.” And once, my classmate Labu (the late) said, “Mollik, you look disgusting. Why aren’t you wearing a jinga?” Where are you from, you donkey? Go home. I could never eat Malek Bhai’s Malai ice cream or Shankar’s Ghatigarm Chanachur in my leisure time. That Ghatigarm had a wonderful taste. I would watch my friends eat it with fascination. My college and university life was almost the same. In my life, I often ate during the day and fasted at night.
At that time, I was in university. Once, I went to my sister Saju’s in-laws’ house for a bakery. Saju said, Jasim, you came wearing this shirt last time too. Don’t you have my shirt? I said smartly but pretending to be a little angry, you can’t have two identical shirts! I have many shirts. Actually Saju was right. In Bichitra or university life, my friend, the famous poet Iwaz Ahmed, would often smoke a cigarette and let me have one or two drags at the end. It also happened that whenever he saw me from a distance, he would say, “That Jaisya has come, now he wants a cigarette in Hala.” We used to share Hakim’s tea. The first day I went to meet my boyfriend, I wore my friend Kamal’s shirt. After coming to Dhaka, I had no place to stay. My friend Apel has always been by my side. I came to Dhaka with Apel’s encouragement. Kamal let me stay in his room when Mohsin was in the hospital.
Since I was a child, my middle brother Nuru Dada filled that void because I didn’t have a father. Since I met Jasmine, I haven’t had to look back. He has been my companion in my struggle. I want to name two more, one is Shamim Azad from Bichitra and the other is Harunar Rashid Khan Munnu, chairman of Munnu Group of Industries. Even though he was my boss, he treated me like a child. Shamim Azad was the name of my inspiration for writing. After coming abroad, the one whose favor and support I received, the one who has been by my side to lead my life is Sarwar Khan. My friend Mansur Bhai from Toronto has also always advised me. Even though so many things have happened in my life, so many failures, I have never felt sad for anything. I have never felt upset. I have never blamed anyone. Thinking about those days makes me happy and inspires me.
I talk about these things with my sons and daughters. I’m not ashamed. They didn’t suffer like me, but I taught them to fight and survive. I always told them to be good people and be humane people. They grew up abroad since they were young. I sent them to good schools in Dhaka but never needed a tutor. I didn’t get a chance to study with a tutor either. To be honest, my son Ark is a great student and incredibly talented. Aritri studied International Relations at the University of Toronto and Ark studied Economics. But Aritri always took help from Ark. I was a donkey as a student. But surprisingly, they weren’t like me. The fact is that they grew up, got jobs after completing their studies, got married, and became established on their own, I didn’t notice anything. My job was just to guide them. Keep an eye on them. I never imposed anything on them. I didn’t create pressure on them about anything. I let them grow up on their own, I gave them freedom. They have been working since school, they have never asked me for anything. Never gave me a hard time, never complained, never held me wrong. For that I have a secret gratitude.
I have written my autobiographical memoirs in my heart, and these words are in the book. Now it is being translated into English and is being published from Kolkata. Aritri cannot read Bengali. By reading this book, you will know how much sacrifice every parent makes for their child. Eternal sacrifice.
Toronto, Canada
