Biography 334: My father didn't get the birthday cake

 It was Dola apa's birthday. We visited their home to join her birthday party. I don't know where they ordered the birthday cake, but it was very delicious.

You know, when you have a room full of people and need to distribute a medium-sized cake, you slice it into small pieces and hand them out to everyone. Sisi Apa did the same. As I told you, the cake was very delicious. I really wanted to take some more pieces because less than half of the cake remained on the tray. But I felt really shy about asking or taking any myself. The food was served by the host family, so I assume they weren't expecting the guests to serve themselves. It was probably due to how they manage things, I thought. So, I didn't help myself.

I saw a lady taking a cake by herself. I told you the cake was very delicious. But my shyness didn't let me ask for any or take a piece. After a few minutes, Lisi apa came; asked did everyone have the cake? Some nodded their heads affirmatively. She took the cake away, probably to store it in the refrigerator.

The reason for this long explanation is that there was another person, who felt shyer than I—my father. Somehow, the food distributor didn't give him any cake. He didn't sit near me, so I wouldn't notice. At night, after returning home, my dad told my mom that he didn't get any piece of cake. But dad didn't want to make them feel bad, so he chose not to tell them.

My mom isn't the kind of lady who keeps this information to herself. Probably the next day, she called her sister and told her that my dad didn't get any piece of cake.

Immediately, my aunt bought a small cake and came to our home with Dola apa. Her other daughters might also be with her; I don't remember. Dola apa and Boro khala cut the cake and enjoyed it with our family, including my dad.

My aunt kept telling my dad, 'You should have asked me.' Dad was feeling shyer and trying to hide under the floor. But anyway, we were happy to have my aunt and Dola apa at home.

I actually didn't know what happened; I was surprised to see them at home with cake. After listening to some conversations between my aunt and mom while enjoying the cake, I understood what was going on.

Biography 324: My father was cooking in the kitchen.

 I was studying at our local school. Our school was very close to our house. One day, during the lunch break (we used to call it tiffin break), I came home with some of my classmates. On that day, my mom wasn't at home. She went to Faridpur to her parents' house.

Generally, when my mom isn't available, my father used to cook. He used to cook very basic Bangladeshi food, like rice, chicken/beef/mutton curry, and daal (maybe). No vegetables, because he didn't like them. His curry was great. We used to say it was better than our mom's. Mom never felt happy about that.

When we came to the house, my dad was cooking in the kitchen. He was wearing a white lungi. He felt a little awkward in front of our classmates. Later, he told me, "When your mom wasn't present at the house, why did you bring your friends home?"

Our classmates were very surprised. On those days, even now, Bangladeshi fathers don't cook. It was all mom's duty. My dad helped my mom cook in Saudi Arabia first. He used to say, "Now I've learned how to cook. When we go back to Bangladesh, I will help you cook. You will never feel alone." That didn't happen, actually. My father only cooked when no one else could. When my older sister grew up, she took responsibility for cooking if my mom wasn't around.

One of my classmates also said she felt my father was Hindu because he was wearing a white lungi.

Biography 218: We remember him

 I asked Shafeen how much he remembered about my father. Shafeen said he didn't remember much, which made me sad. Then he said he remembered my dad used to take him to the supermarkets and buy toys. He also remembered that they liked each other very much.

Shafeen was 2 years and 8 months old when my father died. I was surprised that he still remembered him.

Biography 20: My younger sister born

 One day I noticed my older sister and other relatives were very excited about something. I didn't bother, even if I would bother, they won't tell me anyway. But this time, my sister came to me with some pictures. She told me this is your younger sister. I could see my mother is sitting on a chair (Very simple made of Iron. In those days people didn't use plastic chairs everywhere, they had these iron chairs for general use), wearing a red sharee (I like that sharee very much) and she was holding a baby looks like a potato. In another picture, the baby was in her bed, inside a mosquito net. Later my mom told us, the net was for flies. There were lots of flies over there. My mom also told us, in the desert area the weather is very dry. The baby's skin couldn't resist it, it was cracked and blood used to come out. So, my mom always kept her wet in Olive Oil. Among all siblings, this sister has a brighter skin colour. So, I always thought it was because of the olive oil. I wish my mom did that with me too :(

After having two girls, my dad really wanted a son this time. I heard from others that he told people, if he got a son this time, he will sacrifice a cow. Maybe Allah wanted to save a cow. So, not only this time but his next child (Child number 4) was also a daughter. Later, my 3rd sister became a doctor and 4th one became a dentist. Obviously, Allah wanted to give him more than what he wanted...

Messy

I live with two boys. There is a saying, boys will be boys. This is very true in my life. No matter how hard I try, they always make our house a mess. After cleaning and putting everything in its proper place, if I let them stay at home for 5 minutes, they will totally change the look. Any outsider who visits the house at that moment can never guess these were in condition just 5 minutes ago.

My son looks like his dad, and I am so happy about that. I don’t want to hear from my in-laws that my son doesn’t look good because he has my face.

Anyway, my husband will say he is messy because, from his childhood, he has been like that; it’s his habit. But I have trained my son well. From the very childhood, I always made him put his clothes in the right place. He did, but now, why did he become so messy? For example, I found his socks in every single room of our house which was supposed to be with his shoes. Whenever he returns from outside, I ask him to put his socks into his shoes. He replied, Yes, yes. Then, I don’t know what happened; I found him thinking about something or singing along and walking through the rooms with socks. Then, he doesn’t even know where he kept the socks.

Sometimes, it’s difficult to understand who can mess up the houses more, the other or the son.

This was just an example; these two boys are doing it with everything. I am tired, and I surrender. I can’t make this house better. It will always be a mess.