In my voluntary exile from tiring life, suddenly my daughter was born as a stranger. We have intimately lived six years in a very calm and small town. In that environment we became dependent upon each other with unconditional love and affection. As her age passes, she is my friend even more than my daughter.
Limitlessly, indulgently, we lived our lives as wild wanderers. She shared my pain and sorrows and even secrets, as she knew how to take my love and affection. If we were courageous, perhaps we would not have returned to this city. A crumbled school with a fluttered flag was enough. But family relations, so–called pros and cons, and the complexities of citizenship again compelled me to return to Dhaka again. My struggle returned.
Here everything is calculative. The house is restricted, relations are fixed and so is love. Everything has limited boundary. In just two years this city has changed us so much. Every moment I feel like escaping and going away from here. Busyness, ignorance, rules, and isolation have increased. Returning home I see my daughter’s pent up tears. Against my wishes, that house, school, river, forest, countless moments, and the city full of wild love, rise up inside me intensely. Where I cannot return, and will never return.