WAITING

They killed my Dad during the Independence war of Bangladesh. I was four and a half years old. I waited for him day after day, month after month, and year after year. But I could not tell that to anyone. Little kids can hide thoughts deep inside their hearts. 

As a little girl, I waited for the rain. Waiting to see the green and pink threads of the mimosa-like ‘Siris’ and ‘Koroi’ – the Rain tree flowers – become drenched. 

When I was young, I stood for hours at the train station for my lover. Some trains came, while some trains did not come. 

Middle-aged, I waited for the guests to visit my home. I kept looking out the window. I kept looking back at the crystal glass on my kitchen counter – to see how the color of saffron melted in the milk. 

Now I am becoming old- I don't wait for anyone or anything anymore. I do not wait for those special full-moon silver-colored ‘Kojagari’ nights. I do not wait for the Coral Jasmines, or the sound of the happy drumbeats of ‘Durgapuja.’ I do not even wait to see the teardrops flowing down the bride's eyes when she leaves her dad's home- amidst Bismillah Khan's ‘Shehnai.’ 

When I go somewhere, only my dog keeps waiting for me by the front-door all day. She has not become a human yet!