ENG 2150 Assignment 3 Draft – Tarif Laskar

ENG 2150 Assignment 3 Draft

“Bhaiya, how come you are so old but cannot read or write?” The question dumbfounded me. Truly, I had nothing to say. I looked down for a moment. How much pressure my little cousin had put on me! I looked back up at the curious girl and said, “Well, Raifa…I was not born here. You know I’m from America. I grew up there.” She took in what I said for a moment, and let it go just as quickly. Her little mind wandered elsewhere. Perhaps the idea was too complicated for her to understand. She continued reciting from her Bangla alphabet book and I kept watching. I wondered for a while if it was a problem. Having to see my family and speaking an irregular mix of English and Bangla was embarrassing, no doubt. How could I call myself a Bengali and not speak, fluently, the language? That same language that we shed blood and achieved independence to preserve? How many generations before me lived and died developing it? How many generations after me until it is no longer spoken? I went to bed night pondering over these questions. It was the day before Eid. I sat down to have breakfast with my mother and Uncle Zaman. “Shona,” my mother called me endearingly, “do you remember when you were younger you used to ride motorcycles with Zaman mama (uncle)?” “Yes ammu, I remember.” I continued eating my fried eggs with paratha. “Do you want to go out with him? He’s going to town today.” “Sure.” My uncle started the motorcycle. I got on behind him and we left home. As we left for the village, I could not help but admire the dense, dark green that surrounded us. It was unlike anything I had seen back in the states. It was totally different. The earthy fragrance in the air, the dozens of people waving my uncle as we passed by…and the staring—the staring at me as I was unknown to the people of Magura. My uncle went on about how I was so small when I was last home. We stopped at a shack on the side of the road. My uncle greeted the people and introduced me. The owner of the shop brought out glass mugs, pouring milk tea for us. Mama talked with the men at the shop for a while. I sat down, drank my cha, and listened closely so that I might decipher their strange dialect. Because I could not speak to them easily, I simply listened. After some time, we said goodbye to the men at the shack and returned to our journey. For Zaman Mama, it was just a calm ride to town. But for me, it was finding home. It was the realization that this land, these people, and their culture were part of me. It was the acceptance of my duty to preserve that beautiful heritage. Through those fields of jute and dirty water, we rode on, smiling along the way.