In my voluntary exile from the tedious daily life, 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 on each other with the unconditional love and affection. Crossing her age she becomes my friend than even my daughter. Unwritten indulgence in that atmosphere made us to some extent gypsy and aboriginal. We shared our pain and sorrow and even secret together. If we were a bit courageous, perhaps return to this city would not have occurred. But family relation and civil complex compelled us to return to the capital (Dhaka) again.
Here everything is calculative and fixed. In just two years this city has changed us much. Every moment my daughter feels like escaping and going away from here. Busyness, ignorance, rule, and isolation have increased. Coming home I see my daughter’s accrued weeping, waiting, and loneliness. Irrespective of wish, that house, field, school, forest, innumerable moments, and the small town come to the memory, where return will never happen.
