When I went back to Bangladesh this year, I returned home. The home I have grown up in from the beginning of my life and 11 years onward. I went with my father, but I had two more mothers and another father waiting there for me at home. This is a feeling that cannot be easily described, if it can at all be described. Seeing them, their smiles, the tears - of people who brought me up before I was old enough to remember. They're still there. In that little town. As if waiting for me to come back home. Waiting for me to come back home. When everyone else had left for grander lives with worthless purposes.

There's no certainty of seeing the same people in the same place 2 or 3 years later. There's no certainty of seeing them at all. The most I can do is hold onto the tranquil and comforting memories in this confusing, chaotic life.