He was on his way to pick me up from the school I had taken a test in. I knew was not in a bright mood because he wanted my mother to pick me up. My mother warned me as well. He is known for his short temper. To make matters worse, the subway had experienced issues that day. I was taken aback when he finally arrived with relative ease. I was nervous about how he would react, what he would say, but he said nothing. He took my backpack to make my load easier, as he always does. As we made our way to the train station he started venting. He vented about things my mother does not do and what she ought to do. We sat on the F train and he ranted about my mother and my grandparents, his in laws. I learned that my father expects some things, or tasks from my mother which he does not communicate. He argued he shouldn’t have to. I advised him to at least write them down, but he stood by his principle. This was the first time in a very long time that my father and I had a full-length conversation. Other times, I used to read when I traveled with him to give him an image of me as highly studious, thinking it will make him proud. This conversation turned out to be successful because he came home to a positive mood, to my mother’s surprise, and mine as well. He adored my little sister, was full of smiles, and spoke in joking manner.

When he comes home, he picks up his youngest daughter. He tells her “Baba” multiple times to get her to repeat it. He then opens up his laptop to search for car parts. He looks at the images of the parts and is shocked at the prices. He calls me over while I am doing my homework and asks me if I can can find the lowest price. I somehow usually do. When he finds a site he likes, he tells me to add the item to cart and pulls out a credit card to check out. When he is working on the computer and Alyanah appears next to him, he pulls her up to his lap and holds her in his arms. He kisses her soft cheeks. or rests his face on her cheeks and says “Baba go” or “Amar amma” (my mommy) many times.

My father was born in Lakshimpur, Bangladesh. He grew up in the rural villages of Bangladesh. The area is quite gorgeous with greenery everywhere- miles of Kotchuri Pana, or water hyacinth. His family owned cows and chickens. My father is the middle child of two brothers, and two sisters. His father was a local politician, his mother a housewife. My father claims he was studious and even consistently urged his his younger sister to study. He obtained a Bachelor’s Degree and Master’s degree from Dhaka University, the most prestigious university in Bangladesh. That he attended Dhaka University is an accomplishment he is always proud of. I saw pictures of my father from his younger days. They show him as skinny, in a colorful shirt, neutral colored dress pants, his arms crossed, a soft smile, hais hair combed to a side part, and that signature mustache.

After he finished university, he moved Gazipur, near the capital, Dhaka. He married my mom in 1997, who was from Dhaka. She moved in with him in Gazipur. He worked for Partex Group, one of the largest Bangladeshi industrial conglomerates. Partex owned a large territory in Gazipur with factories, apartments, offices, etc. One area, protected by a large beige gate, was designated for office spaces, a shipping department, and apartments for workers, each as separate buildings. This is where my father worked and lived for the the majority of time. Our family lived in one of two company apartments so his office was a short walking distance away.

He worked in a large office room dedicated only for him. I stayed in his office while my mom was in school. He would tell a service boy to fetch milk tea and wheat biscuits, which father still recalls time to time. At work, he would wear a dress shirt and khakis with a belt. Back then, His hair was more black with puffier curls. I can still picturing him laid back in his swiveling black chair, combing his hands through his then curly black puffy hair and patting it twice. He was happier then. He is happy now.

In 2005 he applied for the Diversity Visa, a U.S initiated lottery that grants people permission to move to the U.S. Bengalis tell you with pride that they came by DV. They are prideful they are selected to this great project.

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