Sanjeeda Hossain

My mother was a house maid in a rich, village household. The master of the house was my father.  When I was recovering from measles, she managed a bowl of smoky, warm rice and six little crunchy puti fish for me.

She was about to throw me along with her old clothes. Only at the last minute, she grabbed me by my nape, and pushed me inside the washing machine.

My baby boy snatches my empty tea mug from me and starts licking it. He was given the last few drops of tea from the mug and now he wants more. He puts his hand inside the mug, gets the boiled tea dust into his fist, inserts them in his mouth and starts chewing furiously.

“About a hundred years ago, our ancestors used to live in the Porir Desh.”

I couldn’t get to my university hostel. From Petaling Jaya to Pantai Hill Park, KL Central and Mid Valley, changing one bus after the other; no one knew where my hostel was.

My mother says I have always been a quick learner; I can remember her stories well. I can retell them in front of people, copying her