A Letter To The Sons Who Live Abroad

Dear Friends,

I never believed that I, a man of nearly fifty-two, a technician through and through, rather quiet and even dull—according to my wife—would find myself at the computer not to work, but to write a letter.

Eighteen years ago, I left to work abroad, settled in quickly, and brought my family over. Soon after, my father passed away, leaving my mother alone. She never complained, never reproached me, never so much as hinted that there was no one to look after her—and I am her only son. We spoke often, and she always insisted everything was fine, that she was doing well. Only her question, "When are you coming?" betrayed that she was, in truth, heartbroken and terribly lonely.

I can say with complete honesty that I cared for her in every way I could think of, worried about her constantly, never abandoned her, never forgot her for even a moment. My greatest failing is that I broke my word. Each year I came to Bangladesh in August, when the entire company was on holiday, and that was our time together. We would visit friends and relatives, travel to places that stirred memories of her youth with my father, and as she aged, I took her to doctors and medical centers. We went to films together, took long walks, entertained guests. She would spoil me with the dishes and sweets I had loved since childhood.

She always said goodbye from the building entrance and refused to come to the airport so I wouldn't see her tears. I kept promising that this time I would manage to come during the Puja holidays and wouldn't make her wait until the following August. That was the promise I never kept, and now the guilt eats at me terribly.

Yes, I did come last November, but not to embrace my mother, not to breathe in the scent of her famous vanilla cake, not to be welcomed with her Hyderabadi biryani and delicious chicken curry—but to see her off on her final journey. I was beside myself with grief and helplessness. My only comfort was that my mother had died peacefully, without pain or illness, in her sleep. But this did nothing to lighten the weight in my chest, to quiet my conscience, to ease the feeling that I had been left utterly alone.

And so I returned this August, as always. But standing before that locked door, I felt grief crushing the breath from my lungs. I heard no footsteps in the hallway, smelled no roasting spices or chicken sizzling in the pan...I thought the ceiling might collapse on my head. It took me days to bring myself to touch my mother's belongings, and even then I couldn't bear to move anything, not even the stack of newspapers she had saved.

I want to say to those sons living far from their parents: Go back often, no matter how difficult it may be, and keep your promises. Because the day will come when we have both time and opportunity, but we lack the most precious thing—a beloved face to welcome us home. Believe me, there is no greater torment than standing before the locked door of your mother's house.

Your well-wisher