My Favorite Oil Pastels

When I was little, my youngest uncle had given me a set of oil pastels to draw with. They quickly became my favorite. I even brought it with me when I moved to America. I had it for a bit until they were practically taken from me. We had a family friend come over to our house and they had a daughter who was like three at the time. I was six. Unfortunately, she eyed my favorite oil pastels and wouldn’t leave without it. I was reluctant to give it to her and looked over to my parents. They understood my feelings but didn’t say anything to her parents. What could they say when her parents themselves weren’t saying anything to their daughter? In the end, baba told me to give it to her. I was appalled and angry at the baby’s parents that they could have let something like this happen. Yeah, sure the baby might not be able to help it, but isn’t it their duty to teach her what’s right and what’s wrong. The mother was apologetic that her daughter took the crayons but to me it didn’t matter how apologetic she was. She didn’t stop her daughter from taking it. She didn’t take the time to realize how special those crayons were to me. I cried that day, after they left. I cried and I moved on.

And you know what happened to my crayons?

A few months later when we went to visit their house, the aunty was telling my parents and I that she is often times saddened to see the broken pieces of my crayons lying around when cleaning the floor. I wish she would have seen my fists clench at that moment or see how hurt I felt. ໒( ᓀ ‸ ᓂ )७ She actually had the gall to mention that in front of me when it was she who did nothing to stop her daughter in both cases. Ugh, people I tell you ໒( ⇀ ‸ ↼ )७. Gets on my nerves.

On the bright side… this time I bought a set of oil pastels when I visited Bangladesh           °˖ ✧◝(○ ヮ ○)◜✧˖ °

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Oil Pastels ❤ ❤

I was so happy to buy this. I felt I had found something I lost years ago. So many beautiful memories are attached with this little thing.           (︶▽︶)

Memories Unforgotten

The one person I always have in my mind is dadi, my grandmother. Not that my parents aren’t there. They are there, but dadi is a bit exceptional. She’s my special person. I think the saddest moment of my life was when I was separated from her. I still remember the day baba asked me, “Do you want to go to America?”. And without even thinking, I said yes. I was probably five at the time. What did I know where America was. I didn’t even know how big of a city Dhaka was at the time. I knew nothing of the world.

I was devastated to learn that dadi wouldn’t be coming with us. In that six years of my life, that was when I felt the most pain. I cried a lot at the airport. I didn’t want to go. Ma tried to pacify me but I couldn’t stop crying. I didn’t want to leave her. But I did leave. I left the one person that I could never be without. She was the one with whom I went to sleep with every night. Sometimes baba would get jealous and kidnap me from dadi’s room so I could sleep with him and ma. Of course I cried and screamed and dadi would always come to my rescue and tell him to let me sleep with her. But baba would always say, “She always sleeps with you. Let her sleep with us this time”. I used to hate it at the time, but now that I look back at it I feel grateful that he loves me so much ^_^. Dadi was the one with whom I would get up at dawn with to watch the sunrise. I always wondered how the sun could be so red early in the morning. Sometimes she would get up before me but I always knew where to find her. Dada and dadi are both my special people actually. Dada because I loved him and was practically spoiled by him. He would take me on walks and buy me snacks. What more could a child ask for? And dadi because she was always there for me. In fact, she practically raised me. My brothers weren’t that fortunate to receive the same amount of love that I did. Being the eldest has its perks, I guess. But then again I’m happy that they didn’t have to experience the same pain as I did either. Coming to America was a whole new experience. All of a sudden, my whole life changed around. I was surrounded by people who didn’t speak the same language as me. I felt estranged and lost and wanted to go back home. Every night I would miss dadi’s embrace. And mornings were just mornings. I didn’t know which way the sun came up any more. Not that I could see it anyhow with so many buildings in the way. Little by little, I learned to sleep without her. Little by little, I learned to sleep by myself. But I always remembered her before I went to sleep and recited the one surah she helped me memorize by heart. Surah-Al-Fatiha.

Nothing is the same as it used to be. Dadi passed away and dada soon after. Uncles and aunts got married and suddenly became busy with their own lives. The house isn’t the same anymore. The room that I used to sleep in with dadi is not there anymore either (well actually, it’s still there but the semi-wall that divided the room in half was taken down in order to provide more space. So now it’s just one big room. My uncle used to sleep in the first half near the door and my dadi, aunt, and I slept in the other half by the back balcony.)

Even though nothing has remained the same as before, the memories are still there. So many memories have been preserved in that five story building. Of all the memories I have, I think the ones I cherish the most are of the time when I lived in Bangladesh. It’s not a lot of memories because I only started remembering from when I was like three or so, but they are the ones I hold close to my heart the most. I still wonder what it would be like if we never came to America. Would I still be the same person I am today?